Impractically Perfect: A Romantic Comedy

by Genevieve Lerner

  Paige looked surprised by this. “You’ve been out of school for almost a year, and you still can’t get a job?”

  “That’s right. Just kidding, that’s a lie. I had jobs. But they didn’t work out so well…”

  Right on cue, there was a long, uncomfortable silence. My dad scratched his arm intently, and my mother suddenly became supremely interested in the light fixture hanging above our heads. When the ice cube I had been chewing on melted, I nearly resorted to smushing an ant that was running down a peony stem, just to have something to do.

  It was Paige who finally broke the silence. “You moved back into the Valentine residence,” she said so quietly that I would have missed it had I been scratching my arm or staring at a light fixture. “That’s…a big step. You’re life will turn around soon, though you’ll see!” Leave it to Paige to find the most tactful possible way of telling me how disappointed she is in me.

  “Anyway!” I said, resorting to any possible way of getting the attention off of myself. “How are you, Paige? Your hair is…shorter! Howisworkandallthemenyouprobablyhavetrippingoverthemselvestodateyou?”

  Paige laughed. God, her teeth were so white and straight.

  “I’m so lucky to be working on Let’s Cook! honestly. We’ve been up for all kinds of awards this season, it’s insane. Just last week, Derek had a meeting with NBC, we might be leaving Netflix and going network. Everything is happening so fast, Chef Masi is going crazy and working us so hard lately, and—”

  I cut her off. “Chef MASI? As in THE Asi Masi, world famous chef?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Oh my goodness. How the hell had Paige never once mentioned that her boss was was Asi Masi? Sure, she doesn’t give two shits about cooking, and is working on this show for the producer credit and experience, but come on!

  Chef Masi was my actual hero—one of the most successful female chefs of all time. She wrote my favorite cookbook, “Meat is Good for You,” and used to have a podcast about spices from around the world. Most importantly, she was one of the founders of the American School of Culinary Arts. ASCA would be my dream school, if I had the wherewithal to actually go to school. Not that I’m lazy or anything. It’s just that school is so…schooly.

  “It’s been really crazy,” Paige continued. “Especially because Belinda just went on maternity leave, and we are incredibly short-staffed. I’ve been stretched so thin, between producing the show, taking over Belinda’s paperwork, and interviewing for someone to take over for her. I love the responsibility, but I need help—and none of these interviewees have been remotely competent.”

  As my mom nodded sympathetically, my brain started spinning wildly. Paige knew Asi Masi. If I could meet her, maybe I could make a good impression, somehow. Maybe I could get a recommendation and possibly have a shot at ASCA. Maybe I could…no. I couldn’t ask Paige for a job. That would be embarrassing.

  “So, Paige,” I found myself saying before I could stop myself, “what are the chances you’d like to work with your favorite sister?”

  “Sweetheart,” my mom began, twirling a long piece of asparagus around her fork like it was spaghetti, “maybe you should start with something less…high pressure. You do remember that you haven’t held a job for more than—”

  I shushed her before Paige could hear the end of that sentence. I didn’t think it would help my case if she knew that three weeks was the longest I had lasted. Well, technically only 14 days; we had had Monday off for Labor Day.

  “Actually, that’s a great idea,” said Paige. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of you before, this position would be perfect for you!” I shot my mother a triumphant side-eye. “How are you at answering phones?”

  “Great!” I lied. “Really, really, great. I love talking to disembodied voices and taking notes while they yell at me!”

  Grandma calmly looked at me. “If you’re hearing voices, you should think about speaking to my psychiatrist, Dr. Henry. He’s very good.”

  The truth was, I was probably the worst possible choice for a phone-answerer. In second grade, instead of being assigned “hall monitor” or “line-leader,” my task was to answer the classroom phone whenever it rang. The only time I ever tried, I wet my pants and had to go to the nurse’s office for a new pair.

  But it was fine. I would be fine. I wasn’t in second grade anymore. I had learned to control my bladder. Most of the time. Speaking of which, I really had to pee right about now.

  Paige folded her hands on the table, right next to her empty plate on which she had delicately balanced her knife, fork, and napkin that she had folded into a swan at some point in the last eight minutes. “I’ll talk to Chef Masi tomorrow, and see if we can get you started as soon as possible!”

  “Well, this is certainly cause for celebration!” said my mom, standing up and clapping her hands. I had a sudden flashback to the sea lion show at Marine Land.

  It was at this exact moment that Grandma reached over the table for some more butter and knocked her glass of Merlot all over me. As much as I begrudged her ruining my “Under the Sea” t-shirt, I was grateful for an excuse to leave the table and escape my mother’s insistence that I actually could not, in fact, do any job properly, as well as my father’s positive back-pats and my sister’s blinding smile. I was going to have a job—a real job at a real television show with real chefs. And, maybe, just maybe, I was going to finally get into cooking school because of it, and prove to everyone that I’m not just the other Valentine sister.

  The next morning, I was wrangled into arranging fake tulips for the place settings at Grandma’s wedding. My mother was muttering under her breath that it is tacky to have fake flowers when you could just have real ones, while Grandma pointedly ignored her.

  “I like them,” I said, trying to keep the peace. “They look real, but we don’t have to worry about keeping them alive!” Meanwhile, I had broken my sixth plastic stem trying to jam it into the green foam at the bottom of the vase. Grandma laughed. Mom looked murderous.

  Before I could inflict any more damage, I gently set the rest of my bouquet down and announced that I was going to take Bon Jovi for a walk.

  Marriage, I decided as I walked in slow motion so my elderly dog could keep up, was a whole lot more work than it was worth. Grandma had met Efrain Schmorgas during nursing-home-wide screening of Up, and things had gotten hot and heavy very quickly. Apparently, being in a wheelchair doesn’t make you any less horny, and these old people were basically reliving their youth in a glorified college dorm. But Sybill had roped him in quick, and only four months later they were actually getting married.

  A squirrel darted across the driveway, and Bon Jovi’s face perked up. He began to toddle towards it, and the squirrel, instead of running away, stopped in the middle of our front lawn. It tilted its head curiously at him. Bon Jovi, as if he suddenly realized that he was no longer intimidating to rodents, stopped in his tracks, hung his head, and walked back toward me. I sat on the pavement and let him climb into my lap.

  As much as my mother judged Grandma for all her marriages, the way she jumps into things without really thinking them through, I was jealous. Sure, I jump into things head-on as well. But I get dumped in Texas gas stations. Grandma gets married. And only three of the six weddings ended in divorces—all on her terms. The others had left her temporarily widowed.

  So, I thought to myself, as Bon Jovi slobbered all over my hand, I guess this is what I have to look forward to. Because I was alone in this world, just like this sad, senile dog. Life was just a relatively consistent tediousness, until you can’t enjoy even the simple pleasures in life, like chasing squirrels. Awesome.

  “Chrissy?!”

  I stood up so quickly that I blacked out for a second. It was Gloria. Gloria, my best friend since diapers, Gloria, my favorite person in the world, Gloria, who I had lied to about moving back to San Francisco because I was too ashamed. And with her was a guy, who looked kind of familiar but also maybe I was just imaginin
g it. Was this one of her dozens of high school sweethearts?

  “Chrissy, what are you doing here?!” she shrieked, tackling me in a violent hug. Shocked, I just stood there, tightly gripping Bon Jovi’s leash. Not that he was going to go anywhere or anything. “Are you back in the four-one-five?”

  “Ummmm…”

  “Oh, you remember my stepbrother Mark, right?” Ooooh. Gloria’s dad had gotten remarried only a few years ago, so I barely knew her stepmom and stepbrother. But apparently this was him! I was already embarrassed for thinking that Gloria had been dating him and made a mental note to never mention that to her, and also not be attracted to him, because Gloria was basically my sister. Even though I could see that he had pretty nice arms under his sweatshirt.

  I nodded and rolled my eyes as if I remembered exactly who Mark was, how insulting that she thought I could forget!

  “He’s here working for the summer, and then off to grad school. I told him he could crash with me, he’s super poor right now!”

  “That makes two of us.” I snorted, trying to seem breezy and unconcerned about it. “What do you do for work, anyway?”

  Mark hadn’t actually spoken yet. He was standing slightly behind Gloria, as though he didn’t want to be seen, but her tiny frame and wiry hair hardly masked his definitely-six-foot-something figure. He spoke softly. “I’m a photographer.” He didn’t elaborate.

  Impatiently, Gloria took over. “He does everything, but his favorite is dogs, you know? He gets them to pose in these crazy positions, kind of like William Wegman and his Weimaraners.”

  He nodded slightly in agreement, and I found myself already getting annoyed by him. Oh, right. Now that I thought about it, I did remember Mark—barely. I remembered, at least, how incredibly quiet he was, and how much that bothered me for some reason. And now…he was back. Joy of joys.

  “Cool,” I said, and then hoping to keep the attention off of myself, “and how is Stephan?” Bon Jovi, apparently too old for real walks, laid down at the end of the driveway.

  Gloria looked at me darkly. “His damn parrot shat in my hair. And what about you? What are you doing here? Are you…are you living with Glen and Flossie?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to answer aloud, so I just nodded my head and tried not to cry. I had lied to Gloria on the phone before, and now she knew. I should have told her a month ago when I realized I would be heading back west. I should have done so many things, but I didn’t, and she was going to be so mad at me. I just knew she was going to judge me for moving back in with my parents.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she squeezed me again and looked into my eyes, and they were full of warmth and trust and decades of friendship. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she said. And I hugged her back.

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