We Are All Made of Molecules (2 page)

MY FAMILY IS FUBAR
.

That's the word my part-time friend Claudia used to describe her own family at school yesterday. I said I didn't have a clue what that meant, and she said, “That makes sense, 'cause you're clueless.” Then she told me it's a military term. It's short for “Effed Up Beyond All Recognition,” except in the military, they don't say “effed.”

See, Claudia has been in a so-called blended family for a few years now. She has a wicked stepfather and two snotty-nosed little half sisters. So she totally gets the insanity that is about to happen to me.

I am only just-turned-fourteen, so Claudia says I have to wait another two years before I can hire a lawyer and get unconstipated. Wait. That's not right. I keep having to look it
up. I mean
emancipated
. According to Claudia, it means you can divorce your parents and be free of them for good. Claudia wants to divorce her family, too. So even though she's a little chunky around the middle and doesn't wash her hair enough and is not even close to my social status, she does kind of get what I'm going through.

What really bugs me, though, is that my family wasn't always FUBAR. For twelve and a half years it was perfect. My dad works at an advertising agency, and my mom anchors the local evening news. They are both very good-looking for old people, and I'm not being arrogant but just stating a fact when I say I inherited the best from both of them. We have an almost-new silver Volvo station wagon, and until a year and a half ago we took a trip to Maui every March break. We have a big modern house with another, miniature house in the backyard that's called a laneway home. Laneway homes are all the rage in Vancouver. They're built beside the alleys that run behind our houses, where a garage would normally go. We had ours built just before my world came crashing down around my feet. My parents thought that maybe they would rent it out for a few years, then I could live in it if I went to university in Vancouver, even though my ninth-grade counselor says I need to “face the cold, hard truth” because a C average will not get me into university.

Again, I am just stating a fact when I say that my friends were jealous of me and my life. And I couldn't blame them in the slightest. I would have been jealous of my life, too, if it hadn't already been mine.

Then, a year and a half ago, my dad sat my mom down and said the two words that tore our family to shreds.

“I'm gay.”

None of my friends know that part. Not even my best friend, Lauren. I just told her my parents split because they were fighting all the time.

'Cause, see, there are Certain People who have this idea that I'm not a nice person. This is totally untrue and false and a lie. But Certain People think I'm a Snot (at least, that's what some jerk wrote on my locker in eighth grade). Claudia told me Certain People were actually pleased when my parents split up, like I somehow deserved a little pain. I guess it is somewhat partially halfway true that I have made a few comments over the years about other people's families (like, I might have told Violet Gustafson her mother was a skank before Violet broke my nose, which has fortunately healed so well you can hardly notice), but my comments were misunderstood. When I said that to Violet, I meant it more as an observation than an insult. But Violet and her friend Phoebe didn't see it that way, so now I call them Violent and Feeble behind their backs, which I personally think is quite clever.

So I didn't get an ounce of sympathy from anyone when my parents split. In fact, I got a lot of smirks from Certain People when they found out. Even Lauren's sympathy seemed awfully phony, which I admit really hurt. That's why there is no way I'm telling anyone the gay part. Not because Certain People are gayists (although I'm sure some of them are), but because they would
love
the fact that my so-called perfect life was built on one gigantic lie.

I guess, if I'm totally one hundred percent honest, I'm a bit gayist, too. I didn't think I was. I mean, I love Geoffrey, my mom's hair-and-makeup guy in the newsroom, and he is
gay. And I see gay people on my favorite TV shows, and they seem cheerful and snarky and fun to be around.

But it's different when your dad suddenly announces he
is
one. There is nothing cheerful or fun about that. It opens up a lot of questions. Questions that I don't really want to know the answers to. Questions like:
Did you ever really love us? Or was that a lie, too?

—

MY DAD TOLD MY
mom he was gay on a Tuesday. By Saturday he had moved out.

Not to an apartment downtown. Not to Siberia, as I'd suggested.

Nope. He moved approximately six feet away from us, into our laneway house.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My newly gay dad couldn't afford to get his own place unless he and Mom sold the house, which they both agreed would be too hard on me. So their genius solution: let him live in our backyard. Like, if I look out
our
kitchen window, I look into
his
kitchen window.

At first I figured it was just temporary. I figured Mom and I would bond over our hatred of Dad, and pretty soon our combined anger would force him to move out, and we would never have to see him again.

No such luck. Not only is he still living there, but Mom totally betrayed me. First, she just couldn't stay mad at Dad. They are actually “working on being friends” now!!!! Second, she started dating her producer, Leonard Inkster, a year ago, which I am pretty sure breaks all kinds of workplace rules.
And third—as if tearing out my heart and smashing it to the ground repeatedly wasn't enough—my mom has asked Leonard to move in with us. And Leonard doesn't come alone. He comes with his midget-egghead-freakazoid of a son.

Oh my God. Their moving van is pulling up right now.

I hate my mom.

I hate my dad.

I hate Leonard.

I hate his kid.

I hate my life.

Two more years till I can get unconstipated.

MY DAD AND I
moved in all our things in just under two hours. We were fast because we'd already put a lot of stuff into a storage locker last week. I wasn't very happy about this, but Dad reminded me that Caroline already has a house full of furniture, and we can't have two of everything. This makes a lot of sense on a practical level, and Dad and I are both very practical. But it is an interesting biological conundrum when one organ—in this case, my brain—tells me one thing, and another organ—in this case, my heart—tells me another.

So I cannot tell a lie: it didn't feel good, filling up that locker with the things that represented our entire life with Mom. Like the Formica kitchen table with gold sparkles where the three of us sat for most of our meals. Or the couch with the red-and-yellow flowers where Mom lay when she
had bad days, trying to knit if she had the energy. Or the coffee table with circular stains all over it because Mom didn't believe in coasters. I got a little choked up when Dad closed the door, even though he promised me we could visit anytime we want.

I cheered myself up with the thought that we still had a van full of belongings. Some of it was stuff Dad and I had agreed on, like the
Mother and Child
painting my mom had done in one of her art classes. And Dad also let me pick three things just for me. I chose (1) the afghan blankets she knitted, one for my room and one for the back of our couch, (2) the big, overstuffed green-and-purple chair where she'd read me all the Harry Potter books, and (3) her collection of ceramic figurines.

Caroline was outside to greet us when we pulled up. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, and her long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She is very pretty and also very nice. “Welcome!” she said, and she gave me a big hug and a kiss, even before she hugged and kissed my dad. “We're so happy you're here.”

Because she had used the word
we
, I asked, “Where's Ashley?”

Caroline hesitated. “She's in her room. She has a lot of studying to do.” I had heard from my dad that Ashley doesn't do well in school, so this made sense.

“All right, everyone, time for some heavy lifting,” Dad said. He posed like a bodybuilder and grunted, which made Caroline laugh.

The three of us unloaded the van. I brought Schrödinger up to my new room, which used to be the guest bedroom.
It's big but bland; the walls are beige, whereas at home—I mean, the place where I used to live until today—Mom and I had painted my walls bright blue. I let Schrödinger out of his carry cage and put him into the en suite bathroom so he wouldn't escape while we carried everything in, or pee on the carpet.

I confess it gave me quite a thrill to realize I would have my own bathroom. At home—I mean, the place where I used to live until today—we only had one bathroom. This house has
five
! One for Caroline and Dad, one for Ashley, one for me, one on the main floor that's just a toilet and a sink, and another full one in the basement! Every single human member of this household could go at the same time and there would still be a bathroom left over.

When I closed the door behind Schrödinger, I spotted an enormous box of Purdy's Chocolates perched on the window ledge. Purdy's are the best. There was a note attached that said,
We are so happy that you are joining our family. Love, Caroline and Ashley
. I got a little choked up.

I ate six chocolates before leaving my new room. On the way to the stairs, I passed Ashley's room, which is at the other end of the hall. Her door was closed. I thought about knocking to thank her for the chocolates, and maybe even offer her one, but I wasn't sure if I should interrupt her studying. So I didn't.

—

THE ANDERSON HOUSE IS
very different from the Inkster house, and not just because it has so many toilets. First of all, it is much more modern. Our house—I mean, the
house where I lived until today—was old. It was built in the 1940s, and it was a bungalow, and the rooms were small and the floors creaked. This house is very big and very clean and very clutter-free. I would call their style
minimalist
, whereas our house was
maximalist
. We had stuff everywhere! There were books stacked on tables and on the floor, and at least one of my school projects was always spread out on the dining room table. We must have had about twenty houseplants. Paintings and family photos covered the walls. Mom's ceramic figurines lined the mantel over the fireplace and every windowsill on the main floor. Plus there was her knitting, her drawing pencils, her notepads, her long-forgotten half-full mugs of tea, her magazines, Dad's newspapers and reading glasses, his dirty socks and mine, plus my chemistry set and comics.

So I figure we're doing them a favor, adding some of our stuff to the mix; it will help make their house look more lived-in. For example, we placed the big green-and-purple armchair between their slender brown leather couch and two matching brown leather club chairs in the family room. It was a tight squeeze, but it livened up the space immediately, if I do say so myself. I threw one of my mom's afghans on the back of their couch, which added a much-needed splash of color. And I see at least five good spots to hang Mom's painting, and plenty of places to display her ceramic figurines.

Once, when I was out by the van, I caught a glimpse of Ashley. She was standing at her bedroom window, gazing down at us. I waved. She didn't wave back.

Maybe she isn't just hard of hearing. Maybe she's hard of seeing, too.