chapter 1 Okay, I know that the sunset is majestic and timeless and awe-inspiring and everything, but also there was some ice cream dripping onto my hand and it was extremely important that I tend to that at once. And yes, the light did spread out over the water like sparkly popcorn, and yes, it was cool the way the sun hovered trembling above the horizon. However, I also had a big scoop of Nutella ice cream, which is my absolute favorite, in a waffle cone, which is also my absolute favorite, and my ice cream was melting fast in the hottest August on record. The sun would set again tomorrow but my hand might be sticky and gross for the whole ride home because my dad, unlike my mom, doesn''t carry a purse filled with wet wipes. "Told you to get it in a cup," Dad said. He was taking leisurely bites of his mint chocolate chip, gazing out at the Pacific. Little bites, like he had all the time in the world, which I guess he did because even if his ice cream melted into soup (which is great, I love ice cream soup in an appropriate container), he wouldn''t have the whole sticky-hands problem that I was currently struggling to prevent. Not to mention that I was wearing one of my cutest dresses, cream-colored with a halter top and a swishy skirt, and I did not want it to have a sticky brown splotch forever.
Even if I was about to outgrow it. I grumbled at him, working my tongue into that space between my ring finger and pinky. "What''d you say?" he asked. "I said , grumble grumble grumble!" "A compelling point," said Dad, and turned his attention back to the sunset. I turned back too, and noticed that the railing came up to his belly, and it hit me right above mine. I was almost as tall as my dad now. When did that happen? Dad came up with this tradition when I was seven. He would pick a last day of summer, when it would stay warm and bright for hours and hours.
Drive the two of us down to "the city," also known as Seattle, but my parents always called it "the city" like they were describing a bodily function that''s perfectly natural but also embarrassing to do in public. We''d get dinner at a restaurant that doesn''t exist in our town, usually something I''ve never had before (this time it was fancy ramen, which would be my first choice for a cold winter night but maybe not my first choice for a hot summer day). Then we''d wander around the little tourist shops, find some cool street performers and give them dollars, and end by watching the sun set over the Sound. Dad always called this "father-daughter bonding," but I wished he wouldn''t. Calling it "bonding" made me worry that I was doing something wrong, like instead of scouring novelty stores for those smashed-penny machines we should be having intense heart-to-hearts about how fast I''m growing up and how glad he was that I''m his daughter. I wished he''d say "Hey Bananabelle"--(yes, that''s what he calls me sometimes--) "have you ever had tandoori? You should try it, it''s delicious" or "There''s a new exhibit on raptors at the natural history museum! I love raptors, want to go with me?" That way we could do the same fun stuff, eat dinner, have a good time, and not feel like we were doing something meaningful to cement our father-daughter relationship. He''s my dad, I''m his kid, I didn''t get why he wanted to make it into such a thing. Anyway, so we were watching the sunset, or at least he was watching the sunset and I was sneaking peeks of it while avoiding an ice cream catastrophe.
He was probably thinking deep thoughts about the universe and how fast I was growing up and how the sun is eventually going to explode, which will kill us all, if climate change doesn''t get us first. I was thinking about all those things and also how I should have gotten a cup and a cone. That would have been genius. I glanced up at the sun again. Ouch. "Shouldn''t we be wearing sunglasses or something?" I asked. "Don''t you care about my eyes?" "You''ll be fine," Dad grunted. "Strengthens your retinas.
" I was almost sure he was joking about that. I knew you weren''t supposed to look directly into the sun, but also I couldn''t tell what kind of mood he was in. Sometimes he liked to joke around, would tease me and I would tease him back and it was great. Sometimes he got prickly, and grimaced every time I tried to say something funny. He had started out the day in a good mood but had gotten quieter and quieter, and I knew better than to try to bring him back. It was almost time to go home anyway. Phew. Finally I looked up from my Nutella-stained hands, just in time to catch the sun slipping below the water like magic, and I really did get why the sunset was such a miraculous thing.
Even though it happened every day. We turned away from the railing without speaking and started the long trek towards the car. As we walked, I tried to soak up the last few minutes of being in the city. My parents always acted so freaked out by it for no good reason. Seattle is amazing . Before dinner we had found a store selling nothing but fancy olive oils and olive oil-related products. And we got to pick between a million restaurants with a million different kinds of food, as opposed to our boring suburb of Tahoma Falls, which had a McDonald''s, a Taco Time, an okay diner, and a Red Robin for the nights we wanted something fancy. The light posts on every corner were always thickly papered over with advertisements for parties, music, shows, and benefits for extremely cool people.
In fact, there was an interesting flyer pasted onto a pole right above eye level. I stared at it as Dad and I waited to cross the street. It showed a woman with eye-popping makeup in a bright zigzag-striped dress, surrounded by shirtless boys. The rainbow text was yelling at me to go to a "Pre-Pride Drag Brunch," and even though I didn''t know what any of those words meant, it was a very convincing advertisement. Well, okay, I did know what all of those words meant, but not necessarily in that order. "Pre" means before, and "pride" means, like, feeling good about yourself. I knew what brunch is, we got it sometimes on Sundays at the diner. It''s breakfast but later.
And "drag" means to pull something behind you. Or something hard and bad, but that''s mostly old-fashioned slang, like "don''t be a drag, man." So that meant "pre-pride drag brunch" was a late breakfast you kind of pulled yourself into before you felt good about yourself. That maybe made sense? But I wondered if there was some context I was missing. My teacher last year always talked about using context clues to improve your reading, so I decided to ask my dad. Literacy is important. "Dad? What''s a ''Pre-Pride Drag Brunch''?" I already knew his mood had gone from good to . something else, so it wasn''t a surprise to see his jaw tighten.
He glanced at the poster and widened his eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly. "Pre-pride brunch is why we don''t come into the city much," he said. Then the walk signal changed from a red hand to a walking man and he bolted across the street, his not-very-long legs pounding his dismay on the crosswalk. I skipped to keep up. I knew it would be useless to ask any follow-up questions, but I couldn''t help myself. "What does ''pre-pride'' mean? I know what ''pride'' is, but I''ve seen that word all over the place lately. Is everyone constantly overjoyed to be a Seattleite?" I liked that word, Seattleite. I wanted to be a Seattleite someday.
Much better than being stuck as a Tahomaite forever, and people from our town didn''t even call themselves that. Which made sense; "Tahomaite" sounds like a disease. Dad pinched a little bit of beard between his fingers and tugged on it. He always did that when I asked him a tough question, or when he was unsure of something. After a minute he released the poor tortured hairs and said, "Well. You know what ''gay'' and ''lesbian'' are. Right?" Oh. Yeah.
Pride pride. How had I missed that? "Right," I agreed. I didn''t really need him to explain any more, but I hoped he would. I was curious what he would say. My parents didn''t talk about stuff like this much. "Pride is for them," he continued. "For those kinds of people. A parade.
It celebrates an important day in their history. It happens in June, so all these posters and signs are out of date. They should get someone to take them down." That seemed like all he was going to say. Brief, and correct, and not nearly enough information, which was about right for my father when he didn''t want to talk. But there were still some parts I wasn''t sure about, so I risked a few other question. "So, is ''drag brunch'' brunch with drag queens? I''ve seen drag queens on TV, are they also waitresses? That''s cool, I want a drag queen to bring me pancakes, can we do that sometime?" He shrugged, which was probably a "no" to that last question and an unsatisfying answer to the others. I wanted to run back to the flyer, not for the shirtless boys but because I realized that the woman in the bright dress and amazing makeup was a drag queen and I wanted to examine her more thoroughly, but we were already a block away and there was no way he''d let me go back.
Oh well. Someday I''d come down to the city on my own and no one could stop me from doing whatever I wanted. I had other questions, but I could tell he had said all he was going to. If Mom were here I would have asked them; she always gave me much more helpful answers. Like when I asked where babies came from, Dad stuttered and turned red and played with his beard while Mom told me everything about sperms and eggs and uteruses and all that. People always say I look exactly like my dad, but I have my mom''s sense of humor and love of bright clothes and acc.