I blinked a few times before realizing she was serious. I sighed again as we turned back toward the house and started walking. A full minute of contentment passed before I was reminded of the final and most treacherous obstacle.
“Um … Val? There is one more thing I haven’t mentioned.”
She rolled her eyes yet again and chuckled. “Um … yes?”
“Mom saw us getting froyo yesterday and called him a serial killer.”
Val stopped walking and stared at me. It was her turn to decide if I was joking. The stoic look on my face made it clear that I wasn’t.
“… well, fuck.”
JUNE 8
* * *
8:45 P.M.
* * *
FINALLY! Some positive news to report!
After a day and a half of nonstop worrying, I get to spend a glorious night at Theo’s apartment, away from the mounting pressures of living a total lie.* The Treehouse has started to take on a whimsical, rustic aesthetic, which is a giant improvement from the junkyard theme it was sporting earlier. There’s a tiny succulent garden in the kitchen, as well as a sustainable herb pot (my touch). The mismatched pieces of furniture give it an eclectic, cultured vibe, and Theo’s room could easily be the set of a Wes Anderson film.** Basically, it’s a Pinterest dream … even if the stovetop burners can only be lit with a match.
Anyway, it’s positively wonderful being out of the house and with my boyfriend again. I feel like a real-life adult! I swear, for reasons unknown to psychologists, staying in one’s childhood home causes a person to revert into an incompetent teenager, as though everything one learned in college and beyond about functioning has gone completely out the window, and one is somehow inhabited by the whiny ghost of one’s inept, angst-ridden, sixteen-year-old self, unable to recall any of the life skills or good habits so carefully developed while one was living happily on one’s own. Ugh.
BUT I refuse to focus on that. Tonight, I’ve been completely stress free, and I wish to keep it that way. Theo cooked us salmon with jasmine rice and some sort of honey mustard reduction, while Jett whipped up a quick chocolate-and-peanut-butter mouse, as though that were normal behavior. The two of them gossiped about their fellow caterers and “who’s who” in the kitchen (Axl Blain should not be working hot food, while Kara Mayer is queen of the salad line) before Jett went to go smoke in his bedroom. Theo and I watched the History Channel, discussed the crisis in the Middle East, and will soon be solving crossword puzzles in bed … honestly, a perfect evening. I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages! And I didn’t even mind the marijuana smell radiating from Jett’s bedroom. It smelled a little something like freedom.
I can’t give up on Mom. As long as Val is on my side, I stand a chance against her judgment. Besides, it could be worse! At least Mom called him a serial killer, and not a librarian or a flamenco dancer or something. At least killer implies a certain level of manliness, right? Right??
JUNE 10
Mama Shell
* * *
3:45 P.M.
* * *
Today was the very best day! Why? you may ask. I’ll tell you why! Today was the best day because today Val and Theo met for the first time, and not once did the earth open up and engulf me in raging red flames!
The whole operation was very covert: while Mom was out shopping at Barney’s, Val and I requested Theo on FaceTime, using the pugs as a makeshift alarm system. I even opened Find My Friends as a backup and tracked Mom’s coordinates to determine when she was on her way home. Hahaha! It works both ways, Mother!!
Theo was at work and wearing his hairnet, which makes him look a bit like a balding horse, but Val seemed to think it was interesting and, “like, so profesh.” They discussed her social media presence, and how all restaurants need an Instagram-able item on the menu. The one tiny snafu happened halfway through the conversation, when Val took it upon herself to add yet another lie to the equation.
“Oh, obvi we’ve heard all about you, Theo!”
His pointy ears perked up. “Really? You have?”
Val gave out a slightly exaggerated “HA!” before going on. “Of course we have! Lou never stops talking. We’d love to have you over for dinner sometime … We hear you’re, like, the best cook in town.”
Theo couldn’t contain his excitement. A giant lopsided grin stretched across his face, revealing his front bucked teeth.
“Hells yes, I would love to come over for dinner! What kind of dessert would your family like? Something dairy-free, I’m guessing? Oh, maybe a berry dish! I have so many ideas. I’ll get to work ASAP!”
He was so earnest and happy that for a moment, I almost forgot that it was all a fabrication. I imagine him showing up at the door in a tweed vest and bow tie, berry dish in hand, with that goofy grin planted on his face.
“Hiya, Mr. and Mrs. Hansen! Thank you so much for having me over! I’m Theodore, the serial killer your daughter’s in love with! Tell me, do you like locally sourced berries?”
At the end of the call, Val turned to me with a raised eyebrow and the tiniest smirk.
“Well??” I begged, desperate for some sort of validation. Finally the smirk turned into a full-on smile—hers a little more balanced than Theo’s.
“Girl, he rocks. You have nothing to worry about. This will be, like, a piece of cake.”
I threw my arms around her and hoisted her into the air, just in time for the pug alarm to start sounding. Mom poked her head into the living room, did a quick visual sweep for Dad, then ran swiftly into her bedroom with three stuffed shopping bags in each hand.
One Hansen down, two more to go.
JUNE 11
Mama Shell
* * *
9:10 P.M.
* * *
Living under my mom’s regime is starting to feel like some sort of parental GTMO. Everywhere I go, everything I do, Mom has something to say about it. I can’t even walk out of my room without some sort of judgment being cast upon my very existence. Literally, no split end goes unnoticed.
“Did you brush your hair today?” “Are you going to wear those socks with those shoes?” “Did you see that Megan and her friends are in Europe?” “Didn’t you already have two snacks today?” “Who are you meeting for lunch?” “What do their parents do?” “What’s their social security number?” “Why isn’t your Find My Friends tracker working??”
I recently reiterated my requests for (a) fewer parental remarks and (b) the removal of Find My Friends. However, Mom seems physically incapable of controlling her constant nagging and apparently needs to keep the tracker on me, “in case I’m abducted.”
Ugh, I really have to get back on track if I want to move out within nine months. I went to yoga today in the hopes of clearing my mind, but unfortunately, instructor Pixie Harvest was replaced by Yogi Sergeant Terri, who apparently considers yoga a competitive sport.
“OH, COME ON, IT’S JUST FIFTY MORE SECONDS IN THAT HEADSTAND! MY GRANDMOTHER HAS A STRONGER CORE THAN YOU PEOPLE!! ARE YOU A WARRIOR OR JUST A DAMN CORPSE?!!!”
Anyway, it occurred to me during this class that Sergeant Terri has a job and I still do not, so I’ve decided I’m going to update my résumé tomorrow!
JUNE 15
10:15 P.M.
* * *
I still have not updated my résumé. Instead, I stayed in bed and watched YouTube videos about hoarders and their extraordinary obsessions for four straight hours. I have no idea how I got here.
Stacey, Susan, and Lisa came over for Bachelorette Night, finally forcing me to leave my bedroom at six. The ladies were dressed in matching red pumps, which is their alternative to the famous red hats.* I watched the TV in horror as the remaining contestants each professed their undying love to the Bachelorette, who would later invariably say to the camera/producers, “I don’t knowwwwwwwww.Jeff is, like, so smart and so funny.”
“Mark is, like, so smart and so funny.”
“Brad is, like, SO smart and SO funny.”**
; After an hour of wreaking havoc on my brain cells, I was faced with the deplorable reality that I had spent an entire day doing nothing but watching YouTube and The Bachelorette. Come on, Lou! If these fifty-something ladies can find the chutzpah to leave the houses before noon in sexy red shoes, then you sure as hell should! Where is your work ethic? Your pride? You did NOT spend the past twelve years busting your ass to watch ditzy Pilates instructors eclipse your career by making out with random men and crying!!
Enough. I am a college graduate, dammit. Time to pose like Wonder Woman. Steve Jobs, Shonda Rhimes, Martha Stewart, Me.
JUNE 16
9:30 P.M.
* * *
We have a brilliant idea.
After taking an emergency planning session disguised as a hike, Val and I have decided to use subtle intellectual manipulation to delicately influence Mom’s opinion about my boyfriend. Basically, if Val can plant a few good seeds about Theo in Mom’s mind, then we might just be able to eventually harvest a garden of love and acceptance. Like Inception or a weird form of gaslighting.
Luckily, Val was in a few Gap commercials as a child, so she’ll do most of the convincing. My job is to play it cool and try to not laugh nervously.
I have a good feeling about this. If all goes well, my family will be having Theo over for dinner by this time next week! Maybe even earlier. Between Val’s acting skills and my minor in psychology, there’s no way this could go wrong!
JUNE 17
* * *
Natasha McPatterson
Dearest friends,
I initially refrained from speaking publicly about my current ailment, in the hopes of preventing unnecessary panic, but I’ve received messages from the universe indicating that it’s time to be inclusive. Since arriving in the magnificent city of New Delhi, I’ve been suffering with parasites, and though the case is only minor, it is enough to cause me much discomfort and distress. Some of the symptoms I am experiencing include (but are not limited to) abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue, stomach pain/tenderness, gas, and dysentery.
I am in the presence of a Reiki healer who is determined to return me to health, as well as a sound specialist and two midwives I met in the airport. Please send your best vibes. I look forward to reporting a full recovery.
32 , 3 , 4
Alicia Marie: Oh honey!! Feel better soon!! <3
Chris Sterling: Gas AND dysentery? Damn.
* * *
11:45 P.M.
* * *
Everything is falling apart.
For reasons beyond my understanding, Tash decided to make her fake ailment PUBLIC, resulting in the concern of our entire graduating class. Not to mention Theo, who’s highly troubled by the fact she’s theoretically been inflicted for almost two whole weeks. UGH, she is easily the dumbest genius I have ever met. But instead of getting caught up in her foolishness, I decided to focus all my attention on tonight’s master plan, which resulted in the following shit show:
Dad made us dinner, as he does most nights since Mom refuses to cook with butter, oil, spice, sauce, or anything else resembling flavor. We had grilled chicken breast with a cauliflower puree, which is supposed to be some sort of sick substitution for mashed potatoes. Val and I kept eyeing each other from across the table, like two CIA operatives secretly signaling in enemy territory. Mom occasionally would sneak chunks of chicken under the table to the pugs, who’ve made a habit of scratching our legs until we deliver the goods. Finally Val reached into her pocket and yanked her phone out, the way one might in a telenovela.
“Hold on—I have to check my Facebook!” she announced.
No one seemed to find this behavior odd, despite our “no phones at the table” policy. To be fair, I was the one who implemented this policy back in high school after reading a study about the significance of undisturbed family dinnertime … and I was also the only one who took it seriously. Val continued with her performance: “Oh, wow, look at this cute boy!”
Mom’s head snapped to attention. “Who? What? Where??”
The wisp of a smile appeared on Val’s lips as she shoved the phone up to Mom’s face. Val was pleased with her own performance, and so far, I was, too.
“The one in this picture with Lou! Isn’t he so hot? You know, in a hipster kind of way?”
Mom grabbed the phone and held it away from her, squinting to see clearly. A moment passed before recognition crossed her scrunched-up face.
“Wait, I know this guy. Lulu, isn’t that the serial killer I saw walking with you the other day?”
I all but choked on my chicken. Dad looked up from his plate, confused.
Val jumped right back in, her volume a little too loud. “Serial killer?! No, not at all! He’s just so artsy. He looks, like, super smart. Like socially conscious and stuff. Like Lou!”
Bless you, Valentina. You are the single greatest sister of all time. I will never correct your grammar or ask you to stop saying like inappropriately ever again.
Mom cackled. “Oh boy, are you going to turn hipster on me now? I swear, one of you has to bring me home an athlete, and I had my hopes high for you!”
I dropped my fork. Val face-palmed with two hands. The giggles were upon me in an instant, forcing me to feign a coughing fit to keep myself contained.
Dad butted in. “Shelly! What on earth are you teaching our children?”
Mom snorted and waved a hand.
“Come on, Charlie, I’m just kidding! They know I’m just kidding! Tell him, Lulu.”
I stopped coughing for long enough to let out a sort of half grunt. Val shot me an apologetic look. Baguette continued scratching at my leg, completely oblivious to my agony. Oh god, the horror. The pure, familial horror! How could we underestimate Mother so terribly??
Dad shook his head, clearly upset with Mom’s outrageously shallow declaration. Go on! Let her have it, Charlie!
“Whatever he looks like, he’s clearly Lou’s friend, and that should be enough. Hell, when I was her age living in Queens, half of my friends were serial killers, for Christ’s sake.”
I almost asked, but I didn’t.
He kept on, “Not all of the kids’ friends have to be supermodels, Shell. And besides, it’s not like she’s dating the guy. Right, Lou?”
The manic laughter that burst out of me was taken as confirmation.
Seriously considering my double life option, here. Maybe England? Thailand? The moon??
JUNE 18
JUNE 19
2:20 P.M.
* * *
Since Mom is still in trouble for hiding her shopping receipts and espousing morally questionable ideals at the dinner table, Dad decided to take me on a much needed father-daughter brunch date. After arguing with the waiter for several minutes about whether his eggs were in fact properly over medium instead of over easy, he turned his full and undivided attention toward me.
“So. How’ve you been holding up?” he asked, hands laced together on his extended belly. At least I know whose metabolism I inherited.
“Um … I’m all right,” I mumbled, twisting the silver band that decorated my index finger. “Actually, I’ve been better. Mom can be a bit … much.” I don’t know where the sudden dose of honesty came from, but it felt so good to say something true. Dad nodded knowingly and waited for me to go on, which for reasons unknown, I did.
“I just wish she would give me a little space; that’s all. Or treat me even remotely like an adult.”
His bottom lip pressed up into a frown. Oh no—the dreaded frown.
“Well, are you an adult?”
I paused, taken aback. Was this a trick question?
“That’s what it says on my ID.”
“No, it says you’re twenty-two on your ID. Does that really make you an adult?”
I stared at him, baffled. What kind of question was that? Of course I was an adult! I AM an adult! I’m a college-graduated, twentysomething, 100 percent fully, completely, totally grown-ass woman adult! HUMPH!
>
“I mean, uh … yes?” was all I could muster. The corner of his mouth pressed down further, and I slumped deep into my chair. HUMPH again.
“Okay, fine. I believe you. Then what are you waiting for? Get a job. Find a place. Live your life. I know you’re capable.”
I opened my mouth to say something about the failing economy and housing market and my personal lack of direction, but the pressure of his parental gaze kept me silent. This man was missing part of a toe from the neighborhood gardening business he started at ten years old. Excuses were futile.
“I guess I don’t know where to start.”
Dad’s frown softened a bit, turning into a thin line. “Start by getting a job. At least you’ll be busy all day, and not sitting around like a goddamn worry target for your mother.”
He made a good point. He always makes good points. For a moment, I entertained the idea of bringing up Theo, but then our waiter came back over with “two goddamn golf balls” for eggs, so I decided to keep quiet. Once our server had left with Dad’s plate for a second time, I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone.
Twelve unread messages from Mom.
I groaned and slammed my phone on the table, pushing it toward Dad.
“Here, exhibit A.”
Dad saw the litany of messages and sighed empathetically. YES. The defense rests.
“Look, I’ll talk to your mother. I see that she’s on your back a lot. But you have to step up, too. How’s this: when you send out your first job application, I’ll convince her to delete Find My Friends. Sound good?”
If there really is an Indian goddess of objectionable motherhood, there is also a god of reasonable, level-headed fatherhood, to whom I am deeply indebted. With my new assignment and restored hope, I left brunch a grown-ass woman adult on a mission.
* * *
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