“I’m the youngest of the chefs by far,” he said, placing an A, a Q, an I, and an R on the board to create faquir. Damn. Good word. “The second youngest of us is twenty-six.”
“That’s only four years,” I noted, squinting at my letters to find a decent rebuttal. “Besides, once you’re in your twenties, it’s pretty much all the same until you hit twenty-eight.”
“You think so?”
“Sure! It’s all about emotional maturity, right?” I decided, putting a Z, an M, and an E down for zyme. Theo’s brows furrowed.
“So if you don’t get a job until you’re twenty-seven, you’d consider it the same as getting a job at twenty-one?”
“No, because an emotionally mature twenty-one-year-old would already be looking for jobs while an emotionally mature twenty-seven-year-old would be looking to have kids.”
“Got it.” He put down a J, an M, and a P for jimpy before ripping off a piece of garlic naan. “But yeah, I feel like I have a lot to prove, professionally speaking … my profound and overwhelming wisdom aside.” He winked before shoving a giant piece of masala-soaked naan into his mouth. Ugh, he’s so cute.
“You proved yourself to Jackie, and you’ll prove yourself to the team. And if you’re looking to hire a slightly awkward waitress, I’m available,” I said with my own wink, which felt a lot less cute.
He chuckled. “You’d hate waitressing more than you hate being unemployed.”
“I don’t know—I really hate being unemployed.” I gasped in delight as I threw down a C and an M to make cwm.
Theo threw his hands in the air. “Are you kidding?! That’s not a thing.”
“It’s totally a thing!”
“Really? What does it mean?”
“I have no idea, but I saw it on a Scrabble site once!”
Theo grasped his heart and rolled to the floor in defeat. I shimmied my shoulders in a victory dance, which was hopelessly lame, but who cares? I WON!!!
Wow, I feel more relaxed from one evening at the Treehouse than I did after a whole three days in Santa Barbara. In fact, I’m feeling almost … confident? Could it be?? Could a night of spicy foods and spelling for fun be enough to break the dreaded postgrad curse?!
Move over, Megan! I’m back, and with a vengeance! Things are finally starting to look up!
SEPTEMBER 9
Papa Hansen
* * *
CNN NEWS REPORT
RECENT COLUMBIA GRAD DENIED ENTRY INTO UNITED STATES AFTER REFUSING TREATMENT FOR UNKNOWN ILLNESS
Natasha McPatterson made Columbia headlines this past summer when she fell ill with an unusually bad case of parasites. After catching wind of the story, however, representatives from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have expressed concerns regarding the young traveler’s health. Now McPatterson is being denied entry back into the United States until she is formally discharged by a medical professional.
“The symptoms she claimed to be exhibiting are not indicative of parasites alone,” Marie Brassil, a representative from the CDC, explained. “In fact, they suggest something of a much more serious nature, and until we’re certain she’s not harboring an unknown bacterium, we simply can’t risk opening the doors to a pandemic.”
Because Ms. McPatterson refuses to seek Western treatment or even undergo testing, there is no way to determine the nature of the sickness that wreaked havoc on her system for six weeks. However, Ms. McPatterson remains adamant that she will not be visiting a doctor anytime soon.
“I feel much better now,” McPatterson told CNN. “Really. I had several healers work with me, and haven’t exhibited any symptoms for weeks. This is outrageous!”
Despite Ms. McPatterson’s insistence that she is fully recovered, multiple anonymous sources have contacted CNN, claiming that the young American is not being honest with officials.
“I do not believe she is well,” an anonymous source told CNN. “One day she came home covered in sweat and spoke of a dancing cactus. Her pupils were very, very large—the size of two raisins. And all that night, she was sick. She is not healthy; take my word for it.”
The hashtag #PrayForNatasha has emerged on social media outlets in support of Ms. McPatterson, who will remain in New Delhi until she is cleared by a CDC-approved doctor. When asked whether her family had been briefed on the current situation, Ms. McPatterson declined to comment.
* * *
Val
* * *
3:15 P.M.
* * *
I can’t breathe. Everything is ruined. My whole life is flashing before my eyes.
Dad’s not home yet. He probably won’t be until six o’clock at the earliest. Oh god, that’s in three hours. Three hours to stew in the pool of dread that is currently drowning me alive. AHHHHHH.
4:05 P.M.
* * *
Just hid the shower curtains, new bedsheets, matching kitchen rags, oversize towels, and furry throw blankets that Mom bought for no room in particular. Can’t risk upsetting Dad further by reminding him of Mom’s compulsive spending habits, or even worse, that I was present during the shopping excursion and didn’t attempt to stop her. Oh god, I’M COMPLICIT.
5:10 P.M.
* * *
Can’t focus on anything. Managed to eat four bags of Skinny Pop popcorn out of stress. I think my adrenal gland is sore. Ugh.
6:34 P.M.
* * *
He’s still not home. Why is he not home? Is he just trying to torment me by prolonging the anticipation? Or is he so disgusted by my obvious liar-hood that he can’t come home and look me in my newly peeled face??
OH, SHIT. THE PUGS ARE BARKING. HE’S HERE.
7:00 P.M.
* * *
Well. As Val likes to say: “I’m shook.”
Besides my usual anxiety, there are only two things in this world that can induce this kind of Code Red level of panic in me: the possibility of a nuclear holocaust and angry Dad.
“Lou?” His even but stern voice came from behind my closed bedroom door. “I need to speak with you.”
Oh, damn. Oh, hell. Oh, Jesus, I thought, trying to keep the acid down in my churning stomach. It’s okay! This is fine. This is totally fine. There’s no need to make a scene. Just coolly and maturely explain the Theo situation like the reasonable, rational adult that you are.
I walked to my door like an inmate heading toward the gallows, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, desperate to regain composure as I swiftly pulled open the door.
The temperature must have dropped at least ten degrees the minute Dad’s stare met mine. His face looked like a statue carved from the hands of pure disappointment and wrath. Coolly and maturely, I burst into tears.
“I’m so sooorryyyy!” I wept like a rational adult. “I—I—I made such a messssss!”
Dad stepped into my room, unfazed by the highly irregular display of emotion by his eldest daughter.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked, his voice completely unreadable. I swallowed hard, trying to get a grip.
“She’s at Susan’s for mah-jongg,” I told him meekly. “She should be home by nine.”
Dad nodded and made his way deeper into my room, turning around to face me only once he found his way to the far back corner. He crossed his arms commandingly and waited: a judge on trial.
After what felt like an eternity of silence, I finally spoke. “I … I’ve been keeping something from you,” I admitted, voice trembling.
“Clearly,” he agreed. I looked down at my fidgety feet and reached for my rings.
“I just … I didn’t know how to tell you. I was scared,” I started, my stomach churning even harder. Dad remained quiet, so I kept going:
“Well, I tried to tell you, but then some unfortunate events made it nearly impossible to—”
“Lou,” Dad interrupted, not having my excuses. “Tell the truth. What’s in Silver Lake?”
My whole body went numb, with the exception of my heart, which felt like it might burst into
flames. The remaining air in my lungs petered out, leaving me nearly voiceless as I croaked out: “… my boyfriend.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as I braced for the shouting. The last time I was yelled at by Dad, it was in first grade when I tried to put a cast on Val’s leg using gauze, socks, and super glue after reading about it in my school’s nature survival catalogue. That yell has haunted me ever since, and I live in constant fear of its revival.
… But the shouting didn’t come. Instead, Dad’s lower lip pressed up into his thoughtful frown, the corners of his eyes creasing ever so slightly as he assessed the level of my honesty. “A boyfriend?” he asked, as if this seemed farfetched. I was pretty offended, but nodded quickly.
“Yes. I have a boyfriend.”
“For how long?”
Oh no. I considered lying again, but the truth serum of fatherhood compelled me to look down at my fingers and silently count out the number.
“Eleven months?” I squeaked, like I wasn’t quite sure.
Dad’s piercing blue eyes opened wide, a spark of outrage flashing through them. “You’ve been seeing this boy for eleven months?” he echoed, anger finally rising in his voice. My insides shriveled up.
“I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“You’ve been lying to us every day for almost a year?”
“I was nervous that—”
“Taking the car to see a boy we didn’t know existed??”
“I kept trying to tell you, but—”
“But what?”
“But MOM!” I finally yelled, unable to hold back any longer. “Mom is so damn controlling, I’m terrified to tell her anything!”
Dad looked at me as if I had lost my mind. His top lip curled down into a snarl. “Eloise Hansen,” he growled, “how exactly is this your mother’s fault?”
I heard the pitter-patter of pug paws as they rounded the hallway, curious about the commotion. Muffin trotted over and sat himself between my feet, somehow sensing that I needed backup. I exhaled sharply.
“Okay,” I started, preparing my argument like I was back in debate, “so remember at dinner a few months ago, Mom saw a picture I was tagged in on Facebook?”
“No.”
“Val had brought it up, and said that the guy in it was cute?”
“Nothing.”
“And at that point, Mom looked at the picture and called that person a serial killer?”
Dad thought back for a moment. “Oh, right. Vaguely, yes.”
“That was my boyfriend.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. Dad’s expression fell from heated to stoic as the pieces started rearranging in his head. Muffin started gnawing at my laces, but I didn’t dare look down.
Finally Dad let out an empathetic sigh. “Oh, Shelly.”
PROGRESS! I gave Muffin a slight nudge with my foot before seizing my opportunity of compassion: “And by the way, that is absolutely ridiculous, because my boyfriend is not a serial killer at all! Not even close. To be fair, that is a pretty low bar, but you get the point! He’s the most loving, funny, talented, intelligent, incredible guy, and I’ve been trying to tell Mom about him since I moved back home, but every time she says something judgmental and horrible, so I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, because if I told her the truth and she didn’t approve…”
I trailed off, a sequence of possibilities flashing before my eyes ranging from Theo being forced into a sports jersey, to his mouthing “it’s over” over the fallen remains of his freshly cut brown locks like a scrawny Samson, betrayed in the middle of the night by Delilah’s crazy mother.
“… let’s just say, I don’t think it would end well.”
Dad’s thoughts went inward, his gaze unfocused as the frown returned. Muffin whimpered as he looked back and forth between Dad and me, waiting for someone to crouch down and pet him. My body was stiff as a board as I waited in agony for my sentencing.
“I think you’re underestimating your mother,” he concluded. Muffin and I tilted our heads in unison.
“I don’t think you understood the story.”
“And I don’t think you understand your mom,” he said firmly. I shrank into the floor. “Yes, I recognize that your mother can be a bit extravagant…”
I shot a quick glance at the fourth faux-fur blanket that was now strewn across one of my many Moroccan poufs.
“… but when it comes to your happiness? That’s plain and simple: it comes first. No matter what.”
Maybe it was the lack of oxygen from holding my breath for five hours, but I suddenly felt faint. That was it: he knew. He knew, and he hadn’t kicked me out of the house yet.
I ran a hand through my frizzy hair and shook my head. “Well then, why must she criticize every little thing I do?”
“Because she’s your mother. She can’t help but smother you. It’s in the word.”
He made a fair point. Muffin’s stubby tail started to wag.
“I’m so sorry, Dad. I wanted to tell you. I really did.”
Dad’s mouth thinned into a straight line. “Answer me this,” he said. “Is he good to you?”
“The best to me.”
“Is he a drug addict?”
“Sometimes he takes Advil for headaches, but otherwise, no.”
“Does he kill people?”
I actually managed to laugh. “No. Decidedly not.”
“Then I’ll give him a shot,” Dad decided. For the first time since two o’clock that afternoon, I took a full breath.
“So you’re not mad?”
“Oh, of course I’m mad,” Dad clarified, his hard expression returning. “You still lied to your mother and me for months. But you’re an adult now. I can’t ground you for hiding a boyfriend. I can just make it clear that I’m very disappointed.”
Ugh. This was worse than any punishment I could possibly fathom. I hung my head in shame.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Dad acknowledged. “And to be fair, this is a first-time offense in twenty-two years. I can’t say my track record was so good…”
I glanced up from the floor, hopeful.
“And it’ll never happen again,” I assured him. “At least not for another twenty-two.”
“But you have to tell Mom,” Dad decreed, barely hearing me. “I won’t tell her. This is your responsibility. But if you want my advice—and you want my advice—you should tell her, and you should tell her soon.”
I nodded furiously. “I will. As soon as the moment is right, I will.”
“Don’t spend your life waiting for perfect moments,” Dad imparted. “If I did, Mr. Schivelli would probably be at the bottom of a lake somewhere tied to a cinder block.”
And with that, he left the room.
SEPTEMBER 10
Mama Shell
SEPTEMBER 12
8:12 A.M.
* * *
Happy Rosh Hashanah, aka the Jewish New Year, aka the perfect time to do some desperately needed self-reflection after months of moral and emotional decay. It’s time to face hard facts: I’ve been a worthless ball of ineptitude ever since leaving Columbia, and though this postgrad me is a bit edgier, sneaking out of my parents’ house to visit my secret boyfriend would have been a lot cooler back when I was sixteen. I’m turning over a new leaf … or a whole branch, for that matter.
First things first: I must tell Mom. Every minute she doesn’t know about Theo feels like an eternity of unbearable pressure, especially now that Dad knows. I’ve already tried to confess four separate times in the past three days, but unfortunately, things with Mother have descended into near madness.
“VAL, HURRY UP, WE’RE RUNNING LATE FOR YOUR AP BIO TUTOR,” she bellowed from the front of the house. “DON’T MAKE ME ASK AGAIN. I CAN FEEL MY FROWN LINES FORMING AS WE SPEAK.”
The cause of all the hostility is obvious: Mom just received an invitation to the E.N.D., or the Empty Nesters Digest. Basically, it’s a group of mothers from our high school wh
o get together once a month to discuss and drink their sorrows away once their youngest children leave for college. To Mother, it might as well be an invitation to the undertaker.
“She hasn’t even graduated yet!” Mom shouted, throwing the invitation onto the kitchen table. “I still have a whole school year before I’m eligible for this silly support group.”
“It’s not a support group, Shelly. It’s a club,” Dad reassured her.
Mom tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Well, not all clubs are worth joining. Lulu, what’s that Woody Allen quote? The one about not wanting to join clubs?”
“It’s actually a Groucho Marx quote…”
“Oh, always with the corrections. No one likes a know-it-all, Lulu. The point is, I’m not going, so you can throw that invitation in the trash.”
Between back-to-school day and the END, Mom’s never been more volatile. Last night, she got mad at me for wearing white shorts to the dinner table after Labor Day. She then proceeded to chase three bites of her unseasoned Brussels sprouts down with a martini, casually explaining that “sometimes it’s best to drink your calories.” Needless to say, I’ve been hesitant to come forward with my admission. I’m hoping that the abrupt mood swings will calm down within a week or so—once the school year really picks up. That way I can finally remove the anvil that is currently resting on my shoulders, but in the meantime, I’ll have to focus on other forms of self-improvement. Seeing as my old goals list was proving to be virtually useless, I’m creating a new, revamped list of my Rosh Hashanah Resolutions, which I’m calling: the Roshalutions.
* * *
ROSHALUTIONS
• TELL. YOUR. MOM. ABOUT. THEO!!!!!
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