“Andrea,” Roger said from the back. “Play nice.”
She pushed some hair back from my face. She looked over her shoulder at Roger.
“Respect!” She turned back, started the car engine, and headed out of the parking lot.
Apparently I had passed a test. No doubt unworthy in other ways, I was at least pretty enough. Today—I would take what I could get.
“Andrea, don’t be a bitch.”
As soon as the car was out on the street, Andrea pulled a half-smoked joint out of the ashtray, lit it, and took a longish drag. She held it out to me.
“No, thanks.”
She exhaled.
“Christ, don’t tell me you’re as square as Roger.”
“Oh God no. I’m much worse. I don’t even drink.”
“You may want to rethink that before the day is over.”
I reached back between the bucket seats toward Roger, and he squeezed my hand.
“Hey,” Roger said from the back, “did I tell you that I had a drink with Dad?”
“No, seriously?”
“Seriously, at the club. His special two-hundred-year-old scotch that was blessed by Saint Cuthbert or whatever that stuff is.”
“Woot.”
“It was all terribly grown up. Very man-to-man.”
“And did he tell you about the birds and the bees?” she asked.
“Not yet. I think he’s waiting for my voice to change. He did welcome me to the adultery.”
“That old joke. So, Fletch. Did Roger give you the rundown on the family? All the rules and regs? Tell you where the quicksand is?”
“He told me some. If I can remember. Don’t say anything bad about Harvard.”
“Very good rule. I don’t suppose you’re Republican?”
“Ummm, not really.”
“Avoid politics completely, although we’re all totally hip on the gay thing because of old Rog being sort of light in the loafers, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ve heard that rumor.”
“Watch your back, that’s all I can say. What else did he tell you?”
“The little brother—”
“Todd—”
“Todd—is a football player—”
“At Harvard,” Roger prompted from the back seat.
“—at Harvard and is treated as a visiting deity.”
“Good. What’d he say about me?”
“Bit of a pothead.”
“Well, under the present circumstances, I don’t suppose I’ll argue.”
“And that you’re spoiled and can be unbelievably arrogant.”
“You bastard!” she said, reaching back to slap Roger’s knee and she managed to drop just two wheels off the road as she did it.
“Hey!” Roger objected—to the slap, not her driving.
“And what do you think?” she asked me. If she had even noticed the near miss with the mailbox that whizzed past my window, she didn’t let on.
“He seems to be pretty much dead-on so far.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror to look at Roger.
“He may actually survive this weekend.”
“Should I be scared?” I asked.
“Oh God yes!” she answered.
She laughed and turned the car onto a paved driveway. We went past the front of the house, and she parked the car where she could. There were already at least ten cars in front of the biggest garage I’d ever seen.
“Holy moly,” I said, looking up at the house.
“Don’t be too impressed. If you are still around at Christmas, Roger will have to drag you to the big house where the grandparents live. Emphasis on grand.” She did that thing with the key chain, and the trunk popped open. “That is, if you survive today.”
As we retrieved our bags, Roger kissed me on the cheek.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Happy Thanksgiving.” Of course I had a lot to be grateful for, obviously, or I wouldn’t be standing here on this asphalt driveway with a hanging bag over my shoulder, with Roger, who was my boyfriend again. I had everything I had ever wanted. I should be all kinds of thankful.
But I mostly just felt scared. And suddenly seeing this house, those cars, and being faced with the fact that I was going to have to walk in there and try to pass myself off in front of those people—man, I had never been so scared.
“Are you ready?” Roger asked.
“Look, I think I forgot my toothbrush. You go on ahead, and I’m just going to walk back to the train station.”
“It’s eleven miles.”
“Piece of cake.”
Haggis, at the end of his leash, kicked his tiny hind leg up on a leafless shrub.
“Look at the dog,” Roger said. “He’s not scared.”
“Easy for him! He was born out here. He’s educated, mannered. He knows who his dad is!”
“If it’s any comfort, they don’t get along, Haggis and his dad. Happens in the best of families.”
“I can’t believe it. You’re making fun of me.”
“Only a little.”
“Here.” I pushed the hanging bag into his arms. If Roger could laugh at me, what would the rest of them do when they got a load of the trash that had somehow turned up in their dining room? “It’s really not that far,” I said, and I turned and started walking super fast.
“What the—” He ran after me and grabbed my arm. “Fletch, stop. Hey. Hey. I’ve never seen anything scare you. I didn’t know—you could be scared.”
“They’ll see right through me, Dweeb. They’ll take one look and know I don’t belong here.”
“If they see right through you, you know what they’ll see? They’ll see you. They’ll see the fantastic guy that I see. They’ll see exactly how much you do belong here, next to me, and that has absolutely nothing to do with what schools you went to.”
“I didn’t, remember?”
“Or didn’t went to. Okay?”
“You’re going to look across the table and wonder what you were thinking, bringing me here.”
“I’ll look across the table and wonder what I did to deserve to be so happy. Because I am.”
“Just—don’t make fun of me in there. Don’t ditch me, okay?”
“Hey! What kind of an f-hole you take me for?”
I couldn’t believe he could make me smile.
“I promise. I won’t desert you,” he said finally, with his face very close to mine.
All I could do was close my eyes and bow my head until our foreheads touched. I’m not really big on trust, but, you know, when somebody looks at you like that…
“I love you so much,” I said.
“Oh God, you two!” Andrea yelled from the side door where she’d been waiting for us. “That is so gross.”
Roger kissed me again and we followed the little brick walkway after Andrea, with Haggis out in front.
“But you know,” I said as we walked, “no matter how hard I try, I will never be as cool as that dog.”
“Me either. He’s sort of a role model for me.”
“Hey,” Andrea said over her shoulder as we walked up to the door behind her, “did you warn Fletch about Aunt Hannah?”
“Damn! No,” Roger said. “Remind me to tell you about Aunt Hannah.”
Andrea pushed the door open and called into the house.
“I’m baa-aaack! And I found some pansy boys making out in the hydrangeas!”
You know how sometimes somebody will make a joke, and everybody laughs, and it releases all the tension and you feel better?
This wasn’t one of those times.
I let Roger and Haggis go in first, wishing desperately I wasn’t so damned tall, and I followed them into the kitchen—the smell of turk
ey and sage could make you faint. There was the sound of sports on television coming in from another room. A Hispanic woman was stirring something on the stove, and a woman with Roger’s eyes was standing in the middle of the kitchen gripping her pearls as she turned to us.
“Oh, Andrea!” she said, exasperated as she pushed some brown curls back from her forehead with a gesture I’d seen a hundred thousand times before. “You’re just horrid sometimes.”
People started to come noisily into the kitchen through a couple different doors, and I could see some more were hanging in the hallway. The house was obviously full of people. The football player was easy to spot, as he leaned against the refrigerator, all casual arrogance. I was pretty sure I picked Roger’s dad out of the lineup. The scary old broad with the highball—Aunt Hannah, had to be. They were all a little rowdy and jostling, but they were also all smiling and joking, and then they were all looking expectantly at us.
Andrea stood in the back, making faces.
“Mom, Dad, everyone.” Dweeb looked back at me, grinning—like he was proud of me. He took my hand and pulled me up next to him. “There’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”
Man-oh-man.
It’s a good thing I don’t cry.
Maybe later.
Special Thanks
My first readers: Travis J. Sherrod, Neil Montiel, and Ophelia Julien (a fabulous author herself, whose books you should be reading).
Timothy Brown—who advised on all things musical, and whose literary criticisms were also spot-on.
Laura Frautschi, violinist—who offered technical advice on the stringy bits.
Gloria Phares, Esq.—who explained my contract to me.
Sonya Lashua Fagan—who made some brilliant photographs of me and my writing partner at work.
And of course my writing partner, Watson, my own personal Haggis. Woof.
About the Author
Chase Taylor Hackett was raised on a farm in the Midwest far from his current home in New York City. He has written most of his life, nearly all of it in musical theatre. His theatrical career peaked when a musical for which he’d written the book and lyrics opened on Broadway. Unfortunately, two weeks later it closed on Broadway.
One morning he woke up and found that he had a couple characters in his head, who, try as he might, refused to become a musical comedy. He wondered if he could possibly work them up into a novel, but, never having tried to write one before, he didn’t have a clue where to begin.
And thus: Where Do I Start?
He lives in upper Manhattan with his partner Travis, and a Scottish terrier named Watson.
Where Do I Start? Page 30