If Looks Could Kill

Chapter 1: The Trip

I can't tell where his head ends, and his shoulders begin.

The man sitting across from me is all muscle in the most unsettling way. The sight of our cloudy glasses in his overly large, meaty hand is almost comical. The man in question, if you're wondering, is my mother's boy(friend)(toy)(acquaintance)—really any of these work—and I can say I'm honestly surprised how long this one has lasted.

He brought over lasagna for all of us to eat for dinner and though my mother loves the fact that he "cooked us such a delicious meal," I'm pretty sure that you could find this exact same lasagna in a box in our freezer. I mean, I guess he's good-looking enough with his jet-black hair that he keeps slicked back, his hazel eyes under prominent eyebrow ridges, and his strong jaw, but unless you can get past the fact that the guy looks like he could possibly eat you whole, I can't imagine it would really work out.

"Sweetheart could you pass the..." with one hand holding a glass of cheap red wine that is without a doubt not her first one, my mom faces D(oug)(an)(ylan)—again, any will do—and uses the hand closest to me to wave at whatever it is that she wants me to pass her which is probably wine, "...wine?"

Oh.

"So, Trevor, how's school going?" D(oug)(an)(ylan) asks in the kind of voice a person would use to disguise their actual voice when asking for ransom. Before anyone gets confused by the name, I am a girl, though some may question that since I constantly keep my hair up, the only outfits I ever where are t-shirts and jeans, and my face is and always has been clear of any form of makeup (because since I'm a girl I just have to wear makeup).

The story is that when my mother got knocked up by a guy even she didn't know the name of, her first idea was to abort me. But her extremely religious parents forbid the idea, forcing her to have me. Now you can imagine that her being black and getting knocked up at seventeen caused for some pretty ignorant, pretty racists thoughts to make starting her life hard, but she eventually became an accountant and has been doing that ever since.

Now back to me being named Trevor, for my mother's entire pregnancy, everyone thought I was going to be a boy. So, you can imagine everyone's surprise when I came out without a dick. Instead of picking out a more traditional girl's name, she stuck with Trevor.

"Tomorrow's the last day," I let out in one sigh, looking at how I've turned this pasta, cheese, and sauce casserole into something almost unrecognizable.

"And are you excited for college in the fall?" He continues to ask and by the way my mom keeps on giggling and squirming in her seat, I can only assume his large, meaty hand is rubbing her leg.

Gross.

But at this question I look up and stop eating me Italian food art.

"I'm a junior," I deadpan.

At this point I can tell he's not even somewhat paying attention. If it wasn't the thigh rubbing that gave it away, it was his tongue down my mother's throat.

I'd like to say that after the whole "my mom wanted to abort me and I wasn't the baby she planned for" debacle, I came out, she was overcome with extreme joy, and I became the center of her whole universe.

But that wasn't the case.

My mom feeds me, clothes, will probably help me pay for college (which is really to get me out the house if anything), and just makes sure I'm not dead essentially. Other than that, my mom tries to interact with me as little as possible except to put on a show, so people don't think she's a horrible person, as seen by tonight.

I thought the dining table was used to put papers we'll probably never look at on.

It doesn't really bother me though. I honestly could care less. It's been going on for so long that I guess it's just the norm for me.