Twelve Months of Awkward Moments

by Lisa Acerbo

  “Good. Last year at CCSC. You?”

  “This and that.” He points to the boy. “That’s Ryan, my son.”

  “I’ve seen some pictures. You post a lot on Facebook.” I’m not sure what tangled emotions cross John’s face, so I try to clarify. “You should. He’s adorable.”

  “Thanks.” He pauses a moment. “Did you hear I broke up with his mom?”

  “No, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s for the best.” A collage of pain and loneliness enters his eyes. “College suits you. You look good. Any chance you want to go out Friday?”

  I’m caught off guard. John and I never had the same friends, goals, or classes in high school. He was bad-boy hot then, and many girls had crushes on him, including me.

  I was the uptight brain, too focused on surviving high school, to be anyone’s buddy. If we said a passing “hello” in the hall, it was a talkative day for us. But now, he’s different. A grown man. He has a job and a son. I consider his offer. It’s not like the party invites have been overwhelming.

  He is still hot. And nice.

  But there is Brice. What’s happening with us?

  Nothing, I remind myself. Absolutely nothing. He even stopped asking for my lunch order.

  “Okay,” I say. Christmas Eve falls on a Wednesday this year, so I have two days to back out if I decide against the date.

  “Do you remember Sam’s?”

  It was a dive bar I never experienced, except once during my senior year. They served all the underage students who were regulars.

  “Sure. It’s still open?”

  “It is. I’ll meet you there at eight on Friday.”

  “It’s a date.”

  I’m preoccupied with happiness as I head home, hustling through the front door. My mom greets me, her short salt and pepper hair bouncy from a recent trip to the beauty parlor. Bob, my step-dad, married into the family two years ago. He’s an electrician who did a stint in the Army. He’s gruff and non-communicative, but he likes to show off his gun collection when boys come by, not that this has been a common occurrence. Today, he sits in his recliner and watches television. He sends a wave of his hand my way in acknowledgement when I enter.

  I barely have to get ready for our traditional Christmas Eve torture session: dinner at Grandma’s, and I’m so preoccupied with the possibility of my upcoming date that I almost leave wearing two different shoes.

  We arrive at my grandparent’s house as the last daylight recedes. I follow Mom and Bob along the cracked sidewalk to the small brown colonial on a dead-end street in Milford. A rusted, green Ford pick-up that Grandpa hasn’t been able to drive for years sits forlorn in the driveway.

  We knock, but don’t wait for an answer, entering the chaos uninvited. Cousins, drinking spiked eggnog, chat in clumps while children decorate a tall, lopsided Christmas tree. I cringe when I notice it’s covered in large colored lights, mismatched glass bulbs, and crinkled tinsel.

  “You used to decorate the tree,” my mom says, noticing the misshapen conifer.

  “That was years ago.”

  “Not that long ago.” She is weepy and nostalgic.

  I see who I get some of my best character traits from.

  I study the tree, trying to remember when I decorated it last. My second cousins throw tinsel like confetti, and it bothers me. Tinsel should be used sparingly and lined up piece by piece, so each strand falls at the same length as the previously applied one. Order, it keeps me centered.

  While I like most of my relatives, I wish I lived in a different world sometimes. One with fewer glasses of eggnog and hard liquor bottles that lead to too many inappropriate hugs, loud voices, and crying children.

  I spot my grandparents across the living room. They are decked out in their Christmas finery, wearing matching red sweaters with pictures of ornaments stitched on the front. I hug Grandma Julia and hand her a present wrapped in paper that shows dogs wearing Santa hats. She pulls me to an empty corner, opens it, and then, to my embarrassment, puts it on.

  For everyone in the room, she models the pink quilted robe I bought her at JC Penny. It’s buttoned to the top of her wrinkled chin, bulky on her thin, ninety-pound frame. The proud display over the simple gift is drawing attention. I want to shrink, disappear, snatch that pink robe off her body, and run far away.

  I catch my grandfather’s eyes, pleading silently for help. Stan sits in a rocking chair, beer can in hand. He’s the opposite physically, bordering two hundred pounds and sporting red flannel pajama bottoms that climb up to the middle of his belly. He sends me a smile, and I send him a wave. He does nothing to end my shame.

  When she finally takes the robe off, I sit on the red vintage sofa that my grandmother sews slip covers and pillows for every ten years. I watch Grandma Julia fuss over everyone, bringing mom a gin and Bob his beer.

  “Sit,” my mom tells Grandma.

  “I’m fine. Who knows how many more years I’ll be able to do this for?” Grandma dismisses my mom with a wave of her hand.

  “Let me help you,” Mom says, scanning the assorted crowd gathered in the living room.

  “No.” Gram is the champ and has it under control, banishing my mom to the kitchen. “Go baste something in there.”

  Cousins, aunts, and uncles come over, and I answer college questions and catch up on stories about children and pets, all the time remembering I can escape upstairs to the bedrooms if I need to. My grandmother and I have made that my safe space, if the noise and chaos of people in the house get overwhelming.

  Finally, Grandma Julia commandeers a rocking chair, angling away it away from the television, which blasts a movie with Christmas music. She quizzes me mercilessly. “How are the prospects this year?” She is referring to my marriage prospects.

  “Same as the last year.”

  She pats my knee. “You’ll find the right one soon, dear.”

  “I hope so.” It’s almost a whisper. Love doesn’t want to be my friend, and I doubt anyone will give it to me as a present this year.

  “We need lots of great grandchildren to fill our golden age with joy.”

  I glance around the packed living room. “Looks like things are going okay.”

  She snorts. “Cousins are not the same as granddaughters or great grandchildren. Plus, I rarely see your sister, and Barry is out in Utah with that crazy wife of his.”

  Ah, yes, another looney in the family.

  “How is Uncle Barry and Aunt Verona?”

  “I have no idea why he married that woman, but at least they have those two beautiful babies. We’re taking a trip once Stan’s hip replacement heals.”

  “That sounds fun,” I say. “The trip, not the hip replacement.”

  “Not as fun as great grandkids.” Her voice sings like a Christmas carol.

  I don’t argue with her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How are classes? Still my straight-A student?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I got an A- in public speaking. I hope it doesn’t tank my average.”

  “Public speaking, bah.” She dismisses the idea with a shake of her head. “Here. Take this.” She withdraws a fifty-dollar bill out of her pocket and hands it to me. “I gave everyone else a twenty.”

  “Thanks, Gram.” I accept the donation.

  “Don’t lose it.” She wags a finger at me.

  “I won’t.” I place it carefully in my purse.

  “And give me lots of grandchildren.”

  “Someday.” I smile.

  “Soon.” And with that demand, Grandma propels herself out of the chair. “I have to check on your mom and the ham in the oven. She could ruin it.” She peers over her shoulder. “I had to put you at the kid’s table. Too many people at the other one.”

  The day just gets better and better.

  At dinner, we all surrender to the prospect of dying early by eating an unhealthy Italian-Polish feast. The table has traditional offerings: ham, carrots, and mashed potatoes, alongside golabpki, pierogis, and an unn
amed pasta dish topped with bread crumbs and mushroom sauce. And then there is the fish, squishy eye still intact and staring up at me, and more pasta than a restaurant would serve on a busy night. Every dish is smothered in some type of cream, oil, or butter.

  Yes, we are a health-conscious bunch.

  With stomachs full and while the adults clean up, some of us at the kid’s table retire to the basement playroom where we blast the television, as loud as it will go without causing the parents to investigate. We all grew up within blocks of each other, playing on the same streets, but I’m the black sheep, not wanting to come back to the neighborhood after college.

  American Pie is on, and Alek, my sixteen-year-old cousin twice removed, won’t let anyone switch the channel. It’s awkward watching the movie with him and his brother Peter. I’m the oldest, with Peter next at nineteen, his brother Alek, and three younger cousins between eight and eleven.

  I’m staring at the television but remembering Brice. How he looked standing before me, almost naked. One of my most favorite memories.

  “How do you like CCSC?” Peter asks, interrupting my daydreams when he scoots next to me on the floor.

  “It’s good. Where are you again?”

  “Penn State.” Peter puffs out his chest. “It’s a party school, and I’m into it all.”

  I assess him. Slightly pudgy, flat, brown hair plastered to his forehead, and sporting a KISS T-shirt. I highly doubt he has women swooning at his feet, but I go with it.

  “Good for you. I’m really focused on my studies this semester. I want to make dean’s list again.”

  “I want to just make it. You ever heard of S&M?”

  “Excuse me? Is that like M&Ms?”

  This time he whispers. “You know, S & M, sadomasochism.”

  I haven’t heard, other than watching Blue Velvet. Luckily, I don’t need to reply and show my ignorance about the seedy side of college life because Peter’s father crosses the threshold.

  “Dessert time,” he says and then glimpses the television where a man is getting happy with some apple pie. “What the fuck is this?” His voice explodes over the television.

  “It’s just a movie,” Alek says. “Calm down!”

  “Out! All of you out!” He jabs the power button on the television so hard, the screen rocks back and forth before fading to black. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  We scramble, abandoning the playroom for the dining room, and eat our cake in silence as everyone else has gotten louder thanks to ever more generous pours of alcohol.

  Coffee and dessert are always an interesting project at my grandparents’ house. Coffee is perked; no Keurig machine will ever make it into this home. Grounds are placed in an ancient, chipped silver percolator and set on the gas stove that grudgingly hisses to life with the nudging of a match. I cringe at the first splatter of fire, dreading the day it roars uncontrollable and burns down the house.

  The cakes and pies are placed on antique platters, some chipped and missing pieces, others glued back together. My grandmother refuses to update anything, and Grandpa is always fixing, mending, or grafting every item in the house. The fact that the fraying wires and exposed electrical circuits still work, and the house is not consumed by fire, astound me, especially on nights like this when every light burns and every contraption needing gas, electricity, or oil is running at full force. My grandparents are a model of living frugally on days other than the holidays.

  This is my normal. There’s something soothing about the routine, even if it’s a crazy holiday routine, and I enjoy dessert while planning my escape from Peter.

  Tonight, anything goes.

  * * * *

  It’s Friday evening, and I’m in a good mood. The Christmas cash is in, and it exceeded expectations. I have a date with a hottie from high school, and I made it through one of the most stressful holidays of the year.

  We meet at Sam’s bar, crammed into a small lot between a diner and a river. I arrive a few minutes early, but then sit in the car, battling a case of nerves, and watch people go inside. As the minutes tick by, my anxiety rises higher when I don’t see John. I hope he’s already there, and I won’t have to sit alone and wait for him. After a long ten minutes, I venture inside.

  It’s dark, dingy, and cramped with a mix of old men at the bar and college students and underage drinkers in the dark recesses. John sits on a bar stool, right at home.

  “Hi, beautiful,” he says as I slide next to him.

  John could be a model in the faded jeans and a striped flannel he wears. I can still see some of the star high school quarterback as he sits tall. But there’s more. Maybe it’s the old men who crowd around him, the scuffed work boots, or the half empty glass of beer that is at home in front of him, but John is a little sad and world-weary, too. Maybe that’s what children do to you. I scan my surroundings, wondering why John picked this, of all places, to have our date.

  “So how was your Christmas?” John asks as I take off my brown, plaid JC Penny on sale after Christmas present to myself coat.

  “Fine. Happier to be here.” It’s a small white lie. I’m happy to be here even if the creepy old guy sitting next to me is staring at my short skirt. And consideration of Brice leave me conflicted.

  “Really?” He takes a sip of beer. “I thought you college girls go for wilder stuff than this.”

  “This is great.” I sit when he pats the stool top next to him. The bartender comes over, and I order a glass of wine.

  John pays, and I wonder if I misjudged him. We are no longer in high school.

  He relaxes in his seat. “Tell me about college.”

  “I’m at CCSC. Not too exciting, but it’s my last year. I’m not sure what to do with my degree.”

  “What is it?”

  “Animal science.” I wince, remembering my family’s reaction.

  “What can you do with that?”

  That’s the question I get nine times out of ten. “Work in a lab or at a pharmaceutical company.”

  “I had a full ride at CCSC to play football.” There’s that deep sadness in his eyes.

  “I didn’t realize that,” I say.

  He chugs back the rest of his beer and orders another. I nurse my wine.

  “Janice got pregnant, and I had to stay.” He peers around the room, as if the bar is an integral part of those memories. “Her parents were nice about it, helping us get the house, but it didn’t work out.”

  “Can I ask what happened?”

  The soccer team on the television screen scores a goal, and the place erupts in cheers, making it hard to hear for a moment.

  “I guess we didn’t have a lot in common, other than the baby.” His fingers tap the bar. Then he signals to the bartender to get him another as he finishes the beer in front of him in a few large gulps. “You like kids?”

  “Sure.” I really don’t, but the lies keep coming. “What’s Ryan like?”

  “Full of energy.” His eyes are bright when he talks. “He’s always running around, trying to get into trouble.” It is obvious John loves his son at least as much as his beer.

  “Is he in kindergarten?”

  “Next year. Want to see a picture I took on Christmas day?” He doesn’t wait for a reply but pulls out his phone. Ryan and John share the same fine blond hair and athletic build.

  “Cute.”

  “The light of my life.” He beams as he puts his phone away.

  It’s nice to know John is invested in his son’s life, but the conversation lacks any kind of flirty, fun vibe. This is supposed to be a date. He’s a hot guy. I feel pretty. I shift closer and try and change that.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Since I moved out of the house with Janice, I’ve been living in an apartment on Sunset. I work at Pizza and Brew. You should drop in sometime, and I can score you a free pizza.”

  “That sounds good.” I flash him a grin I hope looks sexy. “What do you do outside of work?”

  “I watch Ryan
.” He laughs. “Being a dad is full-time. I pick him up from Janice’s when she goes to work and have him during the day. I get him to his grandparents or a sitter when I go to my shift at the restaurant around three or four. His mom gets him from there and has him at night.”

  “Oh.”

  His entire life revolves around his son. No room for anything fun or flirty. At a loss for what to say next, I stare into my wine glass and then take an unladylike gulp. It goes down bitter.

  He takes another sip of beer, and suddenly his eyes are on mine, focused and intent. “Do you miss high school?”

  “Not at all.” The words spill out quickly.

  His blond head shakes, eyes hollow with memories. “Those were the glory days. I miss football and my friends and all the epic blowout parties.”

  Which I had not been invited to attend, I remind myself.

  “Do you keep in touch with anyone? Most of my friends from high school have ventured off to interesting places such as New York University and Florida State. CCSC seems so local.”

  “Most people are gone,” he says. “Paul stayed local, too.”

  Paul’s a ghost in my memory. I can barely pull up his face in my mind. Another handsome, football-playing jock outside my small, studious circle of friends.

  “That’s good. I’m still close with Katie, but not many others.”

  His brow furrows, and his lips compress into a hard line. “Bonnie?”

  “The valedictorian from the year we graduated.”

  “I remember.” He smiles again. “I’d love to go back and do it all over again.” He’s talking louder as the bar fills up. Someone throws money in a retro jukebox, and Nirvana blasts out. “Wouldn’t it be interesting to go back?”

  “I’m pretty happy with where I am now.” I hope that doesn’t sound bitchy, but damn those good old high school days. In high school, I towered over most of the boys, and by the time they caught up to me senior year, I’d been relegated to the friend category. I add, “I can see how it might be fun to go back.”

  “Sure. Why not? I mean, Janice and I crushed high school. We were the couple, everyone loved. We smoked, drank, and had lots of sex. What more could you want?”