Page 23 of Ask Your Mom If I'm Real

I gasped when my grandfather whipped me around by the scruff of my shirt.

His face was in mine when he snarled, “Don’t talk about yourself like that. There’s nothing fucking wrong with you.”

I swallowed hard.

I’d seen my grandfather angry, of course.

He was a biker.

Bikers had tempers.

And ever since Grandma got diagnosed with cancer, he’d had a worse temper than normal.

“But I am,” I grumbled, unable to meet his eyes.

I wasn’t able to meet many people’s eyes. At least not for long.

Yet another sign of my autism, according to my mother.

“You’re the best goddamn kid I’ve ever met,” he countered. “You ever tell Hoax this, and I’ll kick your ass, but even better than him. You’re more like my Mary than anyone else, and I love my Mary with my entire heart. So of course I would like you the most.”

“Hey!” Hoax laughed as he came into the garage. “I heard that!”

I looked over, focusing on Hoax’s nose.

“Grandma wants you to go inside and get some lunch before you start,” he said, his eyes on my bike. “I can’t wait to help you with this. So we get all the fuck-ups on your bike and not mine.”

I flipped him off, causing Grandpa to laugh.

“Listen to me, kid,” he said carefully before he let me go.

I flipped my eyes to his. “Yeah?”

“You’re one of the best things that ever happened to me. Remember that,” he ordered.

I went inside, feeling this warmth in my heart at his words.

When I got there, my grandmother came over to me and wrapped me up in her arms.

There weren’t many people I could tolerate this kind of a hug from, but my grandmother was one of them.

She smoothed back my hair and looked into my eyes—when had she gotten so short?—and said, “Promise me one thing, Bayou.”

I nodded.

I’d give her the world if she asked.

“Don’t ever ride faster than your guardian angel can fly,” she urged, her smooth hand patting my rough-haired cheek. “We’d miss you too much if you were gone.”

My heart ached at her words.

She used to say the same thing to Grandpa, too.

Maybe still did.

“I promise that I’ll be careful,” I agreed. “But I can’t promise that I’ll not go fast.”

She rolled her eyes. “Bayou, baby. I darn well know that you won’t always go slow. It’s a motorcycle, for gosh sake.”

---