Hive Ave Fall2024 - Flipbook - Page 8
Hive Avenue Literary Journal
Non-Fiction
You’re Lying, Summer Child
Delaney Hillman
“My pre-cal teacher really pissed me o昀昀 today,” you say
and she nods her head, aviator sunglasses sitting on her nose.
She doesn’t turn her head, but she asks an empathetic “Why?”
You tell her, “It’s Ms. Egg, you know? The one who I had for
algebra last year.”
She sco昀昀s, “Ugh, Egg. I thought you already had all your
math credits?”
“I do, they don’t exactly care.”
“Make sure you pass or you won’t graduate.”
Drinking it feels di昀昀erent; like something is lodged in your
throat, but you remember chewing correctly and swallowing
before your next bite, right? It stays lodged there as you brew in
your thoughts about choking rates and chewing food correctly,
tell her you’re queer.
You start coughing, trying to rinse out your thoughts with
lemonade.
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
“Okay.”
You dial up the volume knob on the dash. She tells you
you have the best music taste. You feel the weight beneath
your eyes from playing through every song you know the night
before, adding The Ones to a playlist just for her. Ever changing,
always growing, di昀昀erent songs for the type of drive. You sneak
in songs to try and tell her how you feel. The whipping wind
through the windows probably blocks out the lyrics anyway.
Mom, I’ll be quiet
It would be just to sleep at night
And I’ll leave once I 昀椀gure out
How to pay for my own life too
*
*
*
It’s hot. You tell your mom rolling the windows down consumes more gas than using the AC. She takes the doors and
freedom panels o昀昀 her Jeep Wrangler. Maybe she doesn’t hear.
The gusts of air fresh o昀昀 the hot pavement burn your skin and
tie new knots into your hair.
8
The obnoxious yellow and red sign ahead provides relief
as you both pull into the drive-thru. Bojangles, the epitome of
Southern fast food, staring you dead in the eyes. As soon as it
came it went, now with the added pleasure of a baggie of four
stacked steaming cardboard boxes in your already warm lap, “so
they don’t 昀氀y away.” The only joy of you two picking up the food
was getting to eat it fresh in the car, just fried chicken burning
the skin away from the roof of your mouth and seeking comfort in your barely cold pink lemonade.
It doesn’t go away. None of this feels conscious, something unspoken pushing you to regurgitate it all out into the
space of the car.
“Can I tell you something, Mom?” you say softly, praying
that your words will be mu昀툀ed and you can shove it all back
down your throat, but she looks at you.
“It’s serious, and you’re not allowed to hate me after I tell
you, okay?” Despite the breeze, your eyes still feel wet, and as
hot as the pavement rolling beneath you.
“I could never hate you.” Inhale.
“I like boys…and girls,” the second half of the statement comes out in the sort of breath you release when you’re
punched in the stomach. But she doesn’t 昀氀inch the way you do.
“I 昀椀gured.” Exhale.
You hesitate. There’s a relief, followed by a sting, at least
you still have a place to sleep tonight. “Oh, what does that
mean?” you question. Could the clari昀椀cation ease the burning
in your throat?
