So Glad to Meet You

by Lisa Super

  “Deep-fried batter, the cornerstone of world cuisine since the Dark Ages.” She peered straight at him, chewing. “It’s good.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

  “Does that make you uncomfortable?” She picked at her rice with her fork.

  “Probably not as much as it should.”

  “You’ll figure it out, eventually. And then you’ll feel special.” She winked at him. The same wink Emily had cast at her about the floorboard. Daphne’s grandfather used to wink at her and Emily. It always made Daphne feel like she’d been given a gift, and it must have had the same effect on Emily for her to adopt the trademark. Daphne wondered why no one did it anymore. She became determined to bring back the wink.

  Oliver shifted in his seat, taken aback by the wink, reluctantly accepting it. “I don’t know, I’m already pretty special.”

  “Short bus special.”

  He choked a little on his shrimp when he laughed. “Clearly. I can’t even chew and swallow.”

  “I don’t know the Heimlich, so you’re screwed.”

  “Americanized Chinese shrimp isn’t the worst way to go,” he said.

  She laughed for half a second before thinking, A better form of asphyxiation? Her eyes flashed up at Oliver and saw the same mood-killing question on his regretful face. He opened his mouth and tried to come up with something improving on apology. He took a drink of water instead.

  They spent the rest of the meal trying to leave—flagging down the server, waiting for the check. Oliver polished off his plate of shrimp effortlessly, proving Daphne wrong. He threw down a wad of bills from his wallet while she reached for her purse. He shook her off.

  “I got this one. You get the next.”

  “Okay.” There would be a next time. Containing her excitement made her ribcage buzz.

  After lunch, they returned to wandering the streets. They passed more red lanterns hanging on wires strewn from rooftop to rooftop. Daphne wished they’d come at night to see them illuminated, glowing hearts swaying in the black breeze. Staring at the lanterns, she wished for a message that wasn’t coming. Oblivious to the lanterns, Oliver checked out the cute Asian girls as they pranced by, leaving Daphne alone and frustrated in her contemplative state. She quickened her pace, and he followed her.

  Daphne wanted to avoid Oliver’s bored expression. A gurgling despair was folding into the slippery shrimp in her stomach. She wasn’t going to find what she was searching for in Chinatown. Not that she had a clue what she was hoping to stumble upon. The passing pet shop provided an opportunity to stall and regroup.

  “I’m going in. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  She expected some sad animals and the scent of cedar. Instead, she was bombarded with the sound of screeching birds and the piercing assault of ammonia. Hopping from perch to perch, a hundred parrots, parakeets, finches, and cockatiels sang their songs simultaneously, all musicality lost in the melding of their voices. In great numbers, the birds’ innocent chirping warped into a nightmarish cacophony.

  The unrelenting sound surrounded Daphne and quickly closed in on her. She shut her eyes, unable to fight against it, until all she could see was gray. Powerless to move her feet in the screaming storm, almost to the point of panic, all Daphne had left was her mind. Is this what Emily felt like? Trapped in the gray noise, her thoughts lost in the flap of feathers. Daphne needed to get out of there, fast. She pushed against the thickness in the air, her heart pounding against the wall of sound, and willed herself through the door.

  When she stumbled outside into the blinding sunshine, her head felt as though it was floating above her body. She needing to be centered by the sense of gravity that only came with time. Grateful that Oliver was distracted, his eyes feasting on all the people intersecting in front of him, Daphne leaned against the brick wall to recover. After her knees stopped shaking, she trudged over and passed him without speaking. Again, he followed.

  Another block and hopelessness settled in.

  “Uh, Daph?”

  Great, now he was going to voice his boredom. And Daphne didn’t like being called Daph. Only her dad had that privilege, and that was only because her dad had given her the name in the first place. But the abbreviation didn’t sound so bad coming from Oliver’s lips, and this exacerbated her annoyance. He already knew how to break her rules.

  “I don’t know why I brought us here. I don’t know what I expected to find.”

  “I think you found it.” He was gloating up at the store sign: THE GREAT WALL COMPANY.

  Daphne’s face hurt from the effort of holding back her joy. “What do you think they sell?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re gonna find out.”

  Oliver’s smile was complete, not trying to impress, only full and open. It was his real smile, and this was the first time she’d seen it. Daphne caught herself at that moment, recognizing what was happening as though she was standing on the sidewalk outside of herself, watching her and Oliver smiling at each other. It was the moment her heart involuntarily opened for Oliver Pagano, and he walked in without knowing.

  The shop’s window display of ceramic plates, serving dishes, pots, pans, and tea kettles served a stark contrast to the collection of decorative knives hanging on the wall in the back. The blades grew in size the further up they went, culminating with five machetes. Daphne and Oliver’s wide eyes scaled the weapons to the ceiling. Most intimidating was the handwritten sign: Must be 18 to touch anything.

  “Well, I’m always in the market for a new machete,” he said.

  “I like this one.” Daphne wanted to prove that she was more than an AP, chapel-studying, drama nerd. She picked up a small knife with a creamy, white handle and gold details. It felt good in her hand, the curves hitting all the right places. Wielding a weapon gave her an unexpected sense of power. “Maybe I’ll have a career fighting crime in dark alleys, vigilante style.”

  “You need a name for this alter ego.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “The Chinatown Slasher.”

  She crinkled her nose. “That’s a serial killer name.”

  “Well, in the eyes of the law, vigilante-murder and murder-murder are the same thing.”

  “Not if I put on a mask and a pair of tights.”

  Oliver inhaled, preparing to refute. Daphne narrowed her eyes and tilted the blade toward his throat, three feet away.

  He jumped back and threw up his hands in surrender. “I would enjoy seeing you in a mask and tights.”

  “That’s right. Think about the big picture before you kill my dreams.”

  Oliver laughed. She was becoming addicted to his laughter, the sound where truth met fact.

  “How about Gothique?”

  She pondered a second too long. “That’s stupid.”

  She loved the name and hadn’t gotten any better at lying in the last three hours. Worse yet, she could tell by the way Oliver sneered that he knew she loved it.

  The shopkeeper stepped out from the back room with a warning glance. Daphne’s stomach jumped, and her cheeks went bright red. So much for playing cool while breaking the rules. She returned the knife to its slot on the wall.

  Oliver grinned. “Busted, Gothique.”

  “Guess the alter ego will have to wait another year.”

  Eighteen. The year when her life could begin.

  • • •

  Daphne’s feet landed on her driveway and the glory of the afternoon evaporated. She was still seventeen. Emily’s birds flapped against her skull, and the warm wind blew the same as it had on that infamous Tuesday seven years ago. Today had been all about Emily and Jason. She stood still on the driveway, staring down the garage, and didn’t fight the memory.

  The thick haze escapes as the garage door opens. Her mom throws open her car door, tries to jump out with her seatbelt still on. Her seatbelt reaches the end of its give and yanks her backward.

  “Oh, God.” Her dad unsnaps his seatbelt and turns to Daphne in th
e backseat. “Stay in the car. Don’t move.”

  Seconds after the garage door fully opens, the vapor thins to transparence.

  Emily and Jason’s names echo in the garage. Her mom repeats Emily’s name over and over with increasing volume, as though Emily has gone deaf. On the passenger’s side of the car, her dad’s voice quivers as he shakes a body hidden behind the seat. Jason.

  She closed her eyes, and the tears made warm trails down her face. But her running mascara was not going to give her away and become a topic of conversation with her dad. She pulled up the bottom of her shirt and dabbed under her eyes. She’d developed such a skill for this that she no longer needed a mirror. She knew her makeup well, had examined all of its boundaries. Judging the duration and intensity of her spilled tears, she knew exactly how hard and long she needed to wipe so she appeared normal. Whatever that was.

  Daphne crept inside. The light from the TV bounced off the walls and the whiskey bottle on the coffee table, but the La-Z-Boy was empty. She bounded out of the foyer, through the living room, and reached the safe border of the hallway. Three more strides and she was inside her room. Despite her naysaying, one of the coins from the fountain must have brought her some luck, after all.

  Thinking about coins, she noticed The Catcher in the Rye’s bare spine. She pushed her chair out of the way, searching the floor, calm at first. She lifted her laptop and books with increasing speed and disregard for gravity. By the time she reached the hairbrush and cosmetics, she was treating her dresser like an air hockey table, pushing items left and right to clear the space in front of her.

  “Dad!” She ran out into the living room.

  The clatter and thunk of the closing refrigerator door startled her. “In here.” Her dad’s small voice barely travelled past the kitchen.

  She charged into the dark room, where he peeled the plastic off a slice of cheese and centered it between two slices of mustard-coated white bread.

  “Did you take a nickel off my desk?”

  He tilted his head, giving the question an inordinate amount of thought, as if a proverb had landed on his sandwich.

  “I think so.”

  “Why would you do that? What were you doing in my room?” she growled.

  He took a bite of his sandwich, not bothering to cut it in half. “I found some change in the couch cushions. I thought I’d do a sweep through the house and cash everything in at the bank. Every penny counts, right?”

  “You deposited it?” Daphne clenched her jaw and recognized the hateful shriek in her voice.

  “Come on, we’re going to Pepe’s. Taco Tuesday.” The cheerfulness in her mother’s voice is tentative.

  “I’m not going.” Emily clenches her jaw, not budging, Jason beside her.

  Her mom blocks the living room doorway, the only route to Emily’s bedroom.

  “Listen to your mother.” Her dad stands behind Emily and Jason. They’re surrounded.

  Daphne sits on the couch. Ties her shoes. Ready for tacos. Knows she’ll have to wait another half hour.

  Her mother attempts to appease Emily. “Please, come. You can bring Jason.”

  It’s too late. The first shot has been fired and both women blame the other side. Emily’s voice reaches inhuman octaves, a hybrid of angel and demon speaking in a language Daphne doesn’t understand. Or doesn’t want to. Daphne picks out her own name among the jumble, spat out like venom.

  “I’m sorry I’m not your perfect daughter like her. You only want me to go tonight so you can grill me! What school am I going to? What’s the plan for the REST OF MY LIFE?”

  “You’re graduating in eight months,” her dad says.

  “We’re not trying to pressure you,” her mom says. “These are normal questions.”

  “I’m not normal! I’ll never be normal. And why do you even care what I do after high school? It’s not like YOU did anything. You got knocked up and dropped out of college.”

  “Hey!” Her dad closes in on Emily. Daphne’s never seen him this angry. Will he hit Emily? Her mom abandons her stronghold in the doorway to jump between the two of them.

  Emily sees the hallway opening and takes it, like this was her plan all along. “Your life’s work. Here it is. And I’ll never be good enough for you.”

  “Stop saying that,” her mom pleads.

  “All your dreams are heaped on my shoulders, and I want none of them.” Emily flees down the hallway. Jason slinks behind her. The slam of her bedroom door is the last they’ll hear from her until breakfast the next morning.

  Her dad had heard Emily in her voice, too. Terror played across his blue eyes. “I haven’t deposited it yet,” he croaked.

  Daphne blinked hard, resetting. She wasn’t going to sound like Emily. Her life depended on it. “Where is it?” Her voice wavered in its normal range.

  He dug through his full pockets, change rustling on both hips. He opened his palms, full of silver and copper. She picked out the nickels and read their dates, dropping them in his right hand when they weren’t a match. 2006. She held onto it and checked the remaining three: 2011, 2013, and 2008.

  She buried the 2006 nickel in her palm. Her body relaxed but her voice still pinched. “Please, don’t touch this. Do you understand?”

  Her dad raised his hands with his sandwich. “No more nickels. Got it.” He swallowed. Daphne found it aggravating that someone who drank so much could have a dry throat.

  He wasn’t a mean drunk, and Daphne was grateful for this. But no matter how upset she was, she shouldn’t be disrespecting her dad like this. She wanted him to lose his temper and yell at her, summoning the power he once held over her and Emily. Daphne longed to hear the strength of his voice, the security in the tempestuous father-teen relationship. Instead, his tall, sturdy body was now frail and sloped. The weight of his eyebrows and slagging skin at his jawline made him look more like a grandfather than a father. She hated that she had his eyes, thankful for inheriting her mom’s round nose and thin lips.

  “Good.” Daphne held her target, unblinking, waiting to be put in her place.

  He forfeited, drifting away, no apology demanded. His focus crawled past her, into the darkness. He’d lost the will to fight, lost the will to do anything.

  “I’m sorry I yelled.” She offered the olive branch anyway.

  “You’ve got some pipes.”

  “Yeah…” She shrugged.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  The conversation was over. Like most of the conversations with her parents, the punctuation could never translate to another language. It made no sense outside of her family’s dysfunction.

  She trudged down the hallway. The weight of her dad’s detachment seemed to press her into the floor. Every step compounded her frustration. When she crossed the threshold to her bedroom, her eardrums were on the verge of exploding. Her fingers shook while she set the nickel on the edge of her desk and rotated Jefferson’s three-quarter profile upside down.

  It had been many months since she’d been this angry at her parents. The last time was what would’ve been Emily’s twenty-first birthday—alcoholic liberty, an event to celebrate. Daphne had set her alarm for 5:00 a.m. to see her mom off to work, expecting a hug or an acknowledgement of the sad date. Her mom had groggily handed her a ten-dollar bill instead of leaving it on the table. She used the money to split an order of Pad Thai with her dad for dinner. They’d even sat at the kitchen table and used chopsticks instead of forks. Neither parent had spoken a word about Emily. It had been any old miserable day at Casa Bowman. Daphne was no more or less alone on Emily’s birthday, yesterday, today, or tomorrow. The lack of change had pushed her voice to the edge tonight. She hoped her dad had really heard the Emily come out of her, hoped she had made him feel even smaller.

  • • •

  After the final bell, Daphne stepped on stage for her audition. For the past three years she had painted sets and smeared stage makeup on the actors because the thought of being in front of an audience made her body go hol
low. This year, fear was not going to be the protagonist in her life story. Confronting Oliver with the list had been the scariest question she’d ever asked and getting his answer had led to greatness. She wanted more. She deserved it.

  Mrs. Baker, head of the drama department, gave Daphne an encouraging nod and prepared to write on her notepad. “Daphne, what part are you trying out for?”

  “Emily.”

  Mrs. Baker’s head shot up. Daphne wondered if the abrupt head lift was due to the coincidence of the name Emily or because Daphne had never auditioned for any school production and was now trying out for the lead.

  “Okay, whenever you’re ready.” Mrs. Baker said.

  Daphne projected and enunciated, imagining her half-deaf grandfather sitting in the last row of the theater. The adrenaline of being on stage accelerated the pace at which she spoke her memorized lines. She could hear the words gushing out too quickly and tried to slow them down, but they only poured out faster. Unable to control the clip of her speech, she let go and went with it.

  “Goodbye, Grover’s Corners. Mama and Papa. Goodbye to clocks ticking…and my butternut tree! And Mama’s sunflowers…and new-ironed dresses and hot baths.” Sorrow and hope trembled within her voice.

  “And sleeping and waking up! Oh, Earth, you’re too wonderful for anyone to realize you! Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?” Everything she’d been through with her sister Emily was coming out through Our Town Emily. It was a therapeutic breakthrough combined with a feeling of free-falling into jagged rocks.

  “I’m ready to go back now.” The monologue came to an end. A murmur passed over the students waiting in the auditorium. A boy in the front row clapped three times before regaining his bearings and sinking down in his seat. Mrs. Baker’s mouth hung open, exposing her astonishment. The irony of Mrs. Baker being a former Off Broadway extraordinaire, yet having such a terrible poker face, only increased Daphne’s pride.

  “Thank you, Daphne. I’ll be posting the cast list tomorrow at 3:00 p.m.”

  A day. Enough time to get her hopes up. Luckily, she had a distraction for the rest of the night.