Tell Me It's Real(116)

“He dressed like Screech! No one likes Screech. All the kids at my party thought he was a homeless clown! And I don’t smell Los Betos, you liars!”

“Oh, he’s a smart one,” Nana said, obviously sounding impressed. “You don’t fall for the bait unless you have proof of life.”

“I don’t think that’s quite what that means,” Dad said. “And a homeless clown? Really, Paul? I never made fun of you when you dressed up like an orange dice for that play you were in.”

“I told you,” Sandy crowed.

“He was so wonderful in that,” my mother said tearfully. “What was his famous line, Larry? You know, the one that everyone was quoting?”

“Give me dairy,” everyone said, “or give me osteoporosis!”

“This can’t possibly be healthy,” I muttered.

“Is he going to open the door?” Sandy asked. “I tried to break it down, but he must have changed his doors to some kind of unbreakable metal.”

“Or you could just eat more,” Mom scolded him. “I saw you, like, three days ago and I swear you’ve lost at least thirty-eight pounds.”

“It’s all the crack I smoke,” he explained. “I don’t have time to eat because I’m too busy thinking crack thoughts.”

“What are crack thoughts?” Nana asked.

“Oh, things like the government is going to come steal my babies.”

“You don’t have babies,” Dad said, obviously frowning. “Unless I missed something and you adopted that Croatian baby that Paul wanted.”

“I don’t have babies,” Sandy said. “But crack makes you think crazy things. That’s why Whitney said crack is whack, God rest her soul.”

“You shouldn’t be smoking crack,” my dad said sternly. “First Paul’s a pony, and now you’re smoking crack and having the government steal your babies? Who is Whitney? Is that your dealer?”

“Whitney Houston,” Mom said. “You know, dear. She was that singer who sang that song you like that Helena performed.”

“‘Hit Me Baby, One More Time?”

“That’s Britney, dear.”

“‘Dirty?”

“That was Christina.”

“Umbrella?”

“And that was Rihanna. Larry, you’re embarrassing yourself. You have a gay son, for God’s sake. How can you not know your divas?” Mom sounded affronted. “Paul? Paul! If you can hear me, don’t listen to your father! He obviously doesn’t know his ass from his elbow!”

“Language,” Dad scolded. “And I know my divas. I know them very well. What about that Woman Goo-Goo that Helena performs like?”

“That’s Lady Gaga,” Sandy sighed. “Did you really look at me and think I was Woman Goo-Goo? I don’t know how I feel about that. I just might be offended.”

“Your hair was very pretty,” Dad deflected.

“Thank you, sugar,” Helena purred. “You need to come back and see me sometime. I sure do miss you when you’re not around.”

“Oh, you,” Dad giggled, obviously blushing.

“Oh Christ,” I gagged.

“Language!”

“Dear, as much as I love you flirting with Sandy in front of me—Sandy, you should know Larry would most likely be a bottom, so I don’t know really what you two would do together aside from bumping bums—we’re here for Paul.”

“That’s right,” Nana said. “He’s obviously very depressed, and this is a cry for attention. I don’t want him to go all emo and cut himself.”

“I’m not going to cut myself,” I said.

“Paul could never be a cutter,” Mom said. “He’s too much of a baby when it comes to pain. He’d go the Sylvia Plath route and stick his head in a gas oven like a real lady.”

“Bull,” Dad said. “He’d take sleeping pills and then choke on his own vomit.”

“You’re both wrong,” Sandy said. “He’d get drunk on gin and fall asleep smoking Virginia Slim 120s and accidentally set the bed on fire.”

“For some reason, I don’t think the best way to start an intervention is by discussing the best way for the person you are intervening on to kill themselves,” I told them. “That person might take it the wrong way.”

“Mary J. Blige,” Dad exclaimed. “She’s another diva! She did that song ‘No More Drama’. I think that was my favorite costume you had, Sandy.”

“Oh, baby doll,” Helena exclaimed. “I love it as well.”