This Will Be Funny Someday

by Katie Henry

  When the rest of them get up to bus their trays, Alex puts his hand around my waist, pulling me close. “Come over to my house for dinner tonight.”

  There’s an itch in my chest, like I can’t quite breathe deep enough. “I can’t tonight.”

  “What?” His hand drops to his side. “Why not?”

  “It’s Charlotte and Peter’s last night before they go back to college.”

  “You’ll see them again in, like, March.”

  “My mom said to come home.”

  “You don’t have to do whatever she says.”

  I think: Yeah.

  I think: Just whatever you say.

  I say: Nothing.

  “God,” Alex huffs. “Fine, I had this whole nice night planned, but whatever. Not like I care.”

  “I didn’t know that. If you’d told me, I could have—”

  “It was a surprise, Isabel,” he snaps. “Do you know what a ‘surprise’ is?”

  I shrink back. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be— That’s not what I—” He crosses his arms. “All I wanted was to spend time with you, do something nice for you. And now you think I’m so mean.”

  His shoulders are still stiff and his arms are crossed, but the only thing on his face is hurt.

  “No,” I say as a hot wash of shame floods me, because I didn’t mean to do that, make him look like that. “I just—”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to—”

  “I don’t, and everyone’s mean sometimes. It’s—” I fumble around for something to end this conversation, something to make this less awkward and easier to forget. I laugh a little. “It’s like we learned in statistics class, right? Mean is the average, so . . . maybe the average person is mean.”

  He stares at me blankly.

  “You know,” I explain, “because the mean and the average are . . .” His expression doesn’t change. I clear my throat. “It’s a joke. A math joke.”

  He shakes his head and grabs the rest of the chocolate chip cookie off my lunch tray. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?” I ask.

  “Try to be funny.” Alex breaks the cookie and hands me half. “You aren’t good at it.”

  Chapter 2

  MY FAMILY IS made up of five people. Two matched pairs of humans, with one remainder. We rarely eat all together, but on nights like tonight, the pairs sit on either side of the kitchen table, across from each other, and I sit at the foot.

  “You want to try this one?” Mom asks Dad, holding out a bottle of red wine. “Arthur Sholtz’s assistant sent a whole crate to my office, along with this note where he told me I”—she makes air quotes—“‘made him believe in God again.’ Seriously.”

  “Because you got him a fantastic plea bargain and no prison time for all but running a Ponzi scheme?” Dad says, dishing out heaps of pasta with red sauce onto plates. “Shouldn’t that prove the absence of God?”

  Mom considers this. “He didn’t say God was fair.”

  Pair 1: My parents.

  My dad is the eleventh generation of Vances in America. His side of the family has been terrorizing this continent since 1658, stealing land from the rightful occupants, marrying their second cousins like members of some ancient Egyptian dynasty, and giving their children truly awful names including “Enoch,” “Jemima,” and “Tribulation.” My mom is a second-generation American, raised in the backwoods of Pennsylvania by people who deeply valued both the Second Amendment and the Twenty-First Amendment. My parents met in college, married fast, and couldn’t be more perfect for each other.

  “You set the table backward,” Charlotte says accusingly to Peter, rearranging her place setting. “I don’t understand how you can do, like, calculus but not this.”

  Peter rolls his eyes. “If it’s all on the table, why does it matter which side I put the fork on?”

  “Because we’re not animals.”

  “Exactly! Animals don’t use forks!”

  Pair 2: The twins.

  When my parents brought me home after a month in the NICU, Charlotte and Peter were almost two. Peter was disappointed I couldn’t do any tricks, like our grandmother’s spaniel. Charlotte was disappointed they’d brought me home at all. In the sixteen years since then, not a ton has changed. Peter mostly pretends I don’t exist. Charlotte actively resents me. Charlotte would resent a potted plant, if it took attention away from her.

  “We’re eating fast, okay?” Mom slides into her seat. “Peter’s flight got moved up.”

  Charlotte reaches for the Parmesan. “Since when do flights get moved up?”

  “It happens.”

  “Yeah, but at O’Hare?”

  “Charlotte, do I look like a pilot to you?”

  “No,” Peter says.

  “She asked me,” Charlotte says.

  “Because you’re not a dude,” Peter says to Mom. “They’re mostly dudes.”

  “God, you are so sexist,” Charlotte says.

  “That’s not sexist,” Peter protests. “They are mostly dudes. It would be sexist if I thought they’re mostly dudes because women can’t drive, so they’re probably bad at flying, too.”

  “Ugh, Peter!”

  “If I thought that, it would be sexist if I thought that.”

  “How did I share a womb with you?” Charlotte mutters.

  “Unhappily,” Mom says.

  “Lots of kicking,” Dad adds.

  “Isabel was the complete opposite.” Mom smiles across the table at me. “You were so still in there, sometimes we worried. But my doctor said, ‘There’s nothing wrong, you’ve just got a happy, easy little girl.’”

  “And he was right,” Dad says. “To a tee.”

  I can feel Charlotte’s death stare.

  “How was your day, sweetheart?” Mom asks me. “Do anything fun?”

  I’m not sure being publicly humiliated in English class counts as fun, but I want to tell the story anyway. “So in my Shakespeare class, we had to perform these scenes, and—”

  “Hold on,” Mom interrupts me. “Peter, save some Parmesan for the rest of us.”

  “It needs more,” Peter says, dumping it on his pasta until it looks like the bottom of a cheesy snow globe.

  “Well, I haven’t had any yet.”

  I take a breath and try again. “So I had to do the scene with—”

  “We have more in the fridge,” Dad tells Mom. “In the green bag.”

  “That’s pre-shredded.”

  “So?”

  “So my mother would turn over in her grave.”

  Peter swallows a mouthful of pasta. “Wasn’t she cremated?”

  Mom ignores this. “We should all be thanking Isabel for the pasta sauce.”

  “Why? It’s Grandma’s recipe,” Peter says.

  “But Isabel grew the basil.” Mom smiles at me, and I smile back.

  “She has a basil plant now, too?” Charlotte asks Mom. Not me. I’m basically a plant myself to her. “They’re starting to take over the house.”

  “That’s not true—” I start to say. Yeah, I have a lot of plants, but almost all of them are in my room. Charlotte doesn’t even have to see them; she just likes complaining. Mom does wish I’d cut them back more. But I like watching them stretch into new corners, unfurl their tendrils. I can almost feel it in my own shoulders and arms. The yearning, the pull, the relief. Like a cat stretching itself in a sunlit spot.

  “You can’t take them to college,” Charlotte says. “They won’t let you.”

  “They might if she majored in horticulture,” Dad says, and then he and Mom are debating whether most colleges even have that major, and Peter is saying his friend Ethan did a gap year to do urban farming, and Charlotte’s cutting in to say that just means Ethan smoked weed for six months, and I’m not saying a thing. No one would notice if I did.

  “Isabel’s not even in college, what’s it matter?” Charlotte says, conveniently forgetting she b
rought it up.

  “And I don’t think I’d even major in—” I start to say, but she’s faster and louder.

  “Vassar’s being totally unreasonable about my major,” Charlotte cuts in. “Something actually happening.”

  She starts telling a long and uninteresting story about how she’s planning to get off the waitlist for one of her classes this semester. Every time Mom or Dad or Peter interrupts her or tries to go off topic, she wrenches back focus. Just a little louder than they are, just a little quicker. And every time she does, I hate myself a little more. Why can’t I do that? Why can’t I be the kind of person everyone listens to?

  Why should I have to be a whole different person just to be listened to?

  As soon as dinner’s over, everyone splits up.

  I stay at the kitchen table for a while, picking at a piece of garlic bread and listening to Mom clicking away at the desktop in her office, which is connected to the kitchen. She doesn’t seem quite as busy as she’s been the last couple days. I get up and stand in the office doorway.

  It takes her a minute to notice me. “Hey there.”

  She turns her attention back to the screen, so I walk into the office and take my traditional spot: perched on the top of her low, sturdy built-in office cabinets. I used to sit here while she worked on evenings and weekends, waiting until she’d spin her chair around, slap her hands on her knees, and say: “Okay. Now we can talk.”

  I wait for a minute, but Mom keeps typing, clicking, typing, clicking.

  I think: I need to talk to you.

  I think: I really need to talk to you.

  I say: Nothing.

  I know she wouldn’t be working right now if she didn’t have to. But lately, she always has to. She told us all the time when we were kids that’s what really counts, the effort you put in. But the way she talks about her job, when she and Dad don’t think I’m listening—it’s like she has to try twice as hard and still doesn’t get recognized for what she does. It would have been different, I know, if she hadn’t had three kids in three years. Her whole life would have been different . . . if she hadn’t had me.

  “Dad’s going to take Peter to the airport, if you want to go,” Mom says finally.

  Only if I wanted to hear Cubs stats until my ears bled. I’ll pass.

  “You’re not going?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, checking her watch. “I’m about to head back to the office.”

  It’s almost 8:00 p.m. “You’ve been staying late all week,” I say as she rises from her desk chair.

  “Crime doesn’t sleep.”

  “Mom. You’re a defense attorney.”

  She taps my nose. “Exactly.”

  Down the hall, Peter is dragging his suitcase out of his room. The wheels clatter against the wood floor.

  “Don’t wait up for me,” Mom says as she starts to gather papers off her desk and shove them in her bag. “I might just take a catnap in the office. Dad has an early morning meeting out in Evanston, so you’re on your own for breakfast. There’s yogurt. Bananas.”

  “I think they’re only good for banana bread at this point.”

  “Might be a fun thing, for after school.” She zips up her bag. “You’ll be okay, right?”

  I smile. Nod.

  “God, that’s what I love about you.” Mom kisses the top of my head.

  “What?”

  “You’ve always been so easy.”

  We both wince at the sound of a collision by the front door.

  “Jesus, could you watch?” Charlotte huffs, and it sounds like she’s steadying the wobbling entryway table.

  “Watch what? Watch you not looking where you’re going?” Peter asks. “Is the New Yorker really so interesting you’ve got to bury your whole face in it?”

  “This is the Wall Street Journal, you illiterate.”

  Mom sighs and slings her heavy bag over one shoulder. She throws me a smile and a conspiratorial look as she starts toward the entryway. “You’re the calm in the storm.”

  Sometimes, I wish I were the storm instead.

  Chapter 3

  WE’VE HAD A warm winter so far—warm for Chicago, anyway—but as soon as Peter and Charlotte go back to college, we hit a cold snap that lasts for days. And apparently, my brain takes that as a signal to hibernate. When I wake up on Saturday and I grab my phone to check the time, I’ve slept through the whole morning, two alarms, and three texts from Alex.

  Hey

  And then, an hour later:

  Uhhhh hello?

  Fifteen minutes after:

  wtf Isabel

  I type out a response as fast as I can.

  Ahhh sorry!!

  I was asleep

  What’s up?

  He responds so quickly, it almost seems like he’s been by the phone this whole time. I picture him cradling the phone in his arms, pacing like some lady on a widow’s walk, pining for her husband lost at sea.

  God, what’s wrong with me? I should be happy he cares this much. All he wants is to talk to me.

  Well get dressed, Kyle said to get there at noon

  What? We’re not hanging out with Kyle today—at least I’m not. My mom isn’t working today, and we’re going shopping together downtown. We planned it weeks ago.

  You didn’t say anything about going to Kyle’s

  Guess I forgot?

  I know it’s far but his parents are gone the whole weekend so we’re going

  Obviously

  Obviously he’s going, because he wants to. And obviously I’m going, because he wants me to go. I won’t just go, I’ll want to go, because he wants to go. It’s so obvious he didn’t even bother to ask. I shake my head, because I should be grateful I’m the most important thing in his life. He tells me that, all the time. And I am grateful.

  But I don’t want to go.

  I can’t, I’m sorry

  I’m spending the day with my mom

  wtf

  you never told me that

  Didn’t I? I was sure I did. But I guess maybe I forgot, too.

  I’m sorry

  Ok

  I’m really sorry

  We can hang out tomorrow, do whatever you want

  Hoping that’s enough to pacify him, I throw a sweatshirt on over my pajamas and head for the kitchen. I feel bad, because I know he wants me there with him, but Mom has so few days off lately. I have to take advantage of every one.

  But the only things waiting for me in the kitchen are a bear claw on a plate and a note written on my mom’s office stationery.

  Isabel

  Good morning! Or maybe afternoon . . . ;)

  The house is yours—I have a client lunch and a partner dinner. I know! Too much. Dad’s tennis tournament is today, but he’ll be back by 6. You guys can order a pizza. Maybe watch a movie? I’ll see you later.

  Love,

  Mom

  I can’t believe it. She forgot. She put it on the calendar herself and she still forgot.

  Without even meaning to, my hand clenches around the note, balling it up. I stuff it in my pocket. I don’t want Mom seeing it all crumpled up when she comes home.

  As I pick at the bear claw, I consider my options.

  A) Tell Alex I’m free, put on enough makeup to cover up my disappointment, and go with him to Kyle’s

  B) Call my mom at her client lunch and tell her the apartment is on fire

  C) Buy a plane ticket to Canada, start a new life as a woodland hermit, and see how long it takes anyone in my family to notice I’m gone

  The right answer is A, of course. I should text Alex. He’d never forget something we planned, like my mom would. I’m the most important thing in his life, even if I’m just a minor player in hers. I should text him.

  So why don’t I want to?

  Outside my bedroom window, the sky is a cloudless cornflower blue, and there’s no wind swaying the bare tree branches. If I’m not going to Kyle’s house—and I still don’t understand why I’m not—I migh
t as well go outside.

  The L takes an eternity to come and an additional eternity to get me downtown. I opt out of Grant Park and the bundled tourists waiting to see Seurat at the Art Institute or take selfies with the Bean. I walk north on South Michigan, breathing in crisp air through my nose. Walking in a big city you know is the best kind of anonymity. I could find my way back home with my eyes closed, but I’m in a crowd of people who have never seen me before and won’t ever again. I catalog the people I pass and wonder how they’d catalog me.

  Girl. Sixteen to nineteen, probably. Not tall, not short. Long hair, light brown. Body type indeterminate, due to giant puffy coat.

  But what else could they tell, just from looking? Nothing. Maybe that’s the best kind of anonymity. When you’re no one, so you could be anyone.

  I wander farther and farther north, over the bridge, past the Wrigley Building with its ornate clock tower that tells me it’s nearly 2:00 p.m. I like this neighborhood, with its sleek hotels and spare art galleries.

  I’m standing with my back to the street, studying one particularly odd sculpture, when I hear a laugh, low and loud and very familiar, off to my left.

  Shit.

  A second ago, I was almost shivering in the cold, but now my whole body is hot and every muscle is tensed. Just up the block, walking toward me but mercifully not looking in my direction, is a group of teenage boys.

  And one of them is Alex.

  Oh, shit, oh, shit, why is he here? He said they were going to Kyle’s house; that’s practically in the suburbs. And he never comes down this way. Why would he start today? I thought I was safe—

  Safe, of course I’m safe, I think as I press myself against the brick building behind me. But if he sees me, he’s going to know I lied, and when he knows I lied, I’ll have to explain why, and I don’t know what I’d say. Maybe that’s why in movies, when a character says they “can explain,” the script never makes them. Someone always cuts them off or leaves before they have to. Maybe no one can explain themselves.

  Alex’s head starts to turn in my direction. He can’t see me. I can’t explain. I spin away from the boys and duck into the closest open door without glancing up at the sign. It doesn’t matter, I just need to be somewhere else, to be able to take another breath.