Saturday morning was thick with dust and the smell of old memories. Leo was moving boxes of holiday decorations while his mom sorted through a chest of old clothes. The silence was heavy, filled only with the sound of his dad humming a tune in the living room downstairs.
Leo stopped, a heavy box of books in his arms. "Mom?"
"Yes, honey?" she replied, not looking up from a vintage sweater.
"Am I a pussy?"
The sweater dropped from his mom's hands. She froze, her mouth slightly open, looking at her thirteen-year-old son as if he'd suddenly started speaking a foreign language. "Leo! Where on earth did you hear that word?"
"The guys at school. Miller. Everyone," Leo said, his voice small. "I just... I want to know if it's true."
His mom scrambled over, kneeling in the dust to pull him into a hug. "Oh, Leo. No. You are sensitive, and you are kind. Don't you dare listen to those boys. Being brave isn't about being loud or mean. You are perfect just the way you are."
"Leo! Get down here!" his dad's voice boomed from the bottom of the attic stairs. "I'm in a good mood. I'm gonna let you take the truck for a spin around the block. It's time you learned to drive!"
Leo's eyes brightened for a second, but then he looked back at his mom. He gave her a small, knowing nod. "Don't worry, Mom. I know 'pussy' just means 'vagina.' I'm not that dumb."
He turned and scrambled down the ladder before she could respond.
His mom stayed on the floor of the attic, staring at the empty hole in the ceiling. She sighed, a long, weary sound, and whispered to the empty room, "God help him... he really is a pussy."
******
The engine of the old truck roared, a beastly sound that made Leo's palms sweat against the cracked leather of the steering wheel.
"Okay, son," his dad said, his voice calm and steady. "Just ease off the clutch. Nice and slow."
Leo's leg was shaking. He could feel the power of the machine, and it terrified him. He let the clutch out a fraction of an inch too fast. The truck bucked like a startled horse, making a horrific grinding noise, and died.
Silence filled the cab. Leo's face was burning. He waited for the yell, for the lecture, but his dad just reached over and patted his shoulder.
"Hey, it's alright," his dad said with a small, slightly forced smile. Leo could see the tiny flicker of disappointment in his father's eyes—the look of a man who wanted a son he could talk shop with, but got a boy who was afraid of a gearbox. "At least you've learned the rhythm of the gears and how the brakes feel. That's progress, Leo. You want to switch back?"
"Yeah," Leo whispered, his throat tight. "I think I'm done for today."
As they swapped seats, Leo looked toward the house. Sloane was standing on the porch, leaning against the railing with a can of soda in her hand. She wasn't looking at his dad. She was looking straight at Leo.
She didn't look disappointed. She looked... calculating. Like she knew exactly why he had failed, and she was already planning how to fix it.