by JD Chambers
“What do you mean?” I lean over to pet a passing Jack Russell terrier that made its owner stop so it could sniff my pants leg. The banging in my head makes me regret that decision, even if the adorable wags I get in return are worth it.
“I’ve never seen you drink like that before. Not even in high school, when by all rights, you should have been partying like the little emo gay boy you were.”
“So I drank a little much. It’s not that unusual,” I say, dusting off my hands now that the dog is no longer interested in my pants. Victoria is already holding out a bottle of hand sanitizer, lid clicked open and ready to use. “You don’t see me all the time now, you know.”
“You’re telling me that you’ve been slowly turning into your mother these past few years and I just failed to notice? I don’t think so.”
My breathing slows and I barely move. Victoria knows not to go there, and I’m beyond furious that she did. Victoria was there for me when my mom was AWOL. Her family took me in so many times after our electricity or water was shut off because my mom couldn’t be bothered to pay the bills. Or because she’d drunk away the funds to pay for it. No, I didn’t act like a typical teenager in many ways because of the persistent fear that I’d turn out like her. So at eighteen I didn’t go to college like everyone else. Instead I got the fuck out of Dodge and started acting like the adult I had been forced to become way too early.
“I am not turning into my mother,” I hiss at her through tight lips. “I had a rough week and wanted to relax. I’m not lushing it up with every guy that looks my way. I’m not abandoning a child while trying to drown any reminders that I’m an adult with responsibilities. And I am really, really pissed off that you would equate the two.”
Victoria holds up her hands, and it’s a testament to her understanding how pissed I really am that she doesn’t try to cajole me out of it. “I’m sorry, Craig. You’re right, that was out of line. But drinking heavily last night aside, you seem like something’s bothering you.”
Our names are finally called, and the bustle of getting situated on the patio outside gives me time to calm down. I have to remind myself that Victoria has seen my mom at her worst, and is concerned because she doesn’t want that for me. Despite how overbearing, over-analyzing, controlling, and let’s not forget bitchy, she might be.
Chicory coffee scents the air, and I turn over my cup, greedy for the caffeine. No longer in the shade of the full maple trees that line the front yard of the restaurant, the brightness of the day is drilling into my brain. Best to hide it from Victoria or there will be another lecture coming. Hopefully coffee will help.
The distraction of being seated and ordering doesn’t deter Victoria, though, who keeps shooting pointed looks my way. I hadn’t told her about applying to school, because I didn’t want the stress of having someone to tell if I didn’t get in. But as much as I hate her butting in, she’s my self-appointed advice-giver, so maybe she can make sense of my jumbled thoughts on the matter. My twisted-up brain certainly hasn’t been able to make a decision on its own.
“I applied to Front Range Community College and I got in.”
Victoria’s eyes bug out, and she covers her cough with a gingham fabric napkin. “Wow, I really thought it was going to be about that guy last night.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Of course you would. Wait, what guy last night?”
“The blond you called, and I quote, ‘Blushy McBlusherson’?”
So I didn’t hallucinate that. “Fuck.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says with a knowing look. “That’s what I thought.”
There is no place to hide in shame. I try anyway. “Did I really say that?”
“Oh yeah. And it pissed him off, too. You don’t remember?” I shake my head no. “Well, he went from flirty red to angry red in less than two seconds. You might want to start practicing your apologies now.”
“I don’t know him. I have no way to apologize.” Victoria looks confused, so I explain. “He’s the roommate of my new co-worker.”
She shakes her head. “That’s our Craig. Irritating strangers since 1991.”
“Bitch!” I rub my chest, pretending to be wounded. “Besides, I shared my school revelation with you. Aren’t we supposed to be focusing on that and all the wonderful unsolicited advice you want to give me?”
“Sorry, you distracted me,” she says as biscuits the size of a box of Pop-Tarts are delivered to our table. “Besides, I had no idea you wanted to go to school. What’s your major going to be? And why now? Honestly, it’s like I don’t even know you this weekend.” Victoria shakes her head as she slathers the top of the biscuit in strawberry rhubarb jelly and forks up a gigantic mouthful.
“No, you didn’t miss anything, because I never mentioned it. I don’t even know if I’m going to go or not.” I toy with my own biscuit, breaking off tiny bite-sized pieces rather than digging straight in. “Or what I’d study. I just got tired of feeling like I missed out on something by not going to college.”
“Then my advice for you is to do what makes you happy,” she says, waving her fork pointedly in my direction before diving into her biscuit again. “God, I’ve missed these. But really, Craig, if you aren’t going for a particular reason, or with a specific goal in mind, then fuck what everyone else thinks. Only go if it’s what you want to do.”
“But what if it makes me happy to do what’s expected of me, even if what’s expected of me wouldn’t necessarily make me happy?”
Victoria snorts at that, loudly, which the waitress dropping off our plates politely ignores.
“Yeah, like my quinceañera? Remember that?”
“That was different,” I hedge, and try to hold in my laughter as I remember Victoria looking like a cupcake in a pale blue chiffon and tulle eruption. The foot-tall crown made her look like Glinda the Good Witch, but with her murderous expression and resistance at every dance and speech in her honor, it felt more like the Wicked Witch was just waiting to sic her flying monkeys on us all. Good times.
“Right. I thought making my family happy and enduring the big party would be easier than fighting them on it. In the end, no one was happy. Don’t be the grumpy tulle bowling ball, Craig.” I can’t stifle the laugh this time, because oh my god, that’s exactly what she looked like. “Do what you want.”
We don’t stop our conversation, but she places her bacon onto my plate, and I spoon the butter off my waffle and put it onto what remains of her biscuit before handing her the hot sauce and pepper. If either of us were straight, we’d be a boring married couple by now, with our practiced ease.
After breakfast, Victoria offers to drive me back home, but I’d rather walk. I kiss her cheek and promise to call her more, and I’m once again reminded that family is sometimes what we make it, and not what we’re born with. I’m not sure if it’s a result of the hangover or because seeing Victoria reminds me of not-so-happy times, but I’m left with melancholy thoughts as I meander through old spruce-lined streets on my way home. I still don’t have a clue what I’m going to do about college, and now I apparently have some amends to make to a blushing, curly-headed, angry man because I can’t control my big mouth. And the weekend has barely begun.
5
Zach
What does it say about my life that my weekends are worse than my work days? That I actually look forward to my work week? After the disaster that was last night’s “beers with friends,” I want to stay curled up in bed all day. But no, I have to get up and make knots, excuse me, extra knots, for my cousin Parker. Because the family dinner is tonight. Fuck my life.
It’s past noon by the time Ben emerges from his room. I think he was waiting until I had my hands wrist-deep in dough.
“Zack, I’m so sorry.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, which I promptly shrug off. We both know I’d leave the room if I could, but I still have four minutes of kneading time left. My knots will turn out crappy if I stop, and then I won’t have any way to show up Parker tonig
ht. Ben’s got me trapped, the cunning bastard.
“I had no idea we’d run into him, and I promise I didn’t tell anyone else. Well, you could see that. Dave mentioned him to you like you’d never even heard of him. No one else knew. It literally was a two-second conversation between Craig and me that we never discussed again.”
“That was an incorrect use of the word literally. And you’re a college graduate,” I scoff.
“I didn’t study to become part of the grammar police, like some people.” He shuffles over to the coffee pot and polishes it off, using a cup that looks more like a bowl.
“No, just a teacher, so it’s even worse. You’d better make more,” I say, even though he’s already started cleaning and refilling the filter with fresh grounds. God, I’m acting like a teenager with my passive-aggressive bullshit, but I’m still so angry. No, I’m actually still embarrassed, but that would make me vulnerable, so I manifest it outwardly as anger. Apparently I studied to be the grammar police and an amateur psychologist in college, but whatever.
“He was a total dick. For no reason. Why would he be a dick if you hadn’t talked about it?” Right? Who does that? Makes fun of someone they don’t know? A dick, that’s who.
“Zach, look at me.” Ben sits on the bar stool across from me and I have no choice. “We only talked about you the day you brought me my lunch. He thought we were boyfriends. I corrected him and said no, we’re roommates. He then floated this crazy theory that the reason you seemed so nervous was because you had a crush on me. And that’s the extent of it. We never said one word about you again until last night.”
My jaw drops and it takes me a few seconds to realize my hands have gone still.
“Crap!” I glance at the timer to see thirty seconds still flashing at me and get my hands kneading again. “And you didn’t bother to correct him? About us? Or at least me?”
Ben just shrugs and blows into his mug. “Dude, you’re getting shrill. I tried. But after looking at him, I guessed, correctly I might add, that he made you go stupid. And I figured that explanation would be way worse to share with him. ‘Sorry about my roommate. Stuttering and blushing is like his mating call.’ Although personally, I think he likes you.”
“You’re crazy. The man is straight.”
“How do you know?”
“Umm, the girl he was on a date with last night?” I toss the dough back into the bowl a little too forcefully and oil splatters everywhere. Damn it, that’s a bitch to clean up.
“Narrow-minded much?” Ben reaches out to flick a dot of oil off my glasses, but ends up smearing it instead.
“Fine, I’ll give you that one,” I say, turning around to scrub my hands clean of the dough and oil. “But I’m still baffled as to why you let him continue thinking I have a crush on you.”
“So you’d rather have him think that you’re always that much of a social leper for no reason at all? Although after the way you ran off last night, that’s probably already his opinion.”
“Not helping,” I growl, shifting from half-blind to fully blind while I try to remove the oily smudge from my glasses. It takes forever to get everything clean of oil before I cover the bowl with wrap and stick it on top of the fridge.
I pour myself another cup of coffee and take the stool next to him.
“Why am I such a spaz?” I gently bang my head onto the counter until Ben slips a hand underneath.
“Because I need someone who makes me look good in comparison. It’s actually really thoughtful of you.”
“Oh my god, I hate you so much.”
I shove Ben off his stool, but he drags me down with him and starts giving me noogies.
“How old are you?” I try to slap him away, without effect.
“Twelve. Say you love me.”
“No!”
“I’m not stopping until you admit you love me!”
“Never!”
Rushing up the steps of my family’s perfectly manicured lawn, I once again curse Ben in my head. Really, it’s not his fault that he tried a Lord of the Rings marathon to get me over my funk, and I forgot that just getting through the first movie would take up my whole afternoon. But what are best friends for, if not shouldering all the blame?
As a result, I’m fifteen minutes late getting to my parents’ house in Greeley. It doesn’t sound like much, except I know from experience that Parker and Shelby will have arrived early so they can “help.” I mentally use air quotes, because my mother would never dream of asking them to do anything, and they are fully aware of this. Hence the requisite song and dance.
Greeley is roughly halfway between Fort Collins and Denver. There’s a college here that my mom pushed like crazy for me to attend. I could stay at home, she said. Continue going to church with all the people who love me, she said. I didn’t think twice about going to CSU. My sanity still thanks me for it.
Mom slings the door open before I’ve even made it to the porch.
“Zachariah, where have you been? I need help getting the potatoes mashed. That’s all that’s left and we’ve been waiting on you.”
The word help in my case doesn’t need air quotes, because it’s demanded, not giggled and batted away. I roll my eyes as soon as she turns around – it’s the last time in the next four hours that I’ll be able to. Mom drops everything and leaves the rest of dinner to me, just as I knew she would.
“How’s work going?” Dad asks. Mom leaving the kitchen means that it’s safe now for Dad to retreat here.
“Good,” I say, waiting to start the hand mixer for the potatoes because it will be too loud to talk. “One of the business plans I wrote for a client won a contest and they are going to receive full funding.”
Dad’s an accountant, so although we don’t talk shop often, at least he understands what I’m saying when I talk about my work.
“Impressive,” he says with a nod. He’s not the most demonstrative of parents, but I can still tell he’s proud.
“Do you need something to do?” I ask, because if he’s caught in here chatting with me, Mom will find a task for him. Sometimes he’ll come in while I’m working on dinner, and I’ll give him some busywork just to keep her off his back.
“I’ve already been tasked with filling the water glasses,” he says, and I pull out a tray from under the counter so that it’s easier for him to carry. He’d try to juggle them in his hands, and then Mom would get exasperated when something inevitably spilled.
Once the potatoes are mashed and seasoned to perfection, I carry the bowl to the dining room where everyone waits, already seated. Shelby waves me over to bestow fake air kisses around me, and Parker gives me a firm handshake. I wonder if the two of them saw Leave It to Beaver and other 1950’s-era shows as how-to guides instead of fictitious farces.
Dad keeps quiet throughout dinner except to compliment my mother on the meal. Shelby ignores my existence and focuses her attention on garnering compliments from my mother for Parker.
“Did you know that Parker met with a colonel at Peterson last week?”
“Did Parker tell you that he’s working on a presentation for the National Engineer’s Association? They specifically requested him to speak at their annual conference.”
“Did I tell you about the humongous dump Parker took last night?”
So I may have made that last one up. But seriously. Each comment gets praise from my mother, along with promises to call his mother to brag on him some more. Meanwhile, Parker stuffs his face with chicken parmesan with such singular focus you’d think he hasn’t heard a word Shelby or my Mom have said.
I feel like I’m watching all this from outside a museum glass, where I’m the only one who realizes that the behavior exhibited is a strange, plastic facsimile of cultural norms, and not normal at all. Still, I eat my chicken, and give myself extra helpings of mashed potatoes and knots because I’ve earned them, and chuckle to myself when I ask Shelby if she thinks Parker will share any of his extra knots with her.
“Of co
urse, because he loves me,” Shelby says and glares at me for daring to insinuate otherwise.
Dinner has just been cleared away when Shelby taps on her water glass and giggles, and I remind my eyeballs that they are not allowed to retreat back into my head right now.
“Parker and I have an announcement,” she says as she looks around the table. Parker is beaming, my dad has a look that he probably thinks conveys interest but actually looks like he’s trying to hold in a shit, and Mom’s practically drooling while hanging off Shelby’s every word.
“We’re pregnant!”
Mom squeals – no exaggeration – and rushes to hug Shelby. My dad raises his water glass and congratulates Parker. I’m sitting there wondering when the phrase “we’re pregnant” became popular. Sure, he helped, but is Parker going to be carrying a fetus around in his stomach? I don’t think that’s the way it works.
“I knew you’d be thrilled, Bonnie,” Shelby says to my mom. “Knowing that someone is carrying on your family name.”
Oh, the claws are out now. See, Shelby is really the devil wrapped inside the packaging of a Sunday school teacher. I may be ambivalent toward Parker, despite the family history, but Shelby has always been, and always will be, a Grade-A bitch.
“You know, given that our moms are sisters, it isn’t their name that’s being carried on.”
Shelby glares at me over Mom’s shoulder and Mom spins around and pins me with a look.
“That’s not the point, and you know it. The family line will be carried on, and I think it’s just wonderful, Shelby. Don’t you have something to say to them, Zachariah?”
“I could carry on the family line.” Yeah, not falling for it. If I open my mouth to say something directly to Shelby, it will be “Hope you don’t get too fat.”