Disaster Class

08. rile a boomer up

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟖
" 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐩 "
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            Uncle Victor has taken over the living room. I can't watch TV without hearing backhanded comments about how I've let my hair grow too long. "It's falling over your face. People will think that you're a sissy."

Comments like that make me wish my grandma had just tied up her tubes after having my mom. She could have saved the world from one misogynistic asshole.

After hearing about a dozen of those unwarranted little remarks, I decided to just leave. I race up the stairs and lock myself in my room where I'm safe from all his bullshit.

I slam the door hard enough to let the whole neighborhood know that I'm pissed. The target of my anger issues always seem to be furniture. A locker, a sink, now an innocent door. At least I'm not punching drywalls like a basic white dude. No, sir. Even I have standards.

Groaning at myself, I saunter over to my study desk and turn my laptop on. I need to vent.

Mack's dorky profile picture flashes up my screen as I wait for him to pick up the video call. I took that picture about two months ago. It was Halloween, and we decided to go as Crowley and Aziraphale from Good Omens. He was Crowley, of course. Only he could pull off that ridiculous red hair and those gunmetal glasses.

He picks up on the third ring, his groggy face and glorious bedhead all lit up by the screen. Looks like he's just woken up. At two in the afternoon!

I jump right into it. "Mack, if you don't get me out of this house, I am going to kill a man. Might be Uncle Victor. Might be myself. Who knows?!"

"Whoa, hang on," Mack half says, half yawns. He sits up on his bed; the sheets slide off his torso, revealing his bare skin. He's wearing the wood-charm necklace I made for him, and probably nothing else.

"It's 2:32 in the afternoon, Mack," I say to him.

He pouts. "I'm enjoying my winter break, Nico. Don't judge me."

I roll my eyes as he slaps himself awake, tapping his palms on his cheeks that haven't quite lost the baby fats around them. Cute. Very cute.

"Now what's this about murder?" he asks.

Unimpressed, I send him a glare. "It's serious," I say. "He's becoming even worse than last year!"

Mack scoffs, and I can't blame him. Last year, Uncle Victor got thrown out of a bar for insulting an enby who turned out to be the owner of the establishment. He also got pepper sprayed by a lady he catcalled. Got fined for peeing on a wall. Rear-ended someone on the highway. Splotched ketchup on one of Dad's paintings. All of that in a span of two weeks. It's hard to top that level of assholery, but dear Uncle Victor always seems up for the job.

"What did he do this time?"

I groan. "Where do I even start?"

"Good God, please just start."

"Yesterday, he tricked Dad into eating meat!" I recall, still as furious now as I was back then. "His idea of a prank was switching Dad's veggie-burger with a whopper. Laughed his ass off when Dad starting gagging. What a douche!"

Mack winces, shaking his head in disapproval. "How's your dad?"

"Fine," I answer dismissively. "He's meditating. Uncle Victor is lucky that Dad's a pacifist now, or else that peach fuzz he calls a mustache would've been knocked right off his stupid face."