by Mary Pagones
“Oh my God, that’s so cute. Wentworth’s listening to the dog on the television,” I say, observing the dachshund when the on-screen dog howls during Mary’s singing. I try to encourage him to join in by howling myself. But Wentworth just looks confused. Livy covers her ears.
Around hour three, I take a short break to scroll through my phone. Jacqui’s home from the morning football game at the school. She went, not because she’s into sports, but because she knew Noel would be there. The Thanksgiving Day game is always a big thing, although we always lose. This year was no exception. Rosewood South has a terrible football team, a fact some students, for some reason, consider quite appalling.
Jacqui texts me photos of the dishes her mom and dad have prepared—macaroni and cheese with what looks like more crust than pasta, potato salad, and a ham. They’ll bring the feast over to her grandmother’s house. Jacqui’s grandmother roasts a turkey in addition to all that bounty. Thanksgiving is very special to Jacqui and one of her favorite days of the year. I’m glad that my version of the holiday isn’t so formal, and I don’t need to navigate several hours of talking to relatives I rarely see. Watching the scenes at Rosings, with the deliciously awful Lady Catherine De Bourgh and her many, many opinions, I feel Jane Austen would have agreed with me.
My father walks into the living room holding a knife so he can see the first “all out” showdown of Elizabeth versus Lady Catherine. He has rubber gloves on, probably to protect his hands while chopping the peppers and onions for the spaghetti sauce. The gloves are neither as long as the ones worn by the ladies in the ballroom scenes, nor as elegant.
“How did you do on your Pride and Prejudice paper? I assume you got an A+.” I let him read it when I was finished, I was so proud. (Although I told him not to give me any advice about its contents.)
Still a sore spot. “A B+,” I say.
“Liss, you must be joking. I realize you’re my daughter, but…”
“Mr. Clarke doesn’t believe in grade inflation,” I say, frowning.
“More like grade deflation, if you ask me.”
“Jane Austen is his favorite author. Pride and Prejudice is one of his favorite books. I guess that’s why,” I say. “One of the students is raising holy hell about her grade. I think I got one of the highest marks in the class.” Actually, I’m pretty sure I got the very highest, based on the rumors I heard.
“Do you want me to speak with Mr. Clarke? The fact you had straight As in English year after year was a big selling point for you, for your college applications.”
I flinch at the echo of Ms. Desborough in my father’s voice. It’s like I can’t get away from her. “Oh no! No! Mr. Clarke—he’s a decent enough teacher, and the year isn’t over. I’m not panicking like Jacqui and some of the others. I obviously would have liked a better mark, but this teacher doesn’t seem to be giving low grades to be purposefully horrible out of an ego trip.” My eyes stray to the screen. Even Livy and Wentworth are transfixed by Lady Catherine. It’s impossible to take your eyes off of Mr. Darcy’s horrible, imperious aunt.
“Liss, you’ve devoted so much of your life to that book. If you can’t get an A writing about Pride and Prejudice, who can?” asks my father, gesturing at the screen.
Mr. Clarke’s home right now. Alone. Probably grading some other classes’ papers since he finished all of ours. Or maybe reading Persuasion? With his own glass…or bottle...of wine? I mean, it’s early in the day, but…I picture his ring finger tapping a page and pity the poor freshman essay beneath it. Or maybe it’s by the student who thought bullet points were acceptable in an English essay and I should pity Mr. Clarke. If so, I’m sure he’s in a state of pure, unadulterated agony, wanting to bond with his Bordeaux and beloved Anne Elliot.
Calvin texts me. Speaking of feeling sorry for people, I know Calvin hates Thanksgiving. He usually has the responsibility of keeping his sisters out of the kitchen while his mother cooks. His father watches football all day on television. I say Livy’s very different from my father and me, but although she has unique eccentric passions, at least she’ll happily watch Pride and Prejudice as part of our family tradition. Calvin’s probably listening to show tunes on his earbuds, surfing social media, and counting the hours until the day ends and he can get back to walking dogs and pretending to be someone else, however briefly, on stage.
Guess where I am, writes Calvin.
Are you in a good or a bad place? I ask.
Very, very good
In Franklin’s arms? I guess.
Okay not that good
I give up.
Youre no fun
Lady Catherine De Bourgh is speaking on screen, having fun in her presence would not be respectful.
I’m having Thanksgiving dinner with the Hollands at the Nassau Inn. Im in their car right now heading to Princeton. I’m even wearing a tie, I shit you not
Calvin, this is getting weird. Are you now on both teams? I didn’t even know Calvin owned a tie.
Team not watching football is the only team that matters
Can’t argue with him on that point. Aren’t your parents mad that you’re deserting them on a family holiday?
Maybe mom is hopeful I’m with a girl? I honestly dont care, it’s a buffet with unlimited prime rib and no young ones to watch
What about Franklin?
Charlotte is just a friend I’ve had for ages. Only been dating Franklin a few weeks
I’m not sure I understand that logic. You’re not dating Charlotte at all.
Only sounds illogical because you would never want to spend the day with Charlotte
Well, we agree on something. I shake my head as I type.
Look your family is cool, Liss. If you had to choose between Princeton and Jersey white trash hell, you’d pick Princeton
But
He responds faster than I can type. You and I both know what my family is don’t pretend you don’t
I sigh. I hope you, your fake girlfriend, and your real prime rib have a lovely holiday together. Now I have a date with the real Mr. Darcy. He just appeared on the screen. I put my phone away.
“As you can see, I’ve made a lot of progress on George,” says Livy.
My second, “real” Mr. Darcy, Hugh, has finally arrived. Hugh’s wearing nice grey wool pants and a crisp, pale blue shirt I’ve never seen before. I didn’t know he owned anything in a color. I put on one of my many black dresses because I expected we’d match. I also selected my dress because it exposes my shoulders and shows a discrete amount of cleavage. It’s supposed to be short, but on me is about knee-length, so it’s acceptable for a family occasion.
Livy’s in khaki pants, an oversized green turtleneck sweater, and loafers without socks. She avoids socks even in the depth of winter; it’s a texture issue. She hates the sensation of anything clinging to her ankles. I’ve put on liquid eyeliner and sparkly black nail polish; I think Livy’s wearing Chapstick. Livy’s contacts are in, and her hair, which hangs long past her shoulders, is unfurled from its bun. On my stubby frame her look would seem painfully ordinary and sexless, but Livy’s so tall and thin, she appears wraithlike and waiflike.
She’s brought her robot George out to show all of us. “George can now pick up pencils.” The small robot’s arm grasps the thin, wooden rod in its fingers. It makes a kind of deliberate, grinding sound. “And put them down again!”
After the pencil demonstration, Livy rolls a tiny basketball to George. “Playing with balls requires manual dexterity.”
“I’m sure that’s what he says to all the ladies,” says Hugh.
“Pardon?” asks Livy.
“When you’re presenting George to the class, I might use a different phrase,” I say.
Livy ignores me, playing with her control panel, and George picks up the basketball with both hands. “On my robotics club team, I’ve helped build a much larger version of George, and the eventual goal is to program him to play a game of basketball himself.”
“George
is already better than Hugh at basketball,” I say. Hugh gives me a look. Not a pretend-mean look, like I expected, but a Mr. Darcy glare.
Wentworth walks over to George the Robot. George’s arm is raised. The dog starts circling George, barking and howling. He might only have been curious about the dog on the television, but he’s in full-on protective mode now. Livy starts moving the hand to grab Wentworth’s nose and while she doesn’t touch him with the mechanical arm, it’s enough to send Wentworth scampering to the door, whimpering.
I assume we’re done, but then Livy asks us to come outside to check out the catapult she’s made for her engineering class. It’s chilly, so we don jackets. I have a long, black scarf, which I fling around my bare throat in a dramatic way. Hugh rolls his eyes.
Livy launches a tennis ball. It sails almost to the edge of the fence. Wentworth picks it up with his teeth and brings it back, dropping at my feet. I’m more engrossed in Livy’s contraption now. “He loves to fetch,” I boast. “He knew obedience basics even before I started training him at the shelter. But now he can do tricks.”
Livy says that part of the requirements for the catapult are that it has to launch objects at different heights and distances. She adjusts the machine so the next tennis ball pops up in the air. I watch to see if Wentworth leaps up to get it, but he’s not that ambitious. He just lets it fall to the ground and then retrieves it. Some of the balls actually launch over our fence, but he’s not bothered enough to squirm under it and follow those. For an elderly dachshund, I think he does quite well.
Hugh is bored, I can see, and he starts edging back to the house. He’s just not into dogs. Or catapults, apparently. Even Livy, who is not a dog person, is pleased by Wentworth’s enthusiasm. She puts the last ball in the catapult for her grand finale. Wentworth gives a tiny bark and looks eagerly at the yellow object.
“Hugh, you might want to get out of the…”
“Ow!”
“Oh no!” That was my boyfriend’s head! “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, quickly, putting his hands over his closed eyes. Wentworth picks up the ball and brings it over to Livy, who is still standing by the catapult.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“This takes ‘She Blinded Me With Science’ to a new dimension,” mutters Hugh.
Awesome. My sister has given my boyfriend a concussion on his first holiday with our family.
My father, who has evidently been watching us from the kitchen, opens the window and says in his classroom voice, “Livy, honey, I think you can put that away now. You’ve delighted Hugh long enough. Time for spaghetti and turkey meatballs à la Tennant.”
“More balls?” says Hugh.
“Hopefully, you will survive,” I say. “Here, let me kiss it and make it better.” He lets me touch my lips to his temple, but grudgingly.
“You know, ‘bollocks’ is one of the few curse words that is Anglo-Saxon in origin, according to Clarke,” I say. “Balls.”
We have a tradition on Thanksgiving of saying what we’re thankful for before we eat. My father says that since it is my big year (referring to college), I can start us off. “First of all, I’m thankful that I was able to save Wentworth,” I say. “I’m thankful for my own Mr. Darcy, of course.” I smile at Hugh and he rubs his head and rolls his eyes. Thank goodness the tennis ball hit him on a place covered by hair, so there is no visible bruise. “For my sister’s science project not killing my boyfriend. And for the fact I’m graduating high school in a couple of months.”
Hugh is able to eat my father’s meatballs without any additional injuries. We take our desserts to the couch and finish up the Pride and Prejudice marathon. Hugh talks to Livy when there is no dialogue. He’s taking physics (which I suffered through last year). While he’s not doing very well in most of his classes, he’s finding that class to be particularly challenging. As one might expect.
“Not having to take a science my senior year is another gift for which I am very thankful,” I say.
Livy grills him on a variety of topics—electricity, inertia, relativity—but it’s all the same to him and me. Despite having taken physics only last year, I have no memory of what she’s talking about. I suspect Hugh doesn’t either, and he’s in the class. “That’s what you’re having trouble with?” she says. “I can’t believe ordinary public schools are so backward.”
“Livy, that’s rude,” says my father.
“I’m simply stating a fact. Look, Liss, why don’t you drop him off before your dance classes during the week. I’ll go over everything with him,” she says. “I can explain what you need to do in less than an hour, Hugh.”
“I have so much homework as it is,” whines Hugh.
“Let Livy tutor you. It’s better than failing,” says my father.
“Seriously, Hugh, maybe she can explain it in a new way, differently from your regular tutor,” I say. I look over at my sister, who is carefully eating the filling of her apple pie first before tackling the crust. I’m eating a deliciously bitter strawberry-rhubarb pie with a sandy, crumbly crust on top. Hugh and my father are eating strawberry pie as well. No one in my family likes basic pumpkin.
Because the shelter is on a skeletal holiday staff, I go early in the morning to walk dogs and clean cages. Calvin is back from his walk on the wild side with Charlotte Holland. Franklin is with him—partially because Calvin wants me to formally meet his man, partially because we need the extra help.
Franklin’s shorter than Calvin. He has light brown hair and blue eyes that are less piercing and searching than Calvin’s. Like most of the kids who do drama, he’s extremely pale and dresses all in black, but unlike Calvin he doesn’t sport a pile of silver jewelry and his natural, resting expression is a smile rather than a smirk. He’s more muscular, not all skin-and-bones like his boyfriend.
Gossip about the drama geeks passes the time. “How is Camelot going?” I ask. I haven’t been to rehearsal for the last few days because they’ve been working on the acting and singing, not the dancing.
“It goes,” says Franklin.
Calvin rolls his eyes. “Franklin, it’s a shitshow. Be honest with Liss.”
“From a lighting person’s perspective, it’s not so terrible. I have the timing of all of the major scenes down.”
“I don’t mean to crap all over your Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade,” Calvin says, “but no one ever left a play saying, ‘Even though the acting and singing sucked, the lighting was fucking amazing.’”
“There’s always a first for everything.” Franklin rubs the small fluffy white dog he has on the leash between her ears. Because Franklin’s a new volunteer, we’ve given him some of the nicer dogs. Regardless, he seems relaxed and comfortable; he has two dogs of his own at home.
I’m walking a husky who pulls like a carthorse. I’m trying not topple over since the dog probably weighs more than I do.
“I just hate it when pretty people get parts who can’t sing. Or aren’t right for the roles, like Rob as Arthur. I mean he’d be fine in another play, but…” Calvin shakes his head. “At first I was bitching because he had a better part than me. Now I’m bitching because I’d actually like the play not to be painful.”
“You said Peter Pan was a shitshow around this time last year, and you were great in it,” I say. I lean back into my heels to slow the husky down.
“No offense, but other than the dancing—which you choreographed—me as Hook, and the kid who played Smee, it was fucking awful.”
“I was still doing freshman football, so I wasn’t involved in that production,” explains Franklin.
“He’s come over to the dark side, the D-side,” says Calvin. “I mean the drama side, of course.”
I snort with laughter and the husky takes advantage of my distraction, almost toppling me over as he dashes over to a bush to explore an interesting scent.
Franklin says, “Don’t give yourself that much credit. And it’s my job to bathe that side in light.” He s
miles at Calvin. Calvin looks away, hiding the genuine symmetrical smile that’s begun to develop at the corners of his lips.
“I bought leftover turkey meatballs for all the dogs after we’re done,” I say to Calvin, so things don’t get awkward. “Wentworth loved them.”
Wentworth’s still at home. He’s coming back to the shelter on Monday morning, though. My father’s still stuck on the idea I’m going away to college so we can’t get a pet. It’s breaking my heart because the little dog seems so much happier at our house, so much more himself, when he’s not listening to the nerve-wracking sound of barking all day.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any prime rib left over from yesterday to give to the pups,” says Calvin. “Oh, the Hollands gave me a personal tour of the Princeton campus after we ate at the Nassau Inn. Apparently, they go back to Princeton all the time, and they know the history of the buildings and everything.”
“It’s so creepy that they’re fixated on this one time of their life. That they met there, got married at the chapel on campus, and even have Thanksgiving dinner right near Princeton. It’s unnatural,” I say.
“They must be very smart,” says Franklin, casually.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! Just because someone goes to Princeton doesn’t mean that she is smart!”
“I’m just saying, it’s very difficult to get accepted to Princeton,” says Franklin.
“Less difficult if you’re a legacy, can afford full tuition, and have had tutors and SAT prep courses since birth. And have no interests in anything other than improving your college résumé.”
“Liss has strong feelings about this subject,” says Calvin. “And pretty much any book written by a dead person.”
We go back inside to return our dogs to their cages and walk some more dogs. I pick a Jack Russell who was surrendered because of his habit of peeing on everything whenever he gets excited. He’s sweet and fun to walk but sadly, I can see why he might have trouble finding a home.
“I still don’t understand why Charlotte’s all into you, Calvin,” I blurt out. “You don’t seem her type.”