By Lia Spencer
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homophobia, including use of the word “queer” as a derogatory term, and implications of child abuse.
Jonathan’s truck smells like cigarettes and skunk, even with the windows down. As badly as it makes me scrunch my nose up, and as much as that makes him laugh, I’ve always been proud to be with him in the front seat, even if the other older kids pick fun at him. I know better than them, ‘cause I know Jonathan better than they do. I know everything about him. And Jonathan is cool.
Jonathan says I’m only allowed up there ‘cause there are no backseats, but I know it’s ‘cause he knows I’m grown up. He’s not like Momma and Poppa and all the other grown-ups.
Jonathan don’t got many friends and he’s never had a girlfriend, but he gives good advice, and he always answers my questions about the things Poppa says I’ll figure out about when I’m older. Jonathan always laughs when Poppa says that and says he guesses that’s what big brothers are for anyway.
He plays rock n’ roll tapes real loud, loaded with language Momma doesn’t approve of. Momma tells him not to listen to that stuff around me, but he just turns it off before we turn up the long road where she can hear. He lets me stick my head out the window or climb out through the back into the bed. He lets me shout and yell, even though he teases me for the gap in my teeth when my mouth opens too wide. Sometimes he even lets me say damn or hell, or lets me put the two together: Damn it to hell!
Momma would kill him for it if she found out. Him, then me. I guess that’s also what big brothers are for.
But today, the windows are up. Gravel thunks against the metal outside. Jonathan’s thumb stays glued to the windshield. So it doesn’t break, he says. When I start to crank the window down, he snaps at me to quit it and put it back. When I open the glovebox and start to dig around in his tapes, he snaps again, tells me to quit it and shut that. I huff and cross my arms and look out the window and hope he’ll notice.
I don’t like when Jonathan gets serious, ‘cause then he treats me like all the other grown-ups do.
He sighs, heavy and rugged. When he does this around Poppa, Poppa smacks him in the mouth and tells him he ain’t got nothing to be sighing like that for.
“Listen, I’m real sorry, bud,” he says.
“Tha’s okay,” I say. I uncross my arms and blush a little. Sometimes I forget that Jonathan is as cool as he is ‘cause I’m too used to the other grown-ups and the other older kids not being so cool.
“Go ‘head and pick a tape,” he says. “But it better be a good one.”
I grin, and he grins, and I open the glovebox again and dig around until I find what I know is his favorite one. I slide it inside, replace the spot in the empty box with the one that was in the player before. And thank goodness he let me change it, ‘cause I don’t like listening to none of that girly British boyband that all the girls go crazy for. Poppa says that kind of music ain’t for men like us. He says their hair’s too long and they act like queers. I don’t exactly know what’s wrong with long hair, ‘cause Jonathan’s got long hair too, and I don’t know what acting like queers means, but I know it ain’t a good thing.
The tape player whirs and when the guitar kicks in, Jonathan nods along and starts singing. But after the first song, he turns the volume back down where I can hardly hear it.
“I gotta tell you somethin’ important,” he starts. “Momma and Poppa won’t tell you the truth, but I know you can take it.”
I puff my chest out in pride.
“I gotta leave home, Georgie.”
“Huh?” I slouch back down. “For what?”
“‘Cause Poppa says so.”
“When’ll you be back?”
He pauses, eyebrows furrowing as he stares out the front window, thumb white where it presses on the glass. His jaw is real tense, like the time he hit that kid on the playground for calling me names when I was little and couldn’t defend myself yet. His eyes look shiny, but I know he ain’t crying, ‘cause I know men like him don’t cry.
“I won’t be back, Georgie. Not ever.”
I try to say something, but I don’t know what to say, and even if I did, it wouldn’t come out. My throat feels too tight and my eyes feel all wet and I know if I had to talk then I would start crying. And men like me don’t cry.
Jonathan takes a real deep breath and pulls the truck over on the side of the road. The gravel stops thunking and the dust settles. Then he turns to look at me right in my eyes, and I see that he really is crying, and I start crying too. But he doesn’t shout and smack me in the mouth like Poppa would. Instead, he puts his big shaking hands on my shoulders and presses his forehead up close against mine.
“You’ll be okay, bud. You been raised good.” His voice is weak and quiet, nothing like that time on the playground.
“Stop talkin’ like that. You can visit like Mamaw and Pappy do.”
“No, Georgie,” he says. “You ain’t getting it.”
Suddenly I feel real, real mad. At him and at Poppa and at the entire great big earth. Jonathan’s supposed to be cool, and strong. He’s supposed to be a fighter. He ought to punch Poppa out for pushing him around just like he did to that kid who did it to me, show Poppa he’s not a kid no more and can’t be bossed around. But before I can say that, he’s talking again, and I know it’s important that I shut up and listen.
“I don’t know what Momma and Poppa will tell you, so I’ll go ‘head and say it, okay?”
I nod. He brings a flannel-sleeved hand to wipe at my cheeks, then sits up good and straight, hands back firm on my shoulders.
“I don’t want you to remember me any different now, but Poppa caught me kissin’ on someone and he don’t like it. So I’m goin’ to the city, maybe up north or over out west, where things are better for my kind of folk.”
I don’t understand, but I can’t speak to tell him that through my heavy breathing. I sound like the dogs after they’ve been running outside for too long herding up all the naughty cattle.
Why wouldn’t Poppa like it, I want to ask. That’s supposed to be good news! Why wouldn’t Poppa be happy Jonathan found a good girl to kiss? I want to ask him all these questions about Poppa and the kiss and his new girl, and I want to tell him that things are best for his kind of folk here, where we are now, ‘cause God put us here for a reason, and God don’t make no mistakes. But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a sob and a gross bubble of spit.
“I know it’s hard,” Jonathan keeps going. “You’ll get it when you’re older. I just hope you’ll be better than your Poppa.”
I hate hearing him talk bad about Poppa like that, but I also hate Poppa for kicking him out. I hate feeling all torn up inside about it, like I have to choose; worse ‘cause I know it don’t matter what I choose. Most of all, I hate him saying that. That I’d get it when I’m older. It’s stupid and childish and I know I ain’t acting like I should, but I can’t help it when I start wailing and whining and really sounding like the dogs.
Jonathan just leans down and wraps his arms around me and rubs his thumb over my back. Wrapped up in his arms like this, I can really feel his muscles and feel how big he is, and it scares me to feel it’s not as big as I thought. I can wrap my arms all the way around his waist, nearly all the way around his back. I know he’d be no match against Poppa, and I know he can’t do nothing to stop him doing what he’s doing. And I realize that if Jonathan ain’t so big, even though he’s my big brother, then what does that say about me?
We’re both just tiny and weak, crying like little girls into each other’s arms, and somehow it feels good, and I never want to let go, ‘cause I know when I let go I won’t see him for a long time. Jonathan’s cool, no matter what Poppa thinks, and he ain’t no liar, not like the other older kids and grown-ups. Not like Poppa, who said he’d always be there for me and Jonathan, no matter what, ‘cause that’s what family’s for. ‘Cause Jonathan is cool.
Lia Spencer is a queer undergraduate English and Anthropology student located in the mountains of Western North Carolina. Her work primarily focuses on discomfort, internalization, and what makes us human. She dreams of velvet, wild horses, and summer breezes. Find more at linktr.ee/lia_spencer.
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