The Perfect Family

by Robyn Harding

  I couldn’t go to Sarah’s party. She was friends with Arianna Tilbury, and I couldn’t handle seeing her. Not now, not in my current state. I should have been over her; we’d broken up a year and a half ago. But even the thought of her made my heart twist in my chest and hot anger burn in my throat. Because we would be together right now, if it weren’t for my parents.

  “Maybe.”

  “Come on, man.” He gave my arm a playful shove. “Or are you too tight with your elite college soccer team to hang out with your old friends?”

  My jaw clenched with the need to tell Sam that he knew nothing about my fucking soccer team, that he knew nothing about me anymore. It was a major overreaction. I couldn’t attack my old friend. Because this wasn’t about Sam. It wasn’t about him at all.

  He was watching me, his brow slightly crinkled. I probably looked like I was having a stroke or something.

  “I’ll try,” I croaked.

  “Okay.” He put his left foot on the pedal. “I’ve got to get to work. You’re looking at Bank of the West’s junior teller.”

  I managed a weak chuckle. “Good for you.”

  “See you Saturday?” he said as he rolled away from me.

  “Sure,” I called after him.

  But I wouldn’t.

  Tarryn Adler (Call me Tarry at your peril.)

  BY THE TIME I got to school, my irritation had almost simmered away. Almost. Being woken from a deep sleep by my mom’s accusations, followed by my brother’s nosy inquisition, was not the best way to start the day. I’d been sound asleep, dreaming about playing mini golf with Timothée Chalamet, when my mom knocked on my door at eight fifteen.

  “I have a free period!” I’d yelled, my voice muffled by my pillow. I’d been awake most of the night, finally going to sleep around 3 A.M. I needed at least another hour of shut-eye or I’d feel like shit. But my mom didn’t know I’d been up all night. And I couldn’t let her find out. She entered my room.

  “It’s after eight, Tarryn. Why are you still asleep?” She perched on the side of my bed. I could smell her familiar perfume, citrusy and expensive. “No wonder you can’t wake up. Your blackout curtains make it pitch-dark in here.”

  “That’s the point,” I muttered. I’d complained that a streetlamp shone through my window and kept me awake at night. It wasn’t exactly true, but my mom had let me order the curtains online.

  “Some kids threw eggs at the house last night. Any idea who might have done it?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “It’s probably schoolkids. We thought you might know something about it.”

  I rolled over, looked at her groggily. “I’m seventeen, not ten.”

  “Maybe some younger boys have a crush on you. Or they’re upset at you for some reason.”

  “Oh my god!” I turned away from her and closed my eyes. “Don’t put that toxic masculinity shit on me.”

  “I’m not blaming you, Tarryn. I was just asking.…” She rubbed my arm under the blanket for a moment. “Everything okay with you?”

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t seem very happy lately.”

  A lump formed in my throat. Which was stupid. And embarrassing. It was self-pity and it was fucking gross. But it was the first time either of my parents had commented on my well-being in like… forever. They’d always been so focused on my brother, the athlete, the A student, the golden boy—and now that he was dropping out of college, they were obsessed. But my mom’s warm hand on my shoulder made me want to tell her that she was right: I wasn’t happy. I hated my face, my body, and everyone at school… except Luke and Georgia, my besties since first grade. I didn’t even know why I hated everything; I just did.

  But my mom leaned down and kissed the side of my head. “I’ve got to run. I’ve got a meeting downtown.” She paused in the doorway. “Tell your brother to clean the egg off the front window.”

  When I heard the door close, I felt a tear leak from my eye, dampening my pillow, but I wasn’t going to cry like a baby. I didn’t need my mom’s comfort. She wouldn’t understand, anyway. She was beautiful—old, but beautiful. And she’d been married to my dad for a hundred years. What did she know about growing up average in the age of Instagram? In a postfeminist world with rampant impostor syndrome and an epidemic of anxiety? She was basically a housewife. She had her decorating business, had turned my childhood bedroom into her office, but Dad made the money, Dad paid the bills. My mom’s job was just for show.

  Besides, I had a new community now. A place where I felt special and adored. I didn’t need to fit into that skinny blond high school girl mold to be appreciated. There were people out there who made me feel unique and beautiful and empowered, not ashamed of my body or myself. They longed for my company, would pay for it even. I wiped my tears and dragged myself out of bed.

  * * *

  WHEN I GOT to school, the hallways were deserted. I headed to my locker, enjoying the squeak of my sneakers on the linoleum floor in the silence. The bell would ring in moments, releasing my peers from first period. I’d lied to my mom about the free period I’d skipped. The school would send an automated call to our home phone that no one ever answered or checked for messages. If the school did manage to contact my parents, I could always fall back on an indignant: I was there! The teacher messed up attendance! It had worked before.

  Opening my locker, I stuffed my backpack and light spring jacket inside. I had a precalculus test next and I couldn’t afford to miss it if I wanted to pass. Not that it mattered that much. Grades were not as important as they once were. I was making decent money and I knew I could make a lot more. But I’d always been a conscientious student; apparently, it was a hard habit to break.

  The thought of telling my mom and dad that I wasn’t going to college made me smirk to myself. They’d fucking lose it. They’d wring their hands and cry, blame themselves for failing as parents. My dad had dropped out of community college and my mom had a two-year design diploma. They weren’t ashamed of their education, they said, but they wanted better for their children. Now that Eli wasn’t going back to Worbey, they were oh-for-two. Total parental fail.

  The bell rang and students flooded into the hall. I ignored them and they me. I wasn’t relevant here, didn’t even want to be. Everyone thought I was a bitch and steered clear. I’d grown to enjoy my hostile outsider status. Fuck the conformists. I didn’t have to dress like them, look like them, try to fit in. I didn’t have to smile and make eye contact. It was a relief.

  “Why weren’t you in English?” It was my best friend Luke. He was tall and slim with black hair, long on top, the sides shaved down to the skin.

  “I couldn’t deal,” I said, grabbing my math book out of my locker. “What did I miss?”

  “Mr. McLaughlin looked hot in his corduroys.”

  “Ewww.” Unlike Luke, I was not attracted to our thirtyish English teacher.

  “We have to write another paper. I’ll send you the assignment.” Luke cocked an eyebrow. “Late night again?”

  Luke thought I had insomnia. I could have told him the truth about what kept me up at night. He had come out to me in ninth grade, before his parents or anyone else. He was progressive, sex positive, open-minded; he wouldn’t have judged me. But my nocturnal life was separate from the rest of my life. It was for me alone. And if my parents ever caught wind of it, they would murder me. For real.

  “Went down a YouTube rabbit hole,” I fibbed, thinking about last night’s conversations, adoration, and tips. I’d made almost two hundred bucks.

  “Are you sure you’re not a porn addict?” he teased.

  “You got me,” I said. “My favorite site is Horny Bike Couriers.”

  “Mine too!”

  We both laughed, and suddenly, a precalculus test seemed so fucking pointless. “Want to skip and go for brunch? My treat.”

  “I guess I can miss chem, just this once.”

  I tossed my math book back into my locker, grabbed my jacket, and cl
osed the door.

  Viv

  I SAT AT the breakfast bar, sipping a cup of rooibos tea and toying with the sleek black tube. Removing the cap, I swiveled the base to reveal the deep-red matte lipstick. It was far too intense for my skin tone, but it had looked great on my client. Alicia had applied it just before we left her unfinished ice cream shop. I hadn’t intended to take it—or anything else, for that matter. I never did. But Alicia had triggered my deepest insecurities, my darkest self-doubt. And I had just snapped.

  The meeting had started out well. Alicia Fernhurst and I knew each other peripherally through our sons. Eli had played junior soccer with her eldest, Magnus. (She had another son a year older than Tarryn.) For years, I’d stood on the sidelines with Alicia and another mom, Dolly Barber, while our boys ran up and down the field. Eli had been a forward then; he became a goalie when he sprouted up, towering over his teammates. My son had been the best player, followed closely by Magnus. Dolly’s son, Nate, had never quite measured up.

  We’d made pleasant small talk as we toured the small space. It was painted a tropical blue and had a roughed-in counter with a built-in refrigerated ice cream cabinet. That’s where we sat, on utilitarian stools, as I pulled out my laptop to show her the mood boards I’d created for her. I had also sourced and costed all the décor items I was recommending.

  “Cute,” she said dismissively, “but I had something different in mind. More of a Miami vibe. Like pastels and ferns and flamingos.”

  I maintained my professionalism. I didn’t point out that Miami chic was entirely different from the beach shack theme she’d told me she wanted. And I could roll with this change in direction. It was not unusual for clients to shift their vision.

  “I can put together some new boards for you. I’ll need a couple of days for the costings.”

  “Shall we meet again next week?” Alicia checked the calendar on her phone. “How’s Tuesday for you?”

  We set another meeting; then Alicia dug in her Ferragamo bag for a lipstick and compact mirror. “How’s Eli doing?” she asked as she precisely painted her lips deep red. “Did he have a good year at Worbey?”

  My pleasant smile didn’t falter. “He had a great year. And Magnus?” I couldn’t recall where Alicia’s son had gone to school—somewhere out east.

  “He loves Columbia,” she said. “I thought it would be hard having him across the country, but it’s not when he’s so passionate, and fulfilled, and challenged.”

  “Is he playing soccer there?” I knew he wasn’t, but I allowed myself this little dig. Magnus was not the athlete Eli was.

  “He gave up soccer in senior year to focus on his grades and college applications. Ivy League schools are so competitive.”

  Worbey was an excellent school with an excellent reputation, but it was not Ivy League. We didn’t have the resources to paddle in that pool. Magnus would have had tutors and ACT boot camps, service trips to developing countries and a pricey college consultant. Without a legacy or significant “hook,” the Ivies were unattainable to most people.

  Alicia pressed her lips together as she snapped the lid back on the lipstick tube. “Theo has just accepted MIT. He could have chosen Stanford or Brown, but MIT has the best engineering program in the world.”

  I swallowed the sour taste in my throat. “That’s great.”

  “And your daughter? What’s she going to do?”

  “Tarryn’s a junior, but she’s already thinking about Cornell.”

  God, why had I said that? Tarryn had mentioned Cornell a couple of times in eighth grade, back when she’d wanted to be a veterinarian. My daughter had once been a cheerful, bubbly animal-lover. It was hard to imagine the surly troll who lived in my basement vaccinating puppies.

  “Good for her,” Alicia said, dropping the lipstick into her bag. “We had a retired college professor help with the boys’ applicant essays. She’s not cheap but she’s worth it. I’ll give you her number.”

  “Please.”

  She smiled and stood. “I’ll go set the alarm and we can leave.”

  When she was in the back room with the alarm, I had made my move.

  Now I swiped the lipstick onto the inside of my wrist. It was silky smooth, but the color made my already pale skin resemble a corpse’s. I smudged it with my thumb, turning it into a rosy smear, and pictured Alicia rummaging in her bag while her genius sons did math problems for fun. She’d think she’d misplaced the lipstick or dropped it somewhere. She’d never suspect me of taking it.

  Would she?

  The front door slammed, announcing that Eli was back from pounding the pavement, or Tarryn had returned from school. I quickly dropped the lipstick into the pocket of my long cardigan and stood. As I walked to the front entrance, my cheeks burned with shame. If my children—or anyone—found out about my habit, I would die. Literally die. It was harmless. I never took anything sentimental or valuable.… Still, I knew it was horrible, I knew it was wrong. I just wasn’t sure I could stop.

  It was Tarryn, bent over untying her Doc Martens. “Hi, honey,” I said, my voice belying my nerves. I wasn’t scared of my own daughter, but she was so unpredictable these days.

  “Hey.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” She righted herself, and I saw her wan complexion, the shadows under her eyes. Without forethought, I reached out and touched her cheek.

  “Are you okay? You look tired.”

  “Gee, thanks,” she snapped with heavy sarcasm. “You look nice, too.” She pushed past me and headed to the basement.

  Christ. It was like trying to hand-feed a grizzly bear.

  I went back to the kitchen and tipped the rest of my tea down the sink. Reaching into the fridge, I grabbed a bottle of chardonnay.

  Thomas

  I WAS HOME by six twenty. Viv was already suspicious, so I didn’t want to give her any more cause for concern. I had clients who wanted to see a condo in the Pearl District, but I’d arranged for one of my associates to take them. They were looky-loos, so I knew they weren’t going to buy the place. And it was more important that my wife stop worrying, stop wondering. Feeling noble, I’d texted to tell her that I’d be home in time for dinner, that I’d be staying in for the night. I wasn’t expecting a medal, but her thumbs-up response seemed a little dismissive.

  When I entered the house, I heard the sizzling of a wok, smelled ginger and garlic and onions. Viv was making a tofu stir-fry. Again. Tarryn was a vegetarian and Viv tried to accommodate her dietary restrictions a few times a week. “It’s healthy and good for the planet,” my wife said. But the real reason she cooked veggie was to placate our malcontent youngest. Sometimes Viv made a chickpea curry, but the stir-fry was her go-to vegetarian recipe. Tarryn was probably pissed off at Viv for something. Tofu as peace offering.

  “Hi, hon,” I said, entering the kitchen.

  “Hi.” Her smile was weak.

  “Smells great.” I kissed her cheek.

  She allowed it. And then, “Can you call the kids? Get them to set the table?”

  Obediently, I poked my head down the basement stairs. “Tarryn! Dinner!” There was no response. If her door was closed, she might not be able to hear me. “Tarryn!” I called again, louder this time.

  “Oh my god, stop yelling! I heard you the first time!”

  I headed upstairs to change out of my suit and rouse my son. He was playing computer games, the violent sound effects slipping under the door and skittering down the hall. How long had he been holed up in his room staring at a screen? Had he dropped off any résumés today? Had he followed up at places he’d already visited? Viv’s admonition to be gentle with him ran through my mind, and I wondered if it was backfiring. Was it giving him carte blanche to become a lazy video-game addict? But I couldn’t afford to piss off my wife right now. I had enough to deal with.

  Without knocking, I opened the door. Eli was at his desktop computer, his fingers
frantically clicking the WASD keys. He’d always liked to game… but he’d also liked sports, and his friends, and going to movies. This seemed to be his singular interest now. “Dinner,” I said over the gunfire.

  He kept playing. “In a minute.”

  “Your mom wants you to set the table.”

  His eyes never left the monitor. “ ’Kay.”

  Frustration clenched my jaw. “Now,” I barked, closing the door before I said something I’d regret.

  I used the bathroom, then changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. When I joined my family downstairs, the table was set with both chopsticks and forks (by whom, I didn’t know). Tarryn was scooping stir-fry out of the wok and into her bowl, and Eli was filling glasses with water. Viv stood by, nursing a glass of white wine, her arms folded in a mildly perturbed stance.

  “Yum-yum!” I said, rubbing my hands together. It was a bit over the top, since we ate this meal practically every time Viv was trying to smooth things over with Tarryn, so a lot. But my wife wore that I’m being taken for granted expression, so I wanted her to know I appreciated the meal.

  When we were all seated, I liberally squeezed sriracha onto my heap of vegetables. “How was everyone’s day?” I asked, pinching a piece of tofu with my chopsticks.

  The kids muttered fine or good. Viv said, “I met with my first commercial client today.”

  Something in her tone told me I should already know this. “That’s right. I was going to ask. How did it go?”

  “It was okay.” She popped a piece of carrot into her mouth. “Except she changed her entire aesthetic on me. I’ll have to start over.”

  “That’s frustrating.”

  Viv chewed. “It won’t take me too long.”

  “Good. Good.” My eyes moved to my son, shoveling food into his mouth. “Nice job on the window, buddy.”

  “Thanks.”

  I wanted to ask about the job hunt, but we weren’t supposed to pressure him. “You been going to the gym? You don’t want to get out of shape over the summer.”