Page 2 of Longing for the Minotaur
“Thank you for that image.”
Banon grins. “You’re welcome. You like girls, don’t you?”
I shoot him a glare. “Not girls like that, no. I like nerdy girls. Not girls who jump up and shake their tits for football players.”
“Hey, cheerleading is a respectable profession. It requires a lot of athleticism.”
Sighing, I gaze out the window. I don’t want to hear about his love of cheerleaders. I still remember vividly when he brought home Lillian Esparzo, head cheerleader at our high school, on prom night.
Unconsciously, I shiver all over just remembering it.
“You cold?” Banon asks, reaching for the car’s thermostat. When he glances over at me, turning the heat up, there’s real concern in his eyes.
“Thanks,” is all I say, pulling my cardigan tighter around me.
Surprisingly, the conversation ends, with Banon driving toward our parents’ house while I sit silently in the passenger seat, looking out the window.
Tonight is Thanksgiving prep night. Banon’s mom, Marissa, likes to go all out for Thanksgiving. It’s a really, really big deal to her, and so it’s a big deal to Banon and my dad, which then means it’s a big deal to me, too. For Thanksgiving prep, we all get together for dinner and talk about what we’re going to make on Thanksgiving, draw up a kitchen schedule, and make grocery lists. It’s actually very boring, but again, it makes Marissa happy, so it makes Banon and my dad happy. Banon’s always been a mama’s boy, as much as he pretends like he’s not. He’ll do just about anything for her, same as my dad does.
And I guess I don’t blame them. When the car finally pulls up outside the house, a tall minotaur woman is waiting on the front step. She holds her arms out and I’m pulled into a hug first, where she squeezes me tight as if we haven’t seen each other in months. Then she ushers me inside, saying how she made my favorite Jell-O with the fruit inside. I don’t really love it all that much, but it makes her happy to prepare it for me, so I never correct her.
My favorite is actually black forest cake with chocolate and cherry.
Dad’s waiting in the kitchen, already opening a bottle of wine. Our parents love to imbibe, let’s just say that. Wine tasting is their hobby, as is whiskey tasting, and also beer tasting. Dad raises his arms just like Marissa did when she saw me and pulls me into a hug.
“Great to see you, kiddo,” he says, squeezing my shoulder and then going back to the wine.
Even though their house is taller and wider inside than most houses, given Marissa’s big horns, Banon still fills up every room and hallway he stands in. I have to move out of the way when he comes into the kitchen, and I sigh as he bumps into the overhead shelf he’s bumped into every single day since our parents bought this house when I was in eighth grade.
We lived in Banon’s mom’s house before that. It was a weird situation, all said. Banon’s dad had died a few years before, and Marissa was a single mom. My dad and my mom got divorced when I was young, and my dad won full custody of me. It was simple for us to move into Marissa’s house when she and my dad got married.
But there were weird echoes of Banon’s biological father everywhere you looked—a wall he had repainted, some letters he had scribbled on the wall to mark Banon’s height while he was growing up. Eventually, we decided to leave that place completely and find a new home that would be the beginning of our new blended family.
Those were the most miserable years of my life, going through high school in this house. I’m glad I’m in college now, where I’ve found people like me, people I jibe with. School was never like that for me, not like it was for Banon. Those were his glory years. Mine are yet to come.
Eventually, the wine is opened and poured, and all of us sit at the table to start making plans while the casserole finishes in the oven. It’s all very normal. I lift my head to drink from my glass and catch Banon looking at me, his brow furrowed.
I raise an eyebrow in a way that sayswhat?He just shrugs and throws back more wine.
He’s making the easy stuff, of course, like stuffing and green bean casserole. I’m making the sweet potato pie like I always do,with cream, sugar, cinnamon, pecans, and marshmallows. I’ll also be making the gravy, while Dad handles the turkey and the rolls. Marissa is all about the desserts, and she’s plotting a lemon meringue and a pecan pie both.
Nobody at our house likes pumpkin pie. It was a huge bonding point between our families: no pumpkin shit at Thanksgiving.
Now that the jobs are assigned, it’s time to eat. We’ve already finished the bottle of wine, so next comes a new craft cocktail that Dad learned how to make from watching a YouTube show. We joke about how well the egg foam pairs with the mac n’ cheese, with a side Caesar salad that Marissa threw together so we had some semblance of healthy food in this meal.
“We haven’t talked about any of the important stuff yet,” Dad says, swishing his cocktail and tasting it again. “Like Tina—I mean,Val—I meant to ask how your classes are going.”
“They’re fine,” I say. “I’m glad I switched majors, though. I feel like econ will be a lot more useful to me in the long run.”
Banon raises his head. “You’re doing econ, too?” He slaps the table. “Carrying on my tradition!”
I knew he’d have this reaction when I switched majors. But going into the humanities had a lot less chance of paying off for me, and with all the student loans I’m taking out, I want this education to get me somewhere after I graduate.
“Yup.” I slug back my cocktail. “Going to become a numbers girl.”
“Well, I have all the tips and tricks for you. Especially about the professors. You just have to know what they want to get good grades. I can help you there.”
Sometimes I wish we could have afforded me going to an out-of-state school, so I wouldn’t feel like I’m getting Banon’s hand-me-downs.
