Free Brownie Points by Jennifer Coburn

supermarket twice a week. Maya, why do they call him Froot Loops?” I asked only to gauge her understanding of the situation.
    “Because he’s fruity,” she said.
    “Fruity?”
    “You know, faggy?”
    The arm tickling stopped.
    “ Faggy? ” I repeated. “What do you mean Logan is faggy ?”
    Maya sat up in her bed. “Mom, you never noticed that Logan is totally gay?”
    “Maya!” I said aghast, only because I had absolutely nothing meaningful to say.
    “I thought you’d be cool with it since half your friends back in the city are gay. You took us to Jorge and Finn’s wedding. Why are you suddenly all upset about Logan being gay?”
    “I’m not, it’s just—” I began. “I mean, I didn’t know you ... Did he ever say anything to you about it? I mean, has he ever come out to you?”
    “Was he ever in?”
    “Maya, are you just incredibly precocious or is this what thirteen-year-olds are like these days?”
    “I’m precious,” she said. “But we all pretty much know the deal about this kind of stuff by fifth grade.”
    “What do you do when the kids at school call him …” I started, recoiling before I could finish, “Froot Loops.”
    “What do you mean what do I do ?” Maya’s response told me what I dreaded most. She did nothing.
    “I mean what do you do? Do you tell them to back off or you’ll karate kick them in the face?” My jaw was clenched and my lips pursed, imagining the satisfaction I would get from seriously kicking some thirteen-year-old ass. “You do help your brother, don’t you, Maya?” I already knew the answer. I only asked to let her know that I expected her to stand up for her brother—that these were our family values, not Juicy Couture sweatpants and MAC lip gloss.
    “Logan doesn’t need my help, Mom. He ignores them and walks away. It’s not like any of it bothers him. Logan’s cool.”
    I inhaled, trying to gather my patience and remember that however worldly Maya seemed, she was still thirteen. “I know Logan is cool. Nonetheless, as his sister, it would be nice if you could have his back at school.”
    “Mom, Logan’s fine. You saw him today at Girl Scouts. He’s like the most popular kid there. Stop worrying, it’s all good.”
    There was a moment of silence where I tried to absorb this possibility. Maybe Logan was fine. Maybe he just had a completely asymptomatic case of the flu last week. Maybe he was able to shrug off the cruel remarks of shit-throwing imbeciles like Max McDoyle. Maybe it was all good.
    After Maya drifted off, I peeked my head into Logan’s room and asked if he was still awake. “Yeah, come on in,” he said, lifting his sleep mask.
    “How’s it going?”
    “It’s going,” Logan replied.
    “Did you have fun at school today?”
    “Oh yeah, it was a thrill a minute.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning I hate it here, Mom.”
    I wondered if it would be helpful for me to share that I couldn’t stand it here either. I remember when the kids were toddlers, I read an article in Kiddo magazine that advised parents to agree with their children when they asserted that cookies were preferable to broccoli. The child development specialist said that parents should put themselves in the picture and ratchet things up, adding something like, “I wish we could have five million cookies and build a big cookie castle!” Should I tell Logan I think it would be great fun to hang Max McDoyle by his feet and beat him like a piñata? Or should I confide that I’d like to throw a brick through the window of the Answer store? It seemed disingenuous to tell him that things would get better because, quite frankly, I wasn’t sure they would. For now, at least, we lived in the land of sheep, and I had to help him focus on what was positive about here.
    “You seemed to have fun at Maya’s Girl Scout meeting today.”
    Logan’s expression softened. “Yeah, that was fun. This place sucks, but Girl Scouts was cool.”
    Maybe Maya was right. Maybe Logan