Chex Mix

The lovely and graceful Prince Seth pulls into the driveway of his two-story Ranch-style house, turns the crappy old mini Cooper off, and treks to the mailbox, where his blue eyes light up in sheer happiness at what he beholds. Before him, in the mailbox, sits one of the very reasons he lives: Seventeen Magazine. Excited to read it and completely disregarding the fact he had homework, Prince Seth ventures inside the house and tosses the keys onto the dark marble kitchen counter.

“Oh, Seth, good, you're home,” my mother says casually, not looking up from her knitting project. Why to women knit anyways? It just makes them seem old. Only old ladies should knit. I guess my mother is old. Not that old, though. She can't be. She's my mommy. Mommies don't age.

“Yup, hi, mom,” I say, waving even though she's not looking.

“How was school, sweetheart?” she asks, looking up and setting her knitting needles down on her lap.

“It was good! Remember that girl I was talking about?” I say, smiling as I sit down criss-cross on the floor next to her recliner. Oh dear god, my mother's getting old.

Of course, she knows exactly who I was talking about: Ry. The panic attack girl with beautiful brown eyes like chocolate rivers and happiness and rainbows and elves and point-y toed shoes and Seventeen Magazine.

My mother smiles. “Yes, of course I remember. Did you see her again today?”

“Not only that; I actually talked to her!”

I left out the part about me tripping over her though.

So once the young Prince is finished visiting with his mother, he goes upstairs to his room, which is painted black on the bottom half of the walls and a dark maroon on the top half of the walls, from when he used to be a poser emo kid. And who does he find sitting in his room? Why, it's none other than Felicity and Josefina, the Prince's younger sisters' dolls.

I never knew why, but my sisters, Hailey and Janie, always leave their American Girl Dolls in my room. So, since I have a little Japanese-style table in the middle of said room, I set them down by that table and pretend to have tea parties with them, completely forgetting about Seventeen Magazine. I'm just about to offer Ms. Felicity more “tea” (which is really just water out of a milk carton into little tea cups that came with the doll), when my father clears his throat from the doorway.

“Oh,” I say, setting down the make-shift teapot. “Hey, Dad.”

My father coughs once into his fist. “Hello, son.”

He has trouble calling me anything else but 'son'. Sometimes, he even has trouble calling me 'son', because he doesn't believe I'm a son. You see, ever since I picked up my first Seventeen Magazine at age twelve, my father lost all hope in believing that I was going to be Mr. Jockpants, and instead took on the belief that I'm gay – which I'm not, thank you very much. Not that I have anything against gays. Because I don't. I think they're cool. But I don't like boys like that. I like girls. I like Ry.

After giving me a look on extreme disapproval, my father turns tail and walks slowly down the stairs, not saying a single word to me after his not-so-casual “Hello, son.”

Now, I bet you're wondering why I keep my sisters' American Girl Dolls with me in my room, when I could just as easily go deliver them to my sisters. Well, the truth is, they're some of my only friends, and I 'm one of theirs'. I've never really clicked with anyone ever before in any way other than the occasional 'hi' in the hallway. But with these dolls, I know this is going to sound weird, but I can be myself. I don't have to pretend. Well, I have to pretend they're real, but that shouldn't count.

“Sethy!” calls Hailey as she barrels into my room with Janie on her heels. They both tackle me to the ground in hugs around my neck and stomach with squeals of delight. “You're home!”

“Sethy, will you take us to the movies?” asks Janie, looking up at me, still tight around my abdomen, with puppy dog eyes.

“Come on, girls, you know I have homework to do,” I reply, ruffling both their heads with my hands. My hands practically cover their heads.

“Then why are you playing with 'Licy and Josie?” they both ask in unison, referring to their dolls. The whole unison thing is part of being twins, which I never understood until four years ago, when my sisters began to, in unison, speak baby talk at me.

I laugh and they let me go to retrieve their dolls. “I wasn't playing with them, girls, I was simply keeping them company. They seemed lonely all by themselves in here...”

“Aw, you're so nice, Sethy!” Janie says gratefully, hugging her doll tightly. Hailey nods her agreement.

I smile at them. “Alright, girls, get outta here. I have homework to do.” I make shooing motions with my hands, and the two five-year-olds oblige, closing the door behind them. Once alone, instead of doing homework, I remember my magazine – which I shall from this day forward call my Book of Awesome – and spend the rest of the night learning how to paint your toenails the correct way.