As it turns out, Iâm pretty good at lying. On paper, thereâs nothing about me that says Iâd be a great liar. I follow whatever obscure rules have been set by fake authority figuresâNo running near the pool! Turn off your phone in the theater! I wonât even jaywalk. I was shoved into Christian youth groups for most of my upbringing, and, well, the Bible is pretty clear on what happens to liars. But maybe thatâs why Iâm so good at it. Iâm incognito. Why would Marty possibly lie? The answer, ofMeganâs right. I was trying to escape. And I freaking did it. Well, it was almost a clean escape. Megan just drove off, her hair flying out the window (and she calls me melodramatic?), and Iâm standing here just inside the Columbus airport, trying to mentally prepare myself for everything to come: Being lost in this behemoth of a building. Maneuvering around this building while also being lost. Going through security. Waiting in lines. Emptying my pockets. Taking out my toiletries and laptop. Triple-checking that Iâve followed every rule. Inevitably ending up leaving a full water bottle in my bag somewhere. Finding my gate and flying off to an entirely new life in a new country. What I did not account for is that standing between me and security right now are my mom, my dad, and my grandma. For a moment, Iâm stricken with the kind of fear that grips your lungs and sends shocks through your whole body, because the downside to lying is that at some point youâll probably get found out. And I was really hoping to not get found out until sometime after I touched down on UK soil. (Preferably not until I turn eighteen in a few months and thereâs even less they can do about it.) course, is simple: Iâm gay, and Iâm suffocating. I came to a realization about the former a long time ago, but the suffocating? That crept slowly into my chest, shortening my breaths until I realized I wasnât breathing at all. âYouâre being melodramatic.â Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Megan flips her long hair out the car window so strands sway and tangle in the wind. She has a habit of doing that. The hair flip and the dismissal. Like my worries donât matter. Like my looming international trip is nothing.âMy flight leaves in five hours. I donât have a return ticket. My parents donât know I donât have a return ticket.â I grip the oh-shit handle harder. âIâm freaked.â âI can tell. Youâre panting louder than when we did that hot yoga class.â âGod, donât remind me.â âYouâve got to believe me when I say this. You know how I hate giving compliments, but this is just fact. You are the most competent seventeen-year-old on the planet.â Her voice puts me at ease. Itâs a suspended chordâunsettling at first, both soft and harsh, followed by a clear resolution that feels like home. I lift my double chocolate Oreo milkshake out of the cup holder and wipe the French fry crumbs off the bottom of the cup, these now-ancient reminders of all the fast-food adventures weâve gone through in this car. Megan in the driverâs seat. Me, the passenger. Always the passenger. âI donât know how I could have prepared so much, yet still feel so unprepared,â I say. âIt defies logic.â I know itâs partly because of Megan. Weâve got this yin-yang thing going on. Sheâs so chill itâs like sheâs constantly high on pot, and Iâm about as high-strung as Hilary Hahn. (Because sheâs a violinist. And violins are high-pitched and have strings. High-strung? Okay, never mind.) âYou graduated early,â she says. âYou saved money working at that shit diner all year. You performed in about every ensemble in the tristate area to beef up yourresume. You figured out your dual citizenship and visa process in the middle of Brexit.â She lowers her voice to a whisper, the wind in the car taking away the words as soon as they leave her mouth. âYouâve been trying to escape Avery for years. Youâre more than prepared for it, Marty.â Her words sting and soothe at the same time. Is she bitter that Iâm abandoning her? My best of two friendsâno offense to Skye. But a lot of history is there. It took me ten years to meet her, five years to stop hating her, and two years of hanging out near constantly to get where weâre at now. âIâm not escaping.â Of course Iâm not escaping. âFinish your milkshake,â she says. I do. âWeâve got two more ice cream stops before I roll you into the airport.â My gaze drifts out my window at the glory that is I-75 just before rush hour. The evidence of downtown Cincinnati evaporates from the exit signs, and weâre left with the suburbsâArlington Heights, Lockland, Evendale. âMaybe we should abandon the milkshake plan. 275 will take us right there, and Iâll have extra time.â She sighs. I knew sheâd sigh. âAnd what, exactly, would you do with this extra time?â âRead?â âIf by âreadâ you mean get to the gate and stare at the screen, freaking about delays that arenât going to happen, thenââ Now I sigh. Itâs like a steam engine in here. âI get it. Carry on. Whatâs next?ââYoungâs Jersey Dairy. We can feed the goats there. This is going to be an experience.â I appreciate Meganâs need to make even the most mundane drives to the airport into an adventure, but I canât let it go this time. In just a few hours Iâll be up in the air. Away from Avery, Kentucky. Away from the shitheads at my school and the shittier shitheads who ate at the diner where I waited tables. Away from my parents. âMaybe I feel bad for lying to them,â I say. âThe Bible-thumpers?â âYes, thatâs their official name.â I roll my eyes. âThough I call them Mom and Dad.â Megan hasnât said two words to my parents since everything went down last year in London. Not like she was even there, but she got the full story. And, well, she is not one for nuance. âYou know how I feel about them.â Her voice softens and I soak it up. âBut I get that this is hard for you, Mart. Really I do. When do you think youâll tell them youâre not coming back?â The planner in me wins out this time, and a confidence rises along with my chest. âThe summer program lasts three months, which means I have plenty of time to get a paying gig. Maybe thatâs what Iâll do. Once one of these auditions works out, I can announce it. Theyâll be so happy their son got a spot in the London Philharmonic, they wonât be mad that Iâmââ Megan butts in. âânever seeing them again?â âOkay, now whoâs being melodramatic?âThree months. Thatâs plenty of timeâand itâs not like Iâm super picky. It doesnât have to be the London Phil. It could be the Royal Opera House, or a regional theatre like the open-air one in Regentâs Park, or ⌠well, weâll see. âIt would have been a lot less complicated if I actually got into that summer program.â Iâm kind of rambling, but what else do you do when youâre nervous? Make sense? Not a chance. âBut I think itâs a good thing. Because otherwise, Iâd be wasting so much time in class and not out there booking gigs.â The program is at the Knightsbridge Academy of Music. According to what I told my parents, I auditioned last year and got accepted. I even have a letter to prove it. But thatâs not the truth. Unbeknownst to my parents, I flopped at the audition after the whole London Pride meltdown. Hell, technically, that program started a couple of weeks ago. Thank god no one researches everything to the extent I do. After everything happened last year, it didnât take me long to realize how much I actually needed this London thing to work out. How much I needed to get away from them. Get out of that tiny place. And all it would take was a forged letter, some time to ease my mom into the idea of going back to that sinful place, plus a little help from my cousin Shane. Long story short, I was able to convince them to let me go this year. Fully on my own dime. Iâm going to London, but Iâm not attending the academy. Iâve got my own plan, and Iâm not coming back.But then I see Momâs holding one of those shiny metallic balloons, helium shortage be damned, in the shape of a rectangle with the Union Jack on it. âMom?â I ask. Sheâs scurrying toward me with an emotion thatâs half panic, half grief, and hands me the balloon before wrapping her arms around me. I drape an arm around her in response, still kind of dumbstruck. âNana wanted to say goodbye,â Dad explains, âand we thought with all your planned milkshake detours we could beat you here.â Grandma insists on being called Nana, but sheâs never really struck me as the nana type. Sheâs so fit she moves faster than I do half the time, which is not bad for someone who just turned seventy a few weeks ago. Mom takes my rolling suitcase from me as I greet them. Momâs family is spread throughout Europe, but Dadâs side never left Avery. Long as the census goes back, really. The four of us exchange oddly formal pleasantries, like they didnât drive an hour and a half just to pop up and say one last goodbye, and I feel way too many emotions churning in my stomach along with the ice cream. It doesnât feel great. âWe really should let you go,â Mom says, after a lull in the conversation. âLooks like everythingâs still on time. Weâll follow your flight on that tracker. Once you get your SIM card set back up, just send us a text so we know youâre okay.â âThree months,â Dad says. âThatâs not so long.â Iâm lying to you.âI made sure Pastor Todd added you to the prayer chain at church,â Mom says. Even if I get a good gig, after finding a place to live and rehearsals and performances, thereâs no way Iâll be able to come back. âNot long at all,â my grandma says. âTake lots of pictures for your nana, and send me a postcard if you have a chance.â I force a smile and walk toward airport security. Iâm making my big escape, and everyone I love is watching me do it, completely unaware. My parents were shitty to me before, I know that, but is this any better? What am I doing? What have I done? Theyâll never forgive me for this.
Thank you for reading!
We can keep Inkspired for free by displaying Ads to our visitors. Please, support us by whitelisting or deactivating the AdBlocker.
After doing it, please reload the website to continue using Inkspired normally.