Ocean Blue ✓

chapter seven

elliot

My mother has discovered vegan chorizo, and now, there is no escaping it.

I mean, my mom's cooking is pretty excellent, so it's not as if I can complain. We've had the supposed "chorizo" every day for at least one meal as she figures out what she likes, what she doesn't like. Today's breakfast is some weird take on huevos motuleños, I think—there's our usual assembly of eggs, tortillas, frijoles, salsa roja, and peas, and then, the inescapable vegan chorizo.

We hardly ever do regular huevos motuleños at our house, but when we do, it's amazing. Usually, Mom gets this cheap ham (this time, tofu) and chars it, and it's just the best. It's definitely different with the chorizo, though. Messier, for certain. A little spicier. With the creamy, runny, egg yolk, though—it's awesome. My parents have been half-assing vegetarianism for years now, among other diets (like that time they tried to work out diets based on their blood types), and occasionally, something rad comes from it.

Dad and I are both about done by the time the coffee machine finally goes off. Mom watches our plates with her typical unimpressed look, and I grin at her. Dad and I are both tall—he's six-two; I'm taller—and trying to get us to eat at Mom's tiny pace is basically impossible.

"So, how was the Front last night, mija?" Mom asks, sweeping in through the kitchen door to get the first cup of coffee. Next to me, Dad attempts to impale a pea with his fork.

I stand to bring my dishes into the kitchen. Beneath the table, Bader thumps his tail as I walk by. "It was fine," I say, knowing Dad can still hear me from the dining room table. Every meal with my parents quickly feels like some kind of fun interrogation. (Sometimes the 'fun' is sarcastic.) (It's usually sarcastic.)

I make sure to rinse off my plate before sticking it in the dishwasher. Last week, Dad and I had this big, stupid argument over my dish-washing habits, so now I'm doing as he asks out of spite. "Same people were there as usual. I ended up going to Neema's afterwards. It was just ... eh?"

"Not your scene?" Dad asks, second in the coffee line.

"Not my scene," I concur.

Mom sets out two mugs on the counter—one for me, one for Dad. "Does 'eh' mean you had fun and don't want to tell us, or does 'eh' mean you want us to leave you alone about the fun you didn't actually have?"

Dad takes the bigger mug. Typical.

"I had fun," I insist as she winds behind me and back out into the dining room. She's already dressed for the day, khakis that emphasise the curves I wish genetics had given me, blue polo advertising her insurance firm in neat white stitching. Pretty sure she has to go talk to Drivers Ed kids today about how trying in school makes life cheaper. I myself remain a sceptic.

Dad rifles for oat milk in the fridge, too noisily considering it's in the same place it is every day. "So, you just don't want to tell us of the fun?

"Oh that is most definitely it. Yes." I catch the miniscule dregs of the coffee and compensate, like every morning, by introducing a somewhat-depressing amount of creamy oat milk. It leaves my coffee more grain than bean. "I woke up this morning and figured I'd skip out on all the drugs I drank and all the drinks I injected into my veins, and about how I knocked up, like, three prostitutes—"

"Only one prostitute too many," Dad says, already sitting down and returning to his Daily Front newspaper crossword.

Mom is working on her huevos motuleños again, but I can tell she's really more in it for the chorizo. Her posture is straight backed, little legs crossed with care. Sometimes, I wish I were that delicate. Mom has one of those model faces combined with a body too curvy to be on anyone's runway, but was definitely made for the screen. It's stupid. I just look like a slightly darker-skinned Dad with A-cups.