• • • • • ● • • • • •
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟖
" 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐩 "
• • • • • ● • • • • •

            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."

"I could do that for you."

I snort. "Yeah, we could double-team. I'll hold him back, you beat him up."

"A criminal offense wouldn't look good in our college applications, though," he remarks in all seriousness.

"It wouldn't," I agree, pursing my lips. "But did I tell you how many times he called me a sissy today?"

"Sissy? What is he? Stuck in the 50s?"

"Stuck in the stone age more like." A grab a fistful of my hair. It isn't even that long. "Nineteen times. He called me a sissy nineteen times because my hair has exceeded the length of a buzzcut."

"Ha!" Mack exclaims. "Wait 'til he sees how long mine has grown."

I perk up at the suggestion. Uncle Victor has always hated Mack with his unapologetic display of his sexuality and unwavering beliefs that go against the boomer's outdated ones.

"Dude, come over," I say.

Mack laughs airily. "What for? To annoy your bigot of an uncle by existing as a flaming bisexual?"

I nod.

Mack perks up, fully awake now. Grinning, he says, "I'll wear my pinkest flannel shirt."

***

          "Uncle Victor!" Mack chirps in over-the-top cheer when he bounces into our living room.

I almost choke on my juice when I see his attire, cuffed pink flannel, cuffed skinny jeans, cuffed everything. On his head sits the fuzziest bi-pride beanie I have ever seen. And just for some extra pizzazz, he's decided to wear his heart-shaped glasses with red-tinted lenses. He said he'll come as a flaming bisexual, and boy, he is serving!

Uncle Victor could not be more displeased. His upper lip is drawn up in a sneer and if I could read his mind, I'd probably hear him call Mack all kinds of names in two different languages. Say what you want about the man; his homophobia breaks the bounds of language barriers. It is almost impressive.

"It's been so long! Is that a five o'clock shadow on your chin? A few more decades and you can finally grow a beard like Mr. G," Mack says, hiding an insult behind passive aggressive words.

Even Dad breaks out a smile over his shenanigans.

"Hello, Mack. How are you?" Uncle Victor replies, dropping his voice two octaves lower than usual as he broadens his shoulders and crosses his burly arms.

I roll my eyes. Alright, we get it. You're a manly man, Uncle Victor. No need to overstate it with your alpha male stance bullshit or whatever.

Mack continues his little performance by answering with a childish shrug. "Just the usual," he says, examining his sky blue fingernails. "Taking drama classes, knitting with my moms, letting my hair grow long." He makes a show of twirling a loose strand. "I'm thinking of dyeing it pink next year."

Oh, he really knows how to rile a boomer up.

Uncle Victors nods but huffs at the same time. "Do you have a girlfriend yet?"

Ugh. That question. 

Every Asian uncle and auntie just loves asking that question so much, even when they already know the answer. Most of the time, I think Uncle Victor just wants to hear people say that they're single and judge them for it.

Mack is unfazed by this, though. He crinkles up his nose in a smile and says, "No. No girlfriend, but I had a threesome with this girl and her boyfriend once. Does that count, Uncle Victor?"

Dad and I both choke on our drinks. The orange juice spurts out of my nose. Dad coughs, pounding on his chest, trying to recover from the shock. Uncle Victor looks absolutely scandalized, his face as red as a tomato.

"Ambastos!" Uncle sneers, and I take that as my cue to usher Mack out before we get bombarded by a litany of Tagalog curse words.

Laughing, I grab my best friend's arm and pull him to the front door. We have plans to go out anyway. He just came by to pick me up and, of course, to vex dear Uncle Victor.

"See you later, Dad," I bid as Mack and I reach the front door. I can still hear Uncle Victor nagging about the kind of company I keep. Good. Here's to hoping his blood pressure goes off the charts today.

I mount Mack's bike, my gloved hands gripping on to his shoulders, as he navigates out of our driveway.

"Scale of one to ten, rate my performance," Mack says when we hit the road.

"Nine," I reply, and he gasps.

"You dare deny me a perfect score? After your Uncle's reaction to that bit?"

"I have to give you a demerit for mentioning a threesome."

His shoulders shudder as he laughs. "You think I should've gone with an orgy instead?"

"Ha!" I exclaim. "He would have had a heart attack if you'd have said that."

"Oh, that would be sooo unfortunate," he says, his words dripping in sarcasm.

Now that Operation: Making Uncle Victor Pop A Vein has been accomplished, we are off to our main mission for today. Surveillance. 

I've done enough research on the D-Class and now it's time to see them in the flesh. Starting with their pink-haired president, a certain Ms. Kitty Coleridge -- I doubt that's her real name. No self-respecting parent would ever name their child Kitty. But then who knows? They let her dye her hair, they might be just as outrageous as her.

My stalking skills clued me in to where she might spend her free time. The incessant softball posts cluttering up her Facebook profile is a dead giveaway. Seriously, every post is either a ball or a bat or a pitcher's glove. Someone has to tell this girl that sports are not a personality trait.

Off to the stadium!

a/n: For every comment this chapter receives, Uncle Victor gets egged in the face. Spam me, lol.