Only on the Weekends, page 22
I get up super early
And play the Ethio Jazz record
I know Dad loves.
My braided hair wrapped
In a silky pink do-rag,
I fasten the rainbow kitchen apron
With a bow at the back
And make Dad plantain and eggs,
With tattie scones
Because when in Scotland.
“Thank you for all this,”
Dad suddenly sobs.
Plantain is everything,
But it doesn’t warrant
This level of emotion.
“It’s just breakfast,” I laugh.
Is he sad about filming ending
Or apprehensive about
Mum’s artwork coming back?
“Why are you crying, Dad?”
He wipes his eyes:
“I’m so grateful for you.
Yes, for making breakfast,
But also for making an effort.
For making the most
Of our time here.
I’ve seen you maturing
Right before my eyes.
I’m so proud of you.”
I don’t want to cry too.
I decide to play it cool.
“I wasn’t sure about Scotland.
But it’s been, surprisingly, okay,”
I say, because it’s true,
And because if I say any more
I’ll be sobbing on the floor
Telling Dad I’m proud of him.
And Mum would be proud, too.
And I want to be like both of them
When I grow up.
I may have matured
But I know
I still have a long way to go.
I can’t say any of this right now.
Dad’s taxi will be here any second.
Ping!
Dad’s phone, as if on cue.
He bolts up out of his seat.
It’s like that phone controls him,
I think. He’ll be out the door in a flash!
But Dad doesn’t leave.
He asks, “Are you sure
You don’t want to skip school
And come with me?
Don’t you want to see Finlay?”
“I see plenty of Fin.”
Dad looks at me like
It’s the very first time.
He tilts his head to one side,
Then to the other.
“Finlay mentioned
You two were out
Riding for two hours nonstop
On your clever mikes.
When did my son become
Such an action man?”
What Dad doesn’t seem to remember
Is that he bought me a little red bike
With stabilizers on
When I was four
But never took me out to practice on it.
Then, when I was eleven,
Dad bought me this
Big black mountain bike,
And expected me
To just know how to ride it.
It’s probably rusting in our garden shed
Back in London.
“Fin took the time to teach me
How to ride a bike.”
I try not to sound bitter.
“Are you having a bubble?
You already knew how to ride.
I remember teaching you.”
I decide not to argue.
This is an important day for him.
I don’t say anything.
“I’ll buy you a new one when
We get back home to London.”
Dad looks inspired.
“I’ll get one, too,
So you and I can go
For father-and-son cycles.
How’s that sound?”
“Sounds great, Dad!”
I say, and I mean it.
Even though cycling has been
A thing between me and Fin,
It doesn’t have to be exclusive.
I can’t believe it’s time
To go back to London.
And I can’t believe Fin is coming.
The shooting star is going to hit!
It’s like Dad can read my mind:
“Are you and Finlay
Just friends or something more?”
He raises two eyebrows.
“Just friends,” I lie, well enough.
Dad nods in approval:
“I’m glad you’ve made friends here.
I’m glad you’ve made friends with Finlay.
He’s an amazing boy!”
Dad’s phone rings.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be out in a second.”
Dad runs to his bedroom
And returns with a black makeup bag
With FENTY on the side.
He rattles it and smiles:
“I got you a few bits of makeup.
According to your wish list and past orders,
You don’t have any of these,” he laughs.
There he is.
The Dad I’ve always wanted!
“Thanks, Dad,” I manage.
I can feel the happy tears
Well up behind my eyes.
“And if you wanted to wear some
On Wednesday at the wrap party,
You should feel free to express yourself.”
Dad sets the makeup bag in front of me.
He grips my shoulder
And kisses the top of my head two times.
Dad’s love flows
Through my silky pink do-rag
And braided hair
To my brimming heart.
Wrap Party—Wednesday Night
Cleo puts her arm around me
And pulls out her phone.
“Selfie!” she hollers, over the music.
I admire my makeup
In Cleo’s phone screen:
I proudly wear
Dad-bought silver eye shadow,
My signature Fairy Bomb
Shimmer on my cheeks,
And bubble-gum-pink lip gloss.
My fingernails match,
In bubble-gum pink, too.
I have on a plain light gray T-shirt,
Baby blue jeans,
And sparkling silver Converse.
It’s casual-cute,
Like, nothing to prove
But absolutely to die for.
“You look so good.”
Cleo inspects our selfie
And her handiwork:
My hair freshly braided yesterday.
“Can ah post this?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say.
She does it immediately,
She adds the hashtag “#BraidsByCleo”
“Excuse us a sec.” Dad takes my arm
And leads me away from Cleo.
Dad has a worried look.
“I invited Finlay and his friends
To come to the Isle of Arran.
It was meant to be a surprise,
But Gem said I had to tell you.”
I’m reminded of that birthday party
When Dad invited his cast and crew
To make up the numbers.
“The more the merrier”
Doesn’t apply here, either.
I get a sinking feeling:
I have to tell Fin how I feel
Before he meets K.
“Thanks for telling me, Dad.”
I grit my teeth and smile. “It’s fine.”
Dad lets out a sigh: “That’s a relief.
I thought I’d messed up.”
He waves across the room to Gem
And gives her a thumbs-up.
He walks toward her,
Without another word to me.
I’m not even angry at Dad.
I’m mostly angry at myself.
Dad thinks Fin and I are just friends.
I’ve tried to convince myself
Fin and I are just friends,
But I know we’re something more.
Cleo returns to the dance floor:
To Ross, Fin, and the actors.
The actor who plays Ross in the film
Dances beside Real Ross.
They flirt with each another
In plain sight of everyone.
They take selfie after selfie,
They give each other bro-slaps on the back,
And take turns talking into each other’s ears,
And holds each other’s shoulder.
There’s a synchronous laughter
From Real Ross and the Actor.
Real Ross has his left nostril pierced.
The Actor has his right nostril pierced.
A mirror image.
But this isn’t the time for reflection,
And this it’s the time for the truth.
It’s time for another drink.
Thursday Morning
Dad lets me skip school
Because we were up late
At the wrap party last night.
I invite Fin to meet me
At Glasgow Botanic Gardens.
As I cycle across town,
I listen to Rostam,
Another singer Fin introduced me to.
Rostam is from the band
Vampire Weekend,
Who are good, also,
But I prefer him solo.
Rostam is out as gay
And sings about guys.
When I arrive,
I lock up the rainbow bike
And find an empty bench
In front of the Kibble Palace,
A gorgeous greenhouse
That makes me think of K
And our Perfect Day at Kew Gardens.
I take off my gold cycle helmet.
I send Fin my location.
As he approaches me,
His matching helmet still on,
He looks ready for impact.
I wonder if he can see through me.
Like glass.
I wish he could,
So I wouldn’t have to find the words.
“What’s got you so glum?” Fin asks.
He moves my helmet aside, hastily,
To sit next to me.
It drops to the ground
Like a fallen crown.
We both watch as it
Circles on its own rim
Before it settles.
“Sorry, pal.”
Fin reaches down to pick it up.
His gold helmet glimmers.
I want to protect him,
Like that cycle helmet,
But I’m doing the exact opposite.
“Earth tae Mack.”
Fin puts my cycle helmet in my lap.
I clutch it tightly.
“So, you know how Dad invited you
To the Isle of Arran?”
“Aye?” says Fin, as a question.
Those puppy-dog eyes.
I continue:
“Well, you know
My boyfriend is coming?”
He looks away for a moment,
Then back to me.
Those too-blue eyes.
“It’s not just him coming up.
Some friends are coming, too.
But I didn’t want it to be awkward
For you.”
“Why would it be awkward for me?”
Fin sees through my BS.
“Because . . .”
I can’t believe I’m about to say it.
“Because . . .”
I don’t think I can say it.
“Just say it, Mack!” Fin snaps.
Those wild eyes.
I blurt out,
“Because I think you’re in love with me.”
A deer in headlights.
Fin scoffs,
“Why would you think that?”
I take a deep breath
In my nose and out my mouth.
Smell the flowers. Blow out the candles.
I let out the truth:
“Because I’m in love with you, too.”
A boy on a bench.
Tears form in his eyes, already.
“Are you poly?” Fin asks me.
“Polly?”
I parrot, the name I thought I heard.
“POLY-AMOROUS,”
Fin exaggerates,
In his mock English accent.
I know the term polyamory.
I’ve heard Willow Smith talk about it.
My mind whirls around
The etymology of the word,
Not Scottish, nor English.
From the Greek poly: many.
And the Latin amor: love.
Fin asks a different question:
“Is it an open relationship?”
This question is simpler
And yet harder to answer.
“I don’t think so,” I admit.
“It’s either open or it isnae!”
Fin snaps at me angrily.
“It’s not,” I sigh guiltily.
“It hasn’t been discussed.”
“So, he doesnae know about me?”
“He knows who you are.”
“Plenty people know who ah am.
Ah’m asking
If your boyfriend knows about us.”
“Of course he doesn’t.”
“Are you planning tae break up wi him?”
“No,” I admit.
I haven’t thought this through.
“So why exactly are you telling me,
If you dinnae want tae break up wi him?”
I’ve daydreamed about it:
Both of them being cool
With me seeing the other.
I guess that would be polyamory.
You can’t call it that after the fact.
It has to be talked about
And everyone has to agree.
I think, again, of
“The Boy Is Mine.”
Then I think of
“Next Lifetime”
By Erykah Badu.
Maybe it will be Fin and me
Next lifetime.
But what about this lifetime?
“I guess I’m telling you
Because I didn’t want you to be surprised
Or hurt by him being there.”
“You’ve never said his name.”
“Really?”
“You only call him your boyfriend,
Like he’s your property,
Rather than a person.”
“That can’t be true.
I’m sure I’ve said his name before.
I definitely don’t think of him that way.”
“So what’s his name?”
“K,” I say, then sigh.
“So how would K feel
About this conversation?”
“I don’t know.”
“And how would K feel
About how much time we spend
Together?”
“He’s got a whole basketball team,
That he spends all his time with.
I’m allowed to have friends too.”
“We’re not friends, Mack.”
I’m winded by his words.
“What do you mean?” I gasp.
“You dinnae treat friends like this.”
I search his face for softness
But he looks at me so sternly.
“What have I done so wrong?
We’ve never kissed,” I plead.
“Exactly!” Fin points at me,
Like I’ve proven his point.
“Exactly what?” I ask, confused.
“Ah’ve wanted tae kiss you
Ever since that party
When you wis dancing tae Fela Kuti.
Your smile sparked a fire in me
And in that moment, ah thought,
“This is ma person!”
After you told me you had a boyfriend,
Ah talked tae Cleo and Ross,
And tae Dr. Lawrence, ma therapist.
They warned me tae be careful
Not tae get hurt.
But ma heart had made up its mind.”
“I’m sorry,” is all I can say.
It would be too cruel to tell Fin:
The only person on my mind
During that dance
Was K.
So much has changed since then.
My heart can’t make up its mind.
It once belonged to Femi,
Then K,
Now Fin.
Can I really love them all?
Five Minutes Later
We sit in silence
For a few minutes.
I watch children run around the flowerbeds,
Adults recline on the lawns: chat and drink.
I hear Fin sniffle.
I can’t look at him.
I can’t bear to be
The reason he cries.
If I don’t look, I can deny my responsibility.
When I finally turn to Fin,
I catch a glimmer
Of the wet on his cheeks
Before he wipes
His eyes with his sleeve
And jumps up:
“Ah should get going.
Are you telling
Cleo and Ross not tae come
Or is it just me
You don’t want there?”
“Fin, I never said I don’t want you there.
I just didn’t want you to feel,
I don’t know how to put it:
‘Ambushed’? I guess,
By my boyfriend being there.
I’d love you to come,
But it’s your decision.”
“Okay, ah’ll come.”
Fin gives me the strangest stare,
Like he’s accepted a dare.
I swear, for a split second,
Instead of a cycle helmet,
I see antlers atop his head.
Ferry Terminal—Saturday Morning
I check my makeup
With my phone in selfie mode
As we wait at the ferry terminal:
Braveheart-blue eye shadow,
Gold shimmer on my cheeks,
Pink lip gloss applied lightly,
The water simmers behind me.
I snap a selfie,
With one hand to my face,
To show off my blue nails.
No one notices.
They chat in pairs:
Maz with K.
Dad with Uncle O.
Gem with Fin.
Cleo with Ross.
Sim and Femi
Closest to me.
We’re in the foot-passenger line.
Rows of cars also wait to drive onto the ferry.
“Won’t I get seasick?” asks Femi.
“How would I know what’s going to happen
Inside your body?” replies Sim.
“It isnae the sea,” Ross cuts in.
“The water between mainland Scotland
And the Isle of Arran is the Firth of Clyde.
It’s the mouth ae the River Clyde.”
“Okay, river sick?” concedes Femi.
“Have you never been on a boat before?”
