Riding in Cars With Girls

By Kayla De La Pena

I technically came out to my mother twice, but I don’t count the first time. I was not sure if it was true, I just knew that I was into a girl. We’re in her GMC Acadia, the one she uses to chauffeur each of her four kids to school, wrestling practice or dentist appointments. On this particular ride, she and I are alone. She’s going to a doctor’s appointment, and I decide to tag along because I had nothing else to do. I’m 20 years old and feeling overwhelmed, but that isn’t unusual. I take this car ride as an opportunity to vent to my mom. My ranting follows the same formula every time: I tell her how I feel and then list everything that is bothering me without stopping.

“I just feel annoyed about everything. I’m breaking out. I’m fat. I can’t sleep. I’m getting my associate’s, but I haven’t picked a major. How do people know what they want? I think I might like girls. I hate my job.”

My heart dropped when I realized one of those complaints was not one of my usuals. I ignored it. She ignored it. I turn up the radio.

We never revisited the conversation until a year passes. I’m sure of it this time. The girl I liked showed me that she liked me back. Nothing happened beyond that, but now I had cold, hard evidence. I’m totally gay. I decide to tell my mom about this revelation in her Acadia. We’re on our way to pick up my younger sister from wrestling practice.

 There’s something about car rides that make it easier to talk to someone. Sustained eye contact is impossible. Running away when things get uncomfortable is not an option. The ride will not last forever.

 I decided to just dive in. “Hey, remember that time I said I might like girls?” I didn’t wait for a response. “Well, I do.”

 She stared ahead, probably. I was staring ahead. Childish Gambino’s “Redbone” started playing on the radio. I had never heard it on the radio at this point. I said, “Hey! This is that song I like,” and turned the volume knob.

 “Wait, wait, wait,” she said, reach for the knob and turning it back. “How do you know?”

 She turned on onto the highway. OK, I thought to myself, only nine minutes left before we reach the school.

“Uh, I kissed a girl. I liked it better than when I kissed Justin.”

 “What girl?”

 “Someone from work.” Here I was, finally telling my truth, and I found a way to lie.

 “OK,” she said. “OK. Do you feel better? That must have been a lot to keep in.”

I felt better when I figured it out and accepted it for myself. I never thought telling my mom would be hard. She’s my friend. I’ve known her for 21 years. I tell her everything, but I still could not predict her reaction. I decided to humor her. “Yeah, I feel better.”

 We reached my sister’s school. Abby still wasn’t done with practice. My mom turned to me, making eye contact. “Does Julie know?”

I looked away. My stomach dropped. This would be harder than telling her I play for the other team. Julie is my mom’s friend from work. After the night shift on Sundays, they like to meet for breakfast and margaritas. My mom started inviting me to join them before my class at community college. Julie is a pretty nurse, with a pretty wife and a cute dog in a cute apartment just outside downtown. She and her wife travel the world together. She is exactly nine years older than me and nine years younger than my mother. When I turned 21, just a few months prior to this conversation with my mom, she started inviting me out to her favorite bars, to gallery openings, on walks with her dog. Without meaning to, she taught me how to have a social life.

“Uh, yeah,” I finally answered. She didn’t respond for a while. I looked out the window, hoping to see Abby. She still hadn’t come. My mom looked somewhere between annoyed and angry.

“Well, all right.” She said like I was off the hook. I knew I wasn’t. After another beat, she said, “I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me first.”

“Because it didn’t matter if she knew?” 

Just then, my sister came bounding across the field between the school and our car, her giant athletic bag bumping against her leg with every step. Her backpack wasn’t any lighter. With her tiny frame, she looked like she could topple over. I’m trying to think of a way to fix this moment with my mom before she goes to sleep mad, which meant she’ll wake up upset and silent. Abby climbed into the back seat noisily, throwing her bags around, making herself comfortable. 

 “Hey,” she says cheerily, with a sweaty face.

“Hey,” I shout, thankful to have her. I couldn’t think of anything to make my mom less upset. “I’m gay, Abby!” I said it the way she’d tell us she got a pin in wrestling or made an A on a test. She nodded with a smile. “Cool.”

Cool. I look at my mom. Not cool.

 My sister started talking about how her practice went.