Page 3 of The Trailer Park Twink

After practice with our group, I head home and brace for World War Three.

If Dallas really has put his foot down, Mom’s going to be pissed, but so am I.

Climbing the four steps leading up to the makeshift patio Daddy built for the trailer, I keep an eye on the third step, because it’s hanging on by a thread.

Dry rot has set in, but Dallas keeps putting off repairing it.

He’s a procrastinator through and through, my Daddy.

He spends his free time attached to my hip, so unless I stand out there with him, it’ll never get fixed.

With the Texas heat being what it is, we’re essentially living in Hell on Earth, so I won’t be stepping out of the air-conditioned trailer any longer than I have to, thank you very much.

When I enter, Daddy’s walking through the kitchen. His eyes look pained as he approaches. When he reaches me, he squeezes my shoulder.

“Sorry, bud,” he whispers. “I tried.”

My heart cracks inside my chest, because she’s getting her way.

Even worse, he’s allowing it to happen. It feels like a betrayal, even though I’m the outlier in this situation.

Still, Daddy needs to see his big boy, not his bratty boy.

So, I swallow down my hurt and heartbreak and return the hug he’s giving me.

“It’s okay,” I lie. “You tried.”

“I’m going to take a shower. Wait up for me, alright? I want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” I whisper back, puckering my lips to kiss his shoulder, stopping when I see Mom at the kitchen table, gloating. Fuck her. Fuck her so hard she never walks again. Fuck her from here to the innermost pits of Hell. “I love you.”

He pulls back and kisses my forehead. “I love you too, buddy.”

The trailer has an open kitchen and living room, with only a bar and barstools separating them.

To the right, past the living room, is my side of the trailer.

Dallas and I share the bathroom because Mom doesn’t like how messy Dallas is.

Personally, I don’t mind. He rarely lifts the seat to piss, and he usually leaves a few droplets behind that he never remembers to wipe away, but that’s okay.

I love cleaning up after him. I keep the bathroom spotless, because it’s the only room that’s ours, and I want our shared space to be perfect.

Beside the bathroom is my personal oasis.

A room my mother isn’t allowed inside, thanks to Dallas.

She stole my money one too many times, and Dallas finally put his foot down, installing a deadbolt that only he and I have the key to.

Mom gets really mad about it when she’s on a meth binge.

I guess she thinks we’re conspiring against her, because some nights, as I lie alone in my bed, I’ll see her fingers slip through the crack between the door and the floor.

I never know what the hell she’s hoping to find, but it doesn’t bother me anymore, because I know she can’t get in.

She has a tendency to press her lips to the crack and whisper hateful things to me, like how Dallas will never love me because he’s not a “dirty little queer” like me.

That she’s going to turn him against me and get me kicked out.

She talks a lot of shit. She’s yet to back it up.

Dallas heads toward our bathroom, and once he’s out of sight, I walk to the table, plopping down in his usual chair, glaring at my mother.

Time has not been kind to Shelly Snowden.

In her youth, she was a sparkling gem amongst rubble.

I’ve seen the pictures from when she won our town’s Muscadine Queen pageant at sixteen.

I think it’s safe to say I get my looks from her, but unlike her, I take care of myself.

I don’t guzzle vodka like mouthwash, liter after liter, day after day.

I don’t have a cigarette dangling from my lips for ninety percent of my waking hours, either.

Most of all, I haven’t been battling an unsightly meth addiction for two decades.

I’m also not wearing a stupid canary yellow arm cast because I got blackout-passout on gin and Tylenol PM before falling off the patio, shattering my elbow in the process, but that’s neither here nor there.

“How was school?” she asks, her face painted with a condescending sneer. “Sweetheart.”

I grab Dallas’ glass of iced tea and take a swig. Thankfully, Daddy doesn’t disappoint, because it tastes like it’s half-tea, half-tequila. I’ll need a bit of liquid courage to put up with the heathen on the other side of the table, so I take another swig.

We both know I didn’t go to school today. She popped in and out of the house a few times this morning, doing tweakerly things like scrounging the carpet for stray shards of meth, rifling through couch cushions, trying to get her morning fix.

“It was good,” I say, taking another sip.

Mom’s plate is piled high with mashed potatoes and meatloaf, and the fact she hasn’t taken a single bite is the only indication needed.

She’s holding a cigarette between her fingers, the smoke swirling upward, stinking up the whole freaking room.

I wish she’d just fuck off already. Her presence is neither needed nor required. “How was your day?”

“Good,” she says, still feigning that stupid smile. “Dallas and I had an interesting conversation.”

My stomach churns. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She places her hand over her heart, exaggerating a concerned expression.

“He says you’re simply beside yourself over our trip.

He asked me if you could come along, just to lift your spirits.

” She goes quiet, and I know she wants me to look at her, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

I do it anyway, because apparently my body is working against me. Her lips purse. “Over my dead body.”

If only.

“Mom—”

She slaps the table with her palm, her eyes growing narrower, and there’s a growl climbing up her throat, begging for release. “I know exactly what you’re doing, young man.”

Good. I was wondering when we were going to drop the pleasantries. I’ve been waiting for this conversation for years, and I’m not going to miss my shot. “And what exactly is it that you think you know?”

She brushes crumbs off her blouse. Mom’s frizzy red hair is flayed out in every direction, making her look like goddamn Heat Miser from that Rudolph movie she used to let me watch on VHS. Why we were the only family in the trailer park who owned a VHS player in the early aughts, I’ll never know.

“You’re trying to steal him,” she says quietly, probably wanting nothing less than for Dallas to hear us. “You’ve been after him from the beginning. Don’t try to deny it.”

I could. It would be easy to do. All I’d have to do is tell her she’s mistaken. That she’s misread our relationship and saw something sordid in our platonic friendship.

But I’m done hiding. I’m done letting her hurt Dallas. It ends tonight.

“Correct,” I say, arching an eyebrow. Her mouth falls open like she didn’t expect me to be so honest, but I’m not done with her.

Her hand clenches around her fork, and for a moment, I worry she might stab me with it.

I think she’s got the same idea, but she stops herself, looking over my shoulder, keeping tabs on Dallas.

“If you think I’m letting my son steal my husband, you’ve got another think coming.”

“Can you steal someone who’s already got one foot out the door?

” I grab a paper towel from the table and dab the corners of my mouth like a dainty little thing before setting it beside Dallas’ plate.

He barely even touched his meatloaf. He must be really upset.

I sigh, because, poor Daddy. I’ll have to check on him in a bit .

“I don’t know,” she answers. “But I know you’re living in my home, rent free. Maybe your free ride needs to come to an end.”

I smile widely, nodding. “You’re welcome to kick me out. You know what happens if you do, though, don’t you?”

She swallows. “Yeah. I’ll finally be rid of you.”

I point a finger toward the bathroom. “Remind me; how long did Dallas stick around after I moved out last time?”

Her cheeks flush red. “I wasn’t counting the days.”

“I mean . . .” I twist my mouth and hold it there, looking deep in thought, hopefully. “I don’t think you’d have to count any days, actually. Didn’t he leave the same day?”

“I’m not sure.”

“And he moved home the same day I did. Funny. I guess his marital vows only hold true when I’m in the picture.

” I take a bite of his meatloaf, cringing when I taste it.

Mom must have mistaken the sugar for salt again, and it tastes like I’m eating a slice of beef and tomato pie.

Spitting it onto the plate, I dab my mouth with Dallas’ paper towel. “That is vile on every possible level.”

Her eyes narrow. “This ends now. He’s my husband, Austin.” The way she says the words makes it sound like every syllable has been marinated in rage. Deep-fried in disdain.

“He is,” I finally agree. “For now, at least. ”

“Alright,” she says, nodding slowly. Standing, she carefully slides the chair back in its place under the table.

She stares down at her tacky, low-cut shirt and slithers her hand inside, lifting each of her breasts to make them perky.

When she’s done, she stares at them like they’re her pride and joy.

“I want you to remember something. You asked for this. You brought it on yourself.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice cracking. For a moment, I think the sound goes unnoticed, then her smile widens. She’s fucking gloating.

She stares down at her breasts again and smirks.

“I’m going to make him scream my name loud enough for you to hear it in your bedroom.

” She turns and looks at the front door.

“Or you can leave. You can walk out of this house right now, and you won’t have to hear a sound.

Wouldn’t you like that, Austin? Wouldn’t you like to find a man of your own? ”