Tinted Windows

By Yasmeen Mohssenzadeh

Even if he were gay, he would never kiss another boy, says the boy who has liked you since seventh grade. He tells you this in his car—the one with tinted windows, as he loves to emphasize—in twelfth grade, unprompted. It has been an absurd amount of time for one boy to like you, and without reason. Moments ago you were in the McDonald’s drive-through ordering ice cream cones, moments ago he was making sexual innuendos, moments ago you refused to lick the ice cream again, and moments ago you let it all melt down your arm.

Though you know this boy well, you ask him why not, passing his place of worship. Keiran says being gay is a sin, so you say alcohol is, too. Keiran says being gay is worse, so you say alcohol is worse. He is a sinner. He drives faster.

“Alcohol is just one sin and I’ve done enough good to make up for it.”

What the hell is there to make up for?

“I drink. I don't know if you remember—I barely do, but I drank a lot last party. There’s no making up for that.”

“You’re not an alcoholic and you’re not gay.”
           
“And if I were?”
           
“A gay alcoholic? You wouldn’t be in my car.”
           
“And if I were just gay? What then?”

His knee trembles before the accelerator. He used to tremble during elementary school presentations. Keiran is a soft foreshadowing of your father’s fists, clenched and rattling as though to squeeze your essence from you. You want to tell Keiran that heaven and his car are one and the same; neither are off limits to gay people, alcoholics, or gay alcoholics at that! Look at you sitting in his car!

“How do you know your religion is right,” you say.
           
“Covid has lots of believers even though some people don't believe in it. Just like my religion.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Keiran’s efforts to explain are futile. He continues, “I have the psychological proof.”

Again, you wonder what the hell this means, so, again, you ask.

“I just know it. In my mind,” he taps his temple. “I have the psychological proof.” Man discovers thinking!

“I don't mean to be disrespectful,” you say, a learned precaution, a gentle approach to the wounded animal, “but out of the hundreds of religions, what are the odds that yours is the only real one? If your parents hadn’t raised you religious, do you think you would still feel this way?”

Your question hangs in the air as neglected bait. One could ask you the same thing. Sometimes, you believe guilt is an organ you were born with, and other times a symptom of your upbringing. The highway stretches ahead. Long gone are the branching streets, riddled with the homes of your friends. The roads enduring endless construction no longer slow the two of you. How fast can a Tesla go?

“You look mad.”

You wish his car was not electric. You wish the engine would produce some sound. You wish you were a boy. Envisioning an escape—rolling out onto the highway, a part of you finds such theatrics humorous.

“I am mad.”

Another part of you is frightened.

“I’m sorry.”

Weeks ago you entered Keiran’s car for the first time, months ago you failed your driver’s test, and years ago you realized you were different. If given the chance to go back, you are unsure which of these things you would change to avoid this situation. You grieve normalcy and god, the two woven together over centuries, by the hands of millions. Yet, you feel as though they repel one another. God turned to myth the day you accepted the truth of yourself. Though, the knowledge that your happiness will always come at a cost, makes you wish you were a girl in love. Could it be wrong to agree on these drives without the intention of anything more than a friendship? Your incapability to love a boy beyond a platonic level is dooming.

“We’re going to die,” he says, approaching the rear bumper of a car. His side profile is difficult to read, unfamiliar. Often you avoid facing him for fear he’ll lean over. The highway curves. Your seat belt digs into your stiff fist. Though you know this boy well, you ask him, “Is that what you want?”

To die, to kill, he’s unresponsive. Perhaps, deciding if he is ready to pay for what he believes to be sins, or to collect more. Your hand is still sticky with ice cream as you rest it on your phone. Who would you call? The car in front slows. Keiran swerves lane. You are stiff, soundless, a doll in his toy car. With great distance between his car and the next, the two of you fly. Your soul lags behind your body and you wonder if it is possible to outrun.

“Don't look at me like that. I wasn’t serious.”

You shift your gaze back onto the highway. The gap between his car and the next expands, trees settle back into their individual figures. Is that what you want? Your identity and paranoia have always held hands. There is a constant ache within you, anticipating the day the wrong person uncovers you. Should you have more trust, or is such already excessive? This boy both sparked and extinguished fear in two brief sentences. What does that say about you?

“This is my mom’s car. You know I wouldn’t crash it.”
           
“Of course,” you say. Though you would have preferred it earlier, he turns the radio on, and, as usual, grows frustrated when you do not sing along. Too quiet. Too shy. Be different. Be someone else.

Passing his place of worship once more, your eyes linger, until it is four little shops they latch onto, the hotspot of your town, your landmarks. Once he drops you home you will want to tell your friends about this bizarre event. Laughter will follow. Boys and their anger. Can he not handle a joke? Can your friends handle your truth? Can you?

​In a different world, one of ease, you would want to lean through the window as you say goodbye. But in this world, as you step out of his car, and shut the door with your sticky hand, you merely wave. Whether he returns it or not, you cannot tell through the tint of his windows.

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Yasmeen Mohssenzadeh resides in British Columbia, and is a first year student at The University of Victoria. She is currently working towards her BA in the department of writing. This is her first published fiction piece, and she plans to write many more.