by Jeff Zentner
Me: I think we should still go. Maybe someone else there can help us.
Josie: If we don’t know if he’s going to help us, I’d rather visit my aunt.
Me: But I really wanna go and I can’t afford to if you don’t drive. I don’t have money for a plane ticket or whatever.
Josie: DeeeeeeeeDeeeeeeeee.
Me: If you want a career in TV we gotta start doing stuff like this.
Josie: I mean, let’s feel out the vibe.
Me: I never know exactly what it means when you say that.
Josie: It means there’s maybe a vibe, and we’re going to feel it out.
Me: Ok it seems like you’re literally just saying words when you say that.
Josie: It’s hard to define.
Me: I noticed. BTW Jack Divine’s website is hilariously low rent.
Josie: Uh-oh.
Me: I think it’s fine? It kinda makes him seem more legit in a weird way?
Josie: If you say so. K, I gotta go eat. Love you, DeeDeeBooBoo.
Me: Ask about ShiverCon. Love you, JoJoBee.
* * *
•••
I turn on the TV and idly drift until I land on a half-finished showing of Jason X on the Syfy channel. I’ve seen it a couple of times, but I can’t resist. It’s like Alien, if Alien were written on an Arby’s napkin in a Camaro doing donuts in a parking lot.
I have a gray uncentered feeling of unease. Like when you know you’ve forgotten something important, but you can’t remember what it was. And you try to tell yourself that it must not have been that important if you forgot it, but you can’t quite persuade yourself. I keep checking my phone, as though Jack Divine is going to answer an email from a random high school girl on a Friday night—or at all.
And then my brain makes a connection. Emailing Jack Divine reminded me of my dad. And if I’m brave enough to randomly email Jack Divine, then I’m brave enough to randomly email my dad. Maybe.
Dear Dad,
I didn’t know whether I should call you Dad or Derek Armstrong the first time I tried to email you. Of course, I never had to decide because I chickened out and didn’t send it. This time I’m calling you Dad whether you like it or not. You’re still my dad, no matter how much you don’t want to be anymore.
In my first email, I told you about the stuff that’s going on in my life, but I’m not sure I feel like telling you all that yet. I don’t want the good stuff in my life to make you feel any less guilt (if you even feel any) for leaving. Instead, I’m going to tell you about my first birthday after you left.
A little while ago, I was thinking about my last birthday with you here. It was one of the best days of my life. My first birthday after you left? Not so much. It was pretty thrown together. We had it at Chuck E. Cheese’s. Mom was doing really bad then, and we got invites out at the last minute. We invited seven kids from my class, but only two came. I remember I cried later because I was humiliated. Mom looked so exhausted, I told my friends she had the flu. I was embarrassed by that too, even though now I know she was doing the best she could. I tried to have fun and laugh and play the games, but all I could think about was how empty and sad my life felt. I could tell it was super obvious to my friends. We got home, and Mom locked herself in her bedroom. I sat in the living room with my two presents and wondered if I would ever be happy again.
But I’m happy now. Mostly. I have some good things in my life. My best friend Josie and I are horror hosts on our own show on TV Six here. It’s called Midnite Matinee. We’re already in seven markets outside Jackson. I promised myself I wasn’t going to tell you the good things in my life, but I can’t help it. I’m too proud.
I don’t expect you to ever respond to this. In fact, I’m not even sure I’m going to send it. The more I type, the less I feel like it. I guess if you’re reading this, I decided to send it. But here’s a promise: one day I’m going to show up in your life and make you look me in the eye and tell me why you left. You owe me that, at least.
Your daughter,
Delia
Delete.
Cry.
Me: How tall does someone have to be before they have to explain to people why they’re not a basketball player?
Lawson: I don’t know. Why?
Me: Because after I dropped Delia off, I saw someone who was at least 6’8” but he didn’t look at all like a basketball player.
Lawson: If I saw someone who was 6’8” I would definitely wonder why they didn’t play basketball if they didn’t.
Me: It would suck to be 6’8” and really want to be an accountant or something.
Lawson: It might be an advantage for making really tall spreadsheets.
Me: Haha.
Dad is giving me the look, so I slip my phone under my leg and take another bite of lasagna. Lawson has just passed the Random Josie Observations test. To pass this test, you must never, ever question the validity of one of my random observations but only engage with it on its own terms. This was a crucial test for Lawson to have aced if he wanted to be my friend. My phone buzzes under my leg, and I sneak a quick peek.
Lawson: It was really nice to see you tonight. That always makes me happy.
I appreciate his profound lack of chill about me. It’s flattering.
“Josie’s checking her phone,” Alexis says.
Dad renews the look. “Josie.”
I kick Alexis under the table. “Dude, seriously. You’re basically a stack of rats standing on each other’s shoulders and wearing a hoodie and sweatpants.”
She mewls in protest (sounding not unlike a stepped-on rat, if I’m being honest).
“We’ve warned you several times specifically about comparing Alexis to a stack of rats in human clothing,” Mom says.
“Well.”
“Well nothing,” Mom says. “You know Alexis finds that upsetting.”
“I wouldn’t need to do it if she weren’t such a snitch.”
Dad points with his fork and talks with his mouth full. “She wouldn’t need to snitch if you didn’t do stuff for her to snitch about.”
“That’s victim-blaming,” I say.
Mom snorts. “Please.”
Silence passes, punctuated by the scraping of forks on plates. Alexis, blessedly, asks to be excused and leaves; we squint at each other as she goes, and I mouth, Eat me.
Dad leans back in his chair. “So how was filming tonight?”
“Good. That guy Lawson you met last week helped us again.”
“What did he do?”
“Broke a bunch of boards. He’s way good at Tae Kwon Do.”
More silence, the scraping of forks on plates. My dad starts to push back from the table, and I suddenly realize I have a golden opportunity. My parents are full and seem reasonably content, my fight with Alexis has probably subsided in their minds, and she isn’t around.
“Hey, so, question,” I say nonchalantly. No big deal, Mom-bro and Dad-bro, just chillin’ here.
My parents fix their gazes on me.
“Remember what I was telling you about ShiverCon? How Delia and I thought it would be a good idea to go?”
“That’s the thing happening the weekend of our family trip to visit Aunt Cassie, right?” Mom asks, a suspicious timbre in her voice.
“Yeah…so, Delia and I have been talking and we really, really think we need to go down there and try to meet this TV producer. And…network.”
Dad leans forward. “Who will then…”
“Get our show to a wider audience. Hopefully.”
“And what makes you think he’ll be able to do that?” my mom asks.
“I mean, he was a big-time producer in the nineties. Like for the kind of show we do.”
“The nineties were before you were born,” Mom says. “I’m not a showbiz
expert, but that strikes me as a long time.”
“People have comebacks.”
Dad gets up, goes to the fridge, and gets a Diet Coke. “How do you know he’s even interested in a comeback?”
“He’s going to be speaking at ShiverCon. They probably wouldn’t have invited him if he weren’t still important in that world. And he probably wouldn’t do it if he weren’t still interested in show business.”
“People do stuff for lots of reasons,” Dad says.
“But more to the point,” Mom says, “this was going to be our last family vacation before you went to college. Once you get to college, things’ll be different.”
“Not that different.” I slump in my chair and fiddle with my fork. Buford sidles up to me with a jingle of tags, his sad eyes hopeful for some scraps. I scratch him behind the ears.
“We want you to come with us on this trip,” Dad says.
“And I want to come, but this is a great opportunity for us.”
“You already have a great prospect with that internship at Food Network,” Mom says. “Have I mentioned that Tamara created the slot especially for you? It’s not even part of the normal internship program. That’s the only reason you haven’t missed out on the chance already.”
I faux-gasp. “What?! You hadn’t mentioned that already like fifteen times.”
“No need to be cute, Jo,” Dad says. “We’re having a grown-up conversation here.”
I sit up straight again, sensing an opening. “Isn’t part of being a grown-up doing things on your own? This internship offer is something that you got for me. I want to find my way in life for myself. I want to earn what I get.” I work to keep from smiling as I see this land on my parents. I pull Buford’s face to mine and give him a kiss. “Yes, we do, don’t we, Bufie Bear? We like to earn what we get!”
My parents fidget and trade quick well, this IS how we raised her looks.
“Is this even what you really want?” Dad asks. “To keep doing this show, but on a higher level?”
“Yes!” I know it’s key that I sell this part and I try, but I break eye contact at the last second.
Mom seeks my eyes. “Jo.”
“What? I want to be on TV. I have since I was little. And now I have a chance to do it with something I helped create.”
Mom and Dad say nothing.
I fill the silence. “This is my future. Why can’t I be, like, the author of my own destiny?”
“Where is this conference again?” Dad asks.
“Florida. Orlando.”
Dad drums his fingers on the tabletop. “You’re planning on getting down there how?”
“Drive.”
“Staying where?” Mom asks.
“A hotel. Near the conference center.”
“I assume all of this costs money?” Dad asks.
I shrug and nod.
“Hundreds of dollars,” Dad says.
“That you don’t have,” Mom adds.
I look up at them with pleading eyes. “I have some money saved up. My birthday money.”
They frown and stare.
“Delia’s going to be splitting the costs with me.”
Dad slurps at his Diet Coke and stifles a belch. “You want us to let you blow your savings for the privilege of skipping out on the family trip we want you to go on?”
“It sounds bad when you say it like that,” I say. “More like pay hundreds of dollars so I have a chance to make a career out of something I helped create.”
More frowns. More stares.
I return their gazes with the sweetest, most imploring one I can muster. “I’ve been so good in high school. Instead of, like, smoking pot and hooking up, I’ve been spending Friday and Saturday nights working on this show. That should count for something.”
Mom and Dad each draw a long contemplative breath through their nose. Finally, Mom speaks. “What’s the plan for the show if this producer can’t or won’t help you?”
“We keep doing it and look for the next chance to take it up a notch.”
“Your dad and I need to talk about this, but if we say yes, we’re going to want something in return.”
“Okay.”
“If it doesn’t work out with this producer, you have to promise you’ll give the Food Network internship a shot.”
“Mom.” My heart plummets and starts racing simultaneously. “I’m eighteen.”
“You are eighteen. And we’re paying for your college and insurance, so think hard about how independent you really want to be.”
“We don’t want you putting all your eggs in one basket,” Dad says.
I think about Delia. She’ll die if I make this promise. But she’ll die if I don’t go. I get really envious sometimes of disloyal people. I bet life is easier when you don’t have to worry about emotional attachments.
I slump in my chair and look at the floor. “Eggs in one basket. That’s such a dumb phrase. It only works in a world where all the chickens have gone extinct and you can’t just, you know, go get some more eggs and everything’s fine.”
My parents wait, knowing I’m stalling.
“And what would even make chickens go extinct? Foxes couldn’t do it all. Even if they teamed up with the coyotes. Like a fox-coyote alliance. It’d have to be some gross chicken disease. Like chicken Ebola or something. And then do you even want to eat those eggs? That’s the question you gotta ask yourself.”
Judging from my parents’ stony expressions, I’m absolutely slaying with this bit. I know I’m being muscled, but I’m conflicted enough that I don’t have the fight in me that I otherwise would.
“Okay, fine,” I say quietly. A cold stab of remorse pierces me in the solar plexus. I’m selling out Delia. Maybe. But if I didn’t make this promise, my parents would lean on me not to go, so I’m actually a really good friend, right? This is what Delia would want, right?
“You promise?” Dad asks.
“Yes. That’s what ‘okay, fine’ means.” I scratch Buford’s tummy vigorously and speak right in his face. “Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it, Bufie Beans? Who’s a good boy? Who knows what ‘okay, fine’ means? You do.” He winces and tries to leave, but I grab him in a hug with one arm and keep scratching his belly.
“We’re trying to support you, Jo. We’re not pushing you to go to law school or become a computer programmer. But we want you to chase your dreams in the most effective way,” Dad says.
I stop scratching Buford and let him hobble away. I stare at the table and listen to the distant bright chitter of Alexis talking with her friends. I’m sure Delia would love knowing that she’s considered an inconvenience to the realization of my dreams.
I feel like I’ve just signed a deal with a benevolent devil who paid for my braces and who’s paying for my car insurance and health insurance and college.
I ambush Buford on my way back to my bedroom. I give him a huge hug, from which he struggles to free himself, and I say, “Who’s the worst friend, Bufie Buns? Huh? Who is the worst friend to Auntie Delia? Is it me? It’s me!” He looks at me evenly with his sad, brown, judgmental eyes. “Oh, whatever,” I say. “Like you’re a perfect friend. Remember the time you betrayed me by pooping on the stairs and I slipped in it with my bare feet and fell down and twisted my ankle and had to go to the ER? Yeah, I think you do remember. The truth hurts. The truth hurts.”
He just looks at me.
•••
Me: Ok, talked with the parents. ShiverCon is happening.
Delia: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Were they chill about it?
Me: SUPER CHILL. They were like “do whatever, brah.” Chill is their personal brand.
Delia: Wait really???
Me: Please, are you kidding?
Delia: Haha I don’t know.
Me: You really do actually kinda know at this point.
Delia: Ok fine. Wanna hear something hilarious?
Me: I like how you still give me the opportunity to say “no, I hate hilarious stuff.”
Delia: I still haven’t asked my mom if I can go.
Me: OH. HILARIOUS THAT YOU RODE MY ASS REPEATEDLY FOR SOMETHING YOU DIDN’T DO YOURSELF. You are SUCH a butthole.
Delia: IKR??? She’s going to say yes.
Me: YOU DON’T KNOW THAT.
Delia: I really do actually kinda know at this point.
Me: What are you doing right now?
Delia: Just got done watching Jason X on Syfy.
Me: Haha that movie is like Alien for dumb people.
Delia: OK I WAS LITERALLY THINKING ALMOST THAT EXACT THING.
Me: GTFO!
Delia: SWEAR.
Me: We should, like, do a TV show together.
Delia: Ha, K.
Me: What if Jack Divine makes things happen for us? What if we blow up and become rich?
Delia: I would buy an old-timey motorcycle and sidecar and have a trained chimpanzee sidekick ride around with me everywhere.
Me: And he’s wearing goggles???
Delia: We both are. And he’s smoking a pipe and wearing a tuxedo.
Me: AMAZING.
Delia: Your turn.
Me: I’m gonna pull out a stack of twenties and make it rain in super inappropriate places, like elevators and public restrooms.
Delia: Nice. I won’t let money change me.
Me: Me neither. I’ll be the same person I’ve always been: someone who intends to become absolutely horrible at the first hint of money and fame.
Delia: Hahahahahahahahahahaha. I’d buy my mom a nicer house than our dumpy trailer for sure.
Me: I’d pay for Alexis’s college, but the catch would be that I get to choose where she goes. So enjoy your Bible college in Arkansas or whatever.
Delia: We should do something nice for Arliss.
Me: Let’s hire two 18-year-old girls for him to grump at all the time.