The other day, I got Weevy off the computer, which is no small task. There is not an activity nor a thing on this earth that is more enticing to her than sitting at her desk with headphones on, simultaneously playing Roblox, watching YouTube, and talking with her friends on Dischord. “Hey Weevy,” I could say. “We’re going to meet the Queen of England and check out her stable of unicorns. Get off the computer.” Her reaction would be the same as if I’d told her to get ready for school or to go out to lunch with her parents. First, she’d pretend not to hear me. When I’d repeat the instructions, she’d give me a pained expression, and then grumble to her online chums, “I have to go meet Queen Elizabeth and see her unicorns, bye.”
This time, however, her reaction was slightly different. “I have to go,” she grumbled, “the wedding’s off.” “Who’s getting married?” I asked. “Nobody, now,” she snapped, as if my callousness and insensitivity singlehandedly spoiled what was supposed to be the happiest day of two people’s lives. “Well, who was supposed to get married?” “Me and E,” she said, matter-of-factly. E is her best friend. “We’re lesbians!” she chirped.
Not that I or her mother would have a problem with it were this true, but Weevy is most definitely not gay. Her wandering eye has already, at her tender age, alit on many a male member of the species, both age-appropriate and otherwise. The current objects of her fancy are an interesting pair. One is a friend of mine — the owner of one of my favorite bar/restaurants, which happens to be a couple of blocks from our new apartment. Weevy had been a couple of times, but until recently she’d never met my friend. “He’s preeeeeeeeetty,” she sighed as soon as he was out of earshot. And it’s true, he does have kind of a Clark Kent vibe about him, minus the glasses. Now both she and I call him “pretty boy,” when he’s not around of course.
Her other crush, which her mother refuses to believe is an actual crush, is her best friend in her class. He is a wonderful kid — polite, smart, fun — and it is also, to us at least, obvious that he is not heterosexual. As he said to her shortly after they met, “I’m a special boy. I like girly stuff.” Indeed he does. He knows and loves all the TV shows Weevy watches, and they love to play the same fantasy-oriented games at recess, that sort of thing. It’s awesome. He’s terrific. And Weevy claims to have a crush on him, to the extent that when Ed Sheeran’s romantic hit ballad “Shape Of You” is playing in any public place where we happen to be, she freaks out mildly and moans, “Don’t say anything! It makes me think of J.” “Oh man,” the missus says when she does that, “She is gonna be in for some real disappointment a few years from now.”
A couple of years ago the song made her think of another boy, with whom she had an actual date in, I think, first grade. He brought her flowers and everything, which freaked me out mildly, but hey, they were only six at the time. Weevy didn’t play it smooth, didn’t even try. “When did you start loving me?” she gushed. The romance faded, but her ardor took years to cool down. She still considered him her great love even after they’d gone six months without saying a word to each other — and this was when they were still at the same school.
Anyway, I have to check to see if her lesbian wedding got rescheduled. The next time E comes over, I have to know whether they’re still just BFFs or if I’m welcoming my new daughter-in-law.