Crazy Love

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

At the dinner table, Aunt Diane dumped more mashed potatoes on Xavier’s plate. “What’s eating you tonight?” she asked, passing the bowl over to his cousin Audrey.

“Huh? Nothing.” Xavier dragged his fork across the fluffy potatoes and stuffed his face a little more. His aunt was a good cook. A year ago, before he’d moved into her small east-end apartment, he’d been nothing but a nervous and lanky kid of eighteen, but now here was—muscles bulging out of his old Metallica “Ride the Lightening” T-shirt.

“Your nails are still black,” Audrey said, pointing to his hands. She smiled sweetly at him. Tonight, she wore a bright yellow T-shirt over white Lycra leggings. She’d spent the last hour crinkling her long brown hair. Audrey was trying so hard to be confident. “I can help you scrub the dirt out from under them with my nail brush later. If you like,” she added quietly. His cousin was the kindest sixteen-year-old girl he’d ever known, but most people treated her like crap. She never had a bad word to say about anyone, and yet, she’d never gone on a real date, so far as Xavier knew.

“Thanks,” he said, winking at her over his plate. “But I gotta be somewhere tonight.”

She widened her eyes and looked at her mother. “Where?”

Why did they both seemed so shocked? It was true, he rarely ventured out on weekends, but he wasn’t a hermit or anything. He just couldn’t seem to make a friend since he’d moved here from his mother’s house out on the east coast. His mother had been glad to get rid of him, too. “Gonna shoot some pool with a guy from work,” he said, not making eye contact with either of them, hoping they wouldn’t see how flustered he was. His chest felt hot.

Tonight, he was going to be with Billy. Would Billy ask him if he was gay? And what if Billy became curious about his cultural heritage—what could he answer?

He wasn’t gay, but he wasn’t straight. He wasn’t white, but he wasn’t a full-blooded Mohawk.

Who the hell was he?

“Oh, is he the young man who called so late last night?” Aunt Diane asked.

“It wasn’t that late.”

“He sounded really…effeminate. How old is he?” Aunt Diane peered at him, her sharp brown eyes zeroing in on his face from across the table.

Was she going to start again?

“I don’t know how old he is.” Xavier had lost his appetite. Effeminate? What did that mean anyway? “Probably my age or something.”

“Well, at least you’re not going out with that grease ball Sergio. You know he got Maria pregnant last year and asked her to get an abortion? Can you believe that?”

Xavier didn’t like Sergio, but calling an Italian a grease ball? His aunt was always saying crap like that. What did she really think of him?

Aunt Diane was petite, but her voice was booming and it always surprised Xavier how commanding her presence could be for such a small woman. She was just like her sister, his mother. Always gossiping.

“Yes,” Aunt Diane said, sliding more green beans on his plate, “he pressured her so much, that Maria finally gave in and got rid of the baby.” She leaned forward and her red plastic pearl necklace knocked against the table. “But now Maria’s been kicked out of the house and living with her second cousin out in the slums in Saint-Henri or something. Can you imagine? She was such a fine girl, that Maria, for a Mexican.”

Yeah, for a Mexican.

Man, Aunt Diane was a racist. All that church-going hadn’t fixed that. Everyone on his mother’s side was close-minded.

“I’m not going out with Sergio. So you can relax.” Xavier checked the clock. It was time to go. Excitement twisted his stomach. He was already bringing his plate up to the sink and ready to leave. “Thanks for dinner.”

From the table, Aunt Diane watched him closely. “Be good. Be calm. No fights. And don’t drink too much. You know it’s bad for your kind. Indians lose their mind over an ounce of whiskey.”

Xavier cringed, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He was under her rule for now. “Anything else?” He left before she could add another word. Or insult. Outside, he took a deep breath. If only his father hadn’t left him six years ago, he wouldn’t have had to live with his racist aunt. Feeling tense, Xavier climbed down the front steps.

Next door, the neighbor and his new girlfriend of the week were drinking beer on their crooked old porch. “Hey, Crazy Horse.” The neighbor raised his cup and grinned maliciously. “Have a good one.”

Xavier ignored him and dug into his jeans for the keys to his pride and joy: His newly-restored 1976 Chevy Nova. He’d worked on the car all spring long and it was now in mint condition, except for the rear tires, which needed to be replaced. The black paint job looked mean. In the front seat, Xavier turned the engine on and listened to the motor purring. It wasn’t the best car in the world, but it was his own and he’d rescued it from the junk yard. Soon, it would take him south, a long way from here and all these jerks.

Getting on the Ville-Marie highway, he turned the radio on full blast and rolled down his windows. With his thoughts on the night ahead, Xavier lit up a cigarette. He remembered Billy’s sweet blue eyes and the way they’d made him feel strong and honorable.