Catnip

04 | In Which Caleb Christens a Princess

"Crystal?"

"She's a kitten, Mom, not a hooker."

"What about Dorothea?"

"If you wanna name her after a serial killer, sure. I heard Dorothea Puente was big on cats before she rotted to death in a prison cell."

"Oh, I've got it. Wendy!"

"Wendy as in Wendy's? Are you trying to suggest something? 'Cause, you know, I'm pretty sure kitten burgers aren't on their menu."

"Caleb, dear god, is that really necessary?"

"You know I can't help it," he says. "It's a reflex."

"That's reassuring."

"Relax, Mom. I could never be a murderer." He smiles for the first time since sitting down, eyes alight with morbid glee. "Bloodstains are a bitch to wash out."

Mom, to her everlasting credit, doesn't look ready to call for a psychiatrist. Then again, he supposes she's gotten used to his weird behaviour after eighteen years of living with him, and seven and a half years of raising him on her own. With a roll of her eyes, she continues serving out dinner. It's an old family recipe, some weird beefy Cuban dish she insists on cooking every Friday. (Bistec de Palamillo? Bistec de Palomillo? Beats him. Either way, it tastes good.)

"Hey, Mom? What do you call this dish again?" he asks, just to sate his curiosity. His mother lets out a loud sigh.

"This is exactly why I'm always saying you and Maya should practice your Spanish more often. Soon enough you'll have forgotten how to speak it completely."

"Mom, come on. The kids at school struggle enough with English, never mind Spanish. At least I'm fluent in one."

She cracks a smile, but before he can consider the argument won she adds, "It's not about them, though, honey. It's about culture. And besides, how else will you talk with Nanny?"

"She's never liked me much, anyway. I think we'd be doing her a favour."

"She doesn't not like you. You know that. She's just . . . a very traditional woman, let's say."

Yeah, understatement of the year. He's thankful his grandmother and the rest of Mom's family still live in Miami, because there's no way he could cope with all their crazy bullshit and insistence on converting him to Roman Catholicism every time he steps through their front doors. (Not like he's anti-religious. Hell, he couldn't care less who or what anyone chooses to worship, so long as they're not shoving it in his face at every goddamn opportunity.)

"I don't think traditional covers it," he says.

His mother opens her mouth to speak at the precise moment Maya throws open the kitchen door. She storms into the room like a raging hurricane, arms crossed and scowl blazing, and sits across from him at the table.

"What's up?" he asks, and then, purely because he knows it'll annoy her, "Boy problems?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, look, she's blushing!"

"Go fuck yourself, Caleb."

"Hey!" Mom spins around and glares daggers at the stroppy teen, apparently laying down some boundaries for a change. "Language, lady."

"Sorry," Maya says. "What I meant to say was go impale yourself on the nearest sharp object."

"That's not really an improvement," Mom says, stifling a smile. Caleb scoffs. That resolve lasted long. Truth is, Mom couldn't be strict if her life depended on it. She tries, of course (to limited degrees of success) but she's always been a softie, never quite au fait with the traditional parent mind-set her mother adores. Her boundaries crumble in the face of a good joke or puppy-dog eyes. Irritating at times? Sure. But it made coming out a shit ton easier than his over-anxious, fourteen-year-old self anticipated.