The Other F-Word

by Natasha Friend

  Sincere? Decent? Hollis was at a loss. She knew what the words meant, obviously, but how was she supposed to feel? Hollis had spent the better part of her life hating this man. She spontaneously combusted just thinking about him—how he’d profited from her conception while taking zero responsibility for her life. He was a bad guy. A careless person. And now … what? He was some sincere and decent Montessori-teaching, Nigerian-Dwarf-goat-raising husband with a social conscience? This was bullshit! It was too late! He couldn’t just suddenly change his story and expect Hollis to forgive him. It didn’t work that way!

  “You should check out his page,” Milo said. “There’s a picture of him in his backyard.”

  “Nigerian Dwarf goats?” Hollis said weakly. “Really?”

  * * *

  “He sounds like a cool cat,” Abby said.

  “Define cool cat,” Hollis said.

  It was her second FaceTime of the day. Hollis needed perspective, and she was hoping that Abby Fenn—sperm sister, aspiring memoirist—could provide some. Abby Fenn of the shiny hair and the gold cross necklace, lounging on a frilly canopy bed, eating a container of yogurt with a fork. Abby Fenn of the smoker’s voice and the disturbingly familiar eyebrows, who seemed unfazed by Hollis’s face popping up on her computer in real time.

  “Cool cat,” Abby said. “Noun. One who enjoys noodling around on his saxophone.”

  “Noodling.” Hollis snorted. “Who says that?”

  “Jazz musicians. Wordsmiths.”

  “Pfff,” Hollis said.

  “You’re aware, I assume, that the proverbial apple does not fall far from the tree? Noah’s trombone? My writing? You and Milo and your billions of books? Hellooo. He loves to read!”

  Hollis gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “You have to admit,” Abby said. “This is pretty wild.”

  “What is?”

  “This.” Abby waved her hands in front of the computer. “All of it. Us finding each other. All these crazy little connections.”

  Hollis couldn’t decide whether to agree with Abby—because on some level she did—or whether to confess that everything she’d assumed about her existence was suddenly being called into question. And it was freaking. Her. Out.

  “Hollis?” Abby said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think your phone just pinged.”

  Hollis looked down at her desk. Crap, she thought.

  “Maybe it’s Milo,” Abby said. “With news.”

  Crap, crap, crap. Hollis closed her eyes. I’m not ready.

  She made herself pick up her cell. She made herself look.

  Bitchslut. Stop hooking up w/ other girls boyfriends.

  “Ha!” Relief washed over her.

  “What?” Abby said. “Is it Milo?”

  Hollis shook her head.

  “Noah?”

  “No.”

  “Why ‘ha’?”

  “It’s a funny text.” Bitchslut. It was pretty funny. A compound insult.

  “What does it say?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes,” Abby said. “I do.”

  It took Hollis a long time to tell the Malory Keener story. It took her all the way back to second grade. Back to the monkey bars. Back to My mom says your mom’s lifestyle is an abomination. Hollis told the whole thing, and Abby listened. Hollis described how it felt to see the expression on Malory’s face at the Snowflake Formal when she and Gunnar exited the science lab. And the expression on Malory’s face outside the auditorium when Hollis called herself an abomination. And the rush she felt every time she pressed her body up against Gunnar’s, her lips on his lips.

  “That’s not okay,” Abby said when Hollis finished.

  “I know,” Hollis said. “I can’t explain it. I just like hooking up.” Numbing, JJ had called it. As though making out in the janitor’s closet was anything close to smoking pot in the basement.

  “I’m not talking about hooking up,” Abby said. “That’s just hormones. I’m talking about what those girls are doing.”

  “What?”

  “They’re slut shaming you.”

  “Well. I did hook up with Malory’s boyfriend.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  Hollis shrugged.

  “Are they slut shaming him?”

  “I don’t think boys get slut shamed.”

  “You’re making my point,” Abby said. “Calling in the middle of the night? Posting those things on Instagram? That’s harassment.”

  “I don’t feel harassed.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “I don’t want to dignify their behavior with my outrage. Besides…” Hollis hesitated.

  Abby cocked her head, waiting.

  “I kind of like messing with Malory. Every time I see her I remember what she said about Pam in second grade and I get mad all over again.”

  “Hollis.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Second grade?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  Abby removed the fork from her yogurt and stabbed the air. “You know what you need, Hollis?”

  “What?”

  “A resolution to this story.”

  “You know what you need, Abby?”

  “What?”

  “A spoon.”

  * * *

  It was five o’clock by the time Hollis logged off the computer. Her mother wouldn’t be home for another hour, so Hollis pulled her bike out of the garage. It was too cold for a bike ride, but the frigid air felt right for the occasion. Like when you’re crying hysterically and what you really need is a slap in the face.

  I am on the Arctic tundra, Hollis thought as she pedaled. I feel nothing. Feeling nothing is good.

  And it was good. Until she turned onto Reeder Street and there was Gunnar Mott, shooting baskets in Fitzy’s driveway.

  The universe, Hollis thought as she pedaled, is messing with me.

  Hollis wanted to avoid Gunnar, but she also wanted him to notice her. Just like she wanted the bitchslut messages to stop, but she also enjoyed getting under Malory’s skin. She knew it made no sense. These stupid, weird, needy, competing urges that she justified with Malory’s comment about Pam from a million years ago.

  Let’s make a deal, JJ had said. Let’s break our self-destructive habits together. Hollis had agreed, more for JJ’s sake than for her own. She wasn’t sure she bought JJ’s theory that Gunnar was her drug of choice. Hollis just liked hooking up. Hooking up made her feel good. Was that really so bad?

  Whatever. Her legs were tired. She had been pumping hard. She wouldn’t look over. She wouldn’t call his name.

  But now he was calling hers. “Yo, Hollis!”

  She slowed down.

  “Hollis!”

  He was running now, dribbling the basketball down the street toward her.

  “Hey,” she said, stopping the bike and putting one foot on the ground.

  “Where’ve you been?” He was sweating a little, even in the cold. His hair stood up in tufts.

  “Around.”

  He spun the basketball on one finger. “Cool.”

  Cool that she’d been around, or cool that he could spin a basketball on one finger?

  “I’ve been FaceTiming,” she blurted. She didn’t plan to; it just slipped out. “With my half siblings. We just found out our donor’s a teacher.”

  Gunnar slapped the ball, keeping it moving.

  “You know, the father I’ve never met? He works for some hippie school. And he’s married.”

  “Cool.”

  Hollis stared at Gunnar. Cool?

  Gunnar caught the ball. “You wanna…?” He cocked his head in the direction of a thicket of trees.

  “What?”

  He smiled. Great teeth. So white. “You know.”

  “Do I want to hook up with you in that thicket of trees?”

  He shrugged, still smiling.

  God, that smile. Part of Hollis wanted to grab him and kiss him right here on the s
treet. But the other part of her was still talking. “Did you not hear what I just said?”

  “What?”

  “My father. We sent him a letter. Like five days ago. We could hear back from him at any second. I’m trying to decide how I feel.” Hollis was on a roll. The words were just pouring out of her. More words than she had ever spoken to Gunnar Mott.

  “I know how you feel,” he said, tossing his basketball onto the grass.

  “You do?”

  Gunnar pulled Hollis toward him, bike and all. “Mm-hmm.” His lips were on her lips. “You feel soft.”

  Hollis pulled away. “That’s not what I—”

  “And warm.” His hands were under her shirt. “You feel really warm.”

  “Hey,” Hollis said sharply. This wasn’t making her feel good. This was pissing her off.

  “What?”

  “I was telling you something,” Hollis said. “If you want to listen, great. If you want to give me advice, great. But if all you want to do is stick your hands up my shirt … well … I think I’m going to keep riding my bike.”

  “Oh.” Gunnar stepped back. He looked embarrassed—for her or for himself, she couldn’t tell.

  Lucky for him, this was the moment when Fitzy hollered down the street, “Yo, Mott! We playin’ or what?”

  “So, listen,” Gunnar said, bending to retrieve his basketball. “I should go.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” Hollis said. “See you around.”

  MILO

  Will Bardo taught Language Arts.

  Will Bardo hailed from Indiana.

  Will Bardo owned farm animals.

  Will Bardo played Ultimate Frisbee.

  Will Bardo was married.

  Will Bardo’s wife was a knockout.

  This last fact was brought to Milo’s attention by Noah, who had apparently looked up Gwen Bardo’s bio page on the Eden Prairie Cooperative Learning Center website and then sent this text: Check out WBs wife.

  Milo tapped the link, and suddenly there was Gwen Bardo, holding a surfboard and wearing a wet suit. Her hair was slicked back and hung nearly to her waist. Her legs were long and tan. She was laughing.

  There was only one word to text back: Whoa.

  Ikr? Noah texted.

  And Abby texted, Where does one surf in Minnesota?

  And Hollis texted, One doesn’t.

  And Noah texted, Missing the point.

  And Abby texted, & the point is …

  She looks like a supermodel, Milo texted.

  And Hollis texted, Hello. She also has a brain.

  It was true. According to Gwen Bardo’s bio, she had double-majored in earth sciences and chemistry at Dartmouth. She held a master’s in science from Trinity College in Dublin. Her field of interest was biodiversity and conservation.

  Thank u, Hollis, Abby texted.

  And Hollis texted, It’s not like looks and brains r mutually exclusive.

  And Noah texted, WB hit the jackpot.

  And Milo texted, Srsly.

  If a man with Milo’s mushroom hair and crazy eyebrows could get a woman like that to marry him, there had to be hope. Gwen Bardo gave Milo hope.

  When Will Bardo writes back, Milo thought, I will ask him how it happened.

  * * *

  When Will Bardo writes back.

  It had been seven days and, so far, nothing. No letter. No email. Nada.

  “Did the mail come yet?” Suzanne asked Milo on Friday afternoon.

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “Anything interesting?” Frankie asked. Casually, as though she were wondering if the new National Geographic had arrived.

  Milo shook his head.

  * * *

  Any word? Noah texted on Saturday afternoon.

  Nope, Milo texted back.

  Maybe he’s trapped under something heavy, Abby texted.

  And Hollis texted, Maybe he’s too busy noodling on his sax to write back.

  And Noah texted, Maybe a Nigerian dwarf goat ate his letter.

  And Milo texted, Maybe he sent his letter by carrier pigeon.

  Or by chicken.

  Maybe his house caught fire and the letter burned.

  Maybe he was abducted by aliens.

  Maybe he’s in a witness protection program and has a whole new identity.

  Maybe he doesn’t actually exist.

  Maybe he’s a figment of our imagination.

  Maybe none of us exist.

  Maybe the moon is made of green cheese.

  It all degenerated from there.

  * * *

  On Sunday night, JJ and his parents came for dinner. Milo didn’t know why Suzanne and Frankie had felt the need to invite them, but they had.

  Roz and Abe Rabinowitz arrived at seven thirty sharp—she in tight leather pants and teetering heels, carrying a houseplant, he in a black T-shirt and jeans, carrying a bottle. JJ shuffled behind them, wearing a plaid shirt and a pained expression. He had to be a foot taller than both his parents. And about twenty shades blonder.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Suzanne said. She was wearing a multicolored tunic that made her look like a tropical fish.

  “Come in, come in,” Frankie said.

  Why his moms were saying everything twice Milo couldn’t comprehend. Nor could he fathom why Frankie was wearing a gay pride sweatshirt—as though the fact that she and Suzanne were lesbians wasn’t obvious.

  “We brought you a bamboo palm,” JJ’s mother said, holding out the plant. Her nails were long and painted purple.

  “How lovely!” Suzanne exclaimed.

  “And a Glenmorangie single malt,” JJ’s father said, holding out the bottle. He was completely bald. His scalp shone in the overhead light.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Frankie said.

  “It’s our pleasure.”

  Could this be any more awkward? Milo wondered, as the six of them gathered around the coffee table for allergy-friendly, gluten-free appetizers. Cilantro chicken satay. Vietnamese salad rolls. Ham-wrapped asparagus.

  “So,” Frankie said, helping herself to a satay. “I hear you both work in film. That must be exciting.”

  Milo groaned inwardly, but JJ’s dad nodded and dipped a salad roll in soy-free duck sauce. “It is indeed.”

  “Tell us what you’re working on,” Suzanne said, placing a bowl of olives on the table.

  “Well.” Abe Rabinowitz cleared his throat. “About a year ago, a gem of a script fell into my lap…”

  JJ’s dad talked about his gem of a script. Suzanne poured wine and ginger ale. They drank. They munched. Well, most of them munched. Roz Rabinowitz—screen name “Roz Rabin”—took one bite of asparagus before putting it down. The camera adds twenty pounds! Milo kept eating. He could use twenty pounds. JJ kept checking his watch. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Everyone moved to the butcher-block table. More movie talk. More drinks. More hypo-allergenic cuisine. Suzanne and Frankie had gone all out for this dinner. It felt good to be eating new things; it felt amazing. Letter? No letter? What did it matter? These stuffed peppers were the bomb. Milo could eat all night. Will Bardo could take his sweet time. The parents could talk about film noir and production budgets and digital cinematography until the cows came home. Milo was going to eat six of these bad boys.

  “You know who would be a natural on screen?” Abe Rabinowitz boomed, hoisting his glass in the air. “Jonah. If he would ever listen to his father and give acting a shot.”

  Milo looked over at JJ, who was looking blankly at his dad, as though to say, In your dreams. JJ’s mom squeezed JJ’s arm and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Look at this face. Can you believe this face?”

  “Mom,” JJ whispered. “I’m eating.”

  “He’s eating.” Roz Rabin smiled. Her teeth were a little purple from the wine. “Always eating, this one.”

  “This one, too,” Frankie said, jutting her chin at Milo. “Bottomless pit.”

  “When my b
rother and I were teenagers,” JJ’s dad said, “we used to eat a whole loaf of bread for breakfast. And a whole jar of peanut butter. Our mother would come downstairs and say, ‘Where’s all the food? I just went to the market.’”

  The parents shared a chuckle. They were hitting it off.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry,” JJ said later.

  The two of them were in Milo’s room while Abe and Roz and Frankie and Suzanne were having “digestifs” by the fire.

  “What for?” Milo said.

  “My parents.”

  “What about them?”

  JJ frowned. Happy JJ, golden-retriever JJ—frowning. “They’re so … I don’t know.”

  “I thought they were pretty cool.”

  JJ shook his head. “They just … don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Anything. Life outside the movie set. Me. We’re just … nothing alike.”

  “And what—?” Milo said. “You think your biological parents would be different? You think they’d ‘get’ you more because they’re six-foot Swedes instead of five-foot Jews?”

  “Maybe. Yeah.”

  This sentiment wasn’t lost on Milo. He’d had similar thoughts for a long time, although his were less about genes and more about gender. Suzanne and Frankie don’t get me. My father would get me because he’s a guy. But how much could Will Bardo get him if he couldn’t even be bothered to write back? How much did Noah’s father get Noah? How much did Leigh get Hollis?

  “None of them get us, dude,” Milo said to JJ. “They’re parents.”

  HOLLIS

  Not hooking up with Gunnar Mott really opened up Hollis’s schedule. She was back to eating lunch with Shay and Gianna. She was no longer pleading for bathroom passes to meet Gunnar during class, or lingering behind the bleachers after school, waiting for him to finish practice. The good news was, Hollis had nothing but time. The bad news was, she was bored. All Shay and Gianna talked about was school. Sitting through class after class without a single kissing break was mind numbing. Hollis was thinking too much.

  Ten days. Ten days since Milo sent the letter to Will Bardo, and still nothing. She didn’t know how to feel. If he never wrote back, well, then he was the jackass she’d always assumed him to be and she could just go back to thinking the way she had always thought about him. Or could she? Now she had information. Now she had a visual. Will Bardo in his backyard with his stupid goats. Hiking boots, jeans, gray hoodie. Curls, eyes squinting into the sun, crooked grin. Crap. Hollis wished Abby had never found out where he worked. Hollis wished she’d never seen his bio page. Now he was real. Real and choosing not to write back.