Save the Date

by Morgan Matson

  General and Mrs. Daniels were among the few who had gotten dressed, and they were standing in the doorway with Liz, who looked more dressed up this morning than she had at the wedding, and was craning her neck, trying to get the first glimpse of Jackson—apparently, she was a big fan—who was still in the trailer that was parked on our driveway.

  Max was sprawled on one of the armchairs that had been dragged out of the shot, eating a glazed donut and wearing shorts and a hoodie. He seemed much less stressed, now that the secret about his cat was out—he was no longer staring up at the ceiling, worried, and running out of the room every five seconds. He had assured us that Maple Syrup was locked inside my dad’s study and wasn’t going anywhere, but he’d agreed to stay up in his room with him when the segment was being filmed, just to make sure. And adding to the chaos was my uncle Stu wandering around in his stolen hotel robe, talking to the cameramen and giving unsolicited advice.

  I’d been sending as many texts to Siobhan as I could—she was heartbroken her rescheduled flight wouldn’t get her here in time—but since Jackson hadn’t emerged yet, these were mostly just pictures of his trailer in our driveway.

  The last hour had been a blur of the Good Morning America crew taking over our house. I hadn’t realized that the crew who had come to set up on Friday were just the advance team—there had to be twenty people here now, everyone bustling around at speeds that seemed to get faster the closer we got to airtime. The last twenty minutes or so had been Jill trying in vain to get rid of the spectators and then getting us camera ready, which meant three makeup artists were basically working in a line, going remarkably fast. And considering that none of us had gotten much sleep, I was very grateful for their presence.

  We’d all gone through makeup, even my dad, who protested this very loudly and sneezed whenever the powder brush came near him. It seemed like maybe it was good that things had been so busy and frenetic. It had meant that we didn’t have the time—or the privacy—to discuss what had happened the night before.

  Waffles was sitting on my lap—we’d discovered the hard way that he had a tendency to growl at either the boom mic or the boom mic operator; we still weren’t sure which, and as the time of the interview got closer and closer, I found myself smoothing down his ears nervously, which he thankfully didn’t seem to mind.

  “Okay,” Jill said, clapping her hands together as she looked at us. Waffles jumped at the sound, and I ran my hand over his back, trying to calm him down. “Are we set, Grant family? We’re going to be live in”—she glanced at her tablet—“four minutes, so I need to make sure we’re prepped.”

  “Where’s Jackson?” Liz called from the doorway.

  “He’s getting ready,” Jill called back, her voice tight with tension. “So, like I mentioned, this isn’t a super-long segment—we’re going to go through the questions and answers we talked about. And don’t worry,” she added, glancing down at her tablet again, then speaking much faster. “Jackson’s a pro, so he’ll be guiding this whole thing. Okay? Great.” She turned and left the room without waiting for a response, speaking into her walkie as she went.

  “So, this will be fun,” J.J. said after a pause in which the enormity of what we were about to do seemed to hit us all simultaneously.

  “You guys will be great!” Jenny W. called from the doorway, holding up her mimosa glass and winking at J.J.

  “Totally,” Jenny K. echoed.

  “Okay, then, here we go!” Jill said, returning, her voice bright and cheerful, even though she was speaking twice as fast as she had been before. She gestured behind her, and Jackson Goodman came into the room. He was taller than he looked on TV—but he had the same close-cropped black hair and the same blindingly white teeth. For some reason, there were two tissues tucked into either side of his shirt. The Jennys waved at him and Liz pulled out her phone and started snapping pictures. “Jackson’s here, and we’re just about ready to roll, so is everyone set? Great,” Jill said without waiting for an answer. The crew was moving a lot faster now that Jackson had arrived—there seemed to be more of them than there had been just a moment before, everyone hustling around, and a chair was produced from somewhere and placed in the center of the room.

  “Hi,” Jackson said, giving us all a bright smile. “I’m Jackson Goodman.”

  We all nodded at him, just staring mutely, and Rodney was the one who recovered fastest. “Right,” he said, nodding a few too many times. “Hi.”

  “It’s such an honor to be here in your lovely home,” Jackson said, looking around at all of us and holding eye contact with everyone. He seemed to blink less than normal people. I figured maybe it was an anchorperson thing.

  “Thanks,” I murmured back, now looking a little nervously at the cameras that were pointing our way and getting closer, the camera crew pushing them into place. I didn’t watch Good Morning America all that often, but I knew who Jackson Goodman was, and he was sitting in our family room, only a few feet away from me. I glanced up at the lights and the boom guy standing just out of frame and felt my palms start to sweat. I quickly wiped them on the dog.

  “Jackson, we’re going in two,” Jill said, glancing at her tablet. She gestured to one of the PAs, who handed her nine copies of the Stanwich Sentinel, which she fanned out on the coffee table. “Prompter is ready for you, and these are for the final shot, where we’ll film the family reading the paper. Then we’ll cut from you to a slide of the strip itself. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great,” Jackson said. He had the same peppy demeanor that he had on TV, and I wasn’t sure if it was just the way he was, or if this would drop the minute he went outside to his temporary trailer.

  I’d thought everyone was moving fast before, but it was like things went into hyperspeed, as crew members were practically running as they moved plants, adjusted lights, and hair and makeup people descended on Jackson, calling for “last looks.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jackson said, his eyes closed as his face got powdered. “I promise this isn’t going to be painful.” The makeup artist stepped back, pulled the tissues from his shirt, and hustled away just as Jill shushed the group standing out of the shot.

  “And if we could have quiet,” Jill said, eyes fixed on her tablet. “We’re being patched in live in five . . . four . . .”

  I smoothed my hair down quickly, then the dog’s ears, and then Jill was pointing at us, and the red light on the center camera flashed on.

  “Welcome to ‘The Family Behind Grant Central Station,’ ” Jackson said smoothly, straight to camera, and I felt myself staring into the lens, not blinking, thinking of all the people on the other side of it staring back at me. The lines Kevin had read were now scrolling on a little screen next to the center camera. I noticed my mouth suddenly felt very dry. “I’m Jackson Goodman. I’m here in the Connecticut home of the cartoonist Eleanor Grant, where she and her family have lived for more than two decades. We’re here to talk about the wildly popular comic strip Grant Central Station, which came to an end this morning—and to meet the people behind your favorite cartoon family.”

  He looked at my mother expectantly, and a moment later, she seemed to realize this. The screen was flashing the line my mother had practiced saying—Welcome to our home. We’re so happy to have you here. But from the way my mother was squinting, I realized, much too late, that she didn’t have her glasses on. “Welcome?” she said, leaning forward to look at the screen, sounding incredibly unsure. “It’s . . . happy you’re here. Eleanor.” She frowned for a moment, then shook her head, and I realized she must have just read her name on the prompter like it was part of what she was supposed to say. “I’m so sorry about that,” she said, and I noticed her cheeks were bright pink. “I’m Eleanor. You’re Jackson.”

  I heard a muffled, kind of squeaking sound and looked down, thinking it was the dog, only to realize that it was Linnie, pressing her lips together very hard, and I recognized the unmistakable signs of my sister getting the giggles. Rodney had clearly
noticed too, as his smile had gotten a little frozen and he was patting Linnie’s hand while shooting her looks that clearly said, Keep it together.

  “Eleanor,” Jackson went on, smiling like nothing was amiss, “you’ve been drawing a version of your family for twenty-five years. What has been your favorite part of the journey?”

  Linnie burst into laughter, then clamped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking stricken, but not like she was going to stop herself from laughing. “So sorry.” She put on a very serious face, one that cracked immediately. “It’s just . . . ,” she said, then took a big breath, clearly trying to get herself under control. “You said journey.”

  “I . . . did,” Jackson said, still smiling, glancing toward the teleprompter like it might help him.

  “It’s just that we had a band last night,” my dad jumped in.

  “So to speak,” J.J. said, shaking his head.

  “And they were a Journey cover band,” my dad went on, which seemed to set Linnie off again. “You know, like the band? Journey?”

  “Right,” Jackson said, his tone getting a little more steely, even though his expression remained as smiley as ever. I glanced away briefly to see it looked like Jill had dropped her tablet and had both hands in her hair, like she was contemplating tearing it out. “So. Eleanor. You famously based the characters in your comic on your real family. What are the biggest differences between you and the characters in the strip?”

  We all turned to Danny, who was supposed to answer here with an anecdote about how Donny was a slob but he wasn’t. But Danny was looking down, his shoulders shaking, and I realized that Linnie had just passed on her giggles to him. “Hrm,” he said, like he was trying to clear his throat and pull himself together. “I’m different,” he said, clearly trying to get a grip, which was manifesting in Danny talking more slowly and about an octave lower than he normally did. It was like he was suddenly imitating Darth Vader, and I could feel laughter start to build somewhere in the back of my throat. “I mean . . .” He cleared his throat again, and I could see that he was fighting against cracking up. “Not—I’m not messy.”

  “We’re all different,” Rodney jumped in, looking like he was one of the few people holding it together. I was glad he’d spoken up, but also concerned that the camera had now focused on him, and he was sitting next to Linnie, who currently had a throw pillow pressed against her face, her shoulders shaking.

  “Yes,” Mike jumped in, and I could see that the corners of his mouth were twitching. “Like, in the strip, my name is Mark. But my name is actually Mike.” J.J. burst out laughing, then coughed several times to try to disguise it, which didn’t work, even a little bit.

  “Moving on,” Jackson said, his smile faltering a little as he looked around at us, clearly wondering just where he’d ended up. “Grant Central Station did such a wonderful job of showing this family that everyone wanted to be a part of.”

  “Not everyone,” I said, without even thinking about it. I was still on the verge of bursting out laughing on national television, but it was like we were all strapped into a roller coaster that was only going one way. It was like the punchy energy that was currently coming from every member of my family except Rodney was taking me there. I pointed to Mike. “Not him.”

  “Right,” Mike said, raising an eyebrow at me. “Not so much with me. In fact, this weekend is the first time I’ve been home in over a year.”

  “Ah,” Jackson said, squinting at the monitor like it would have some answers for him. “Yes, there was some . . . controversy.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that interview,” Mike said, his smile fading as he looked across to my mom. “I’m sorry I did.”

  “Well . . .” My mom paused, then smiled at him. “You made some good points. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.” I looked between them, and it was like in this disastrous interview, live on national television, I could see them both lowering their guard, agreeing on détente.

  “But what a great family,” Jackson said, his smile more like a grimace. “All their adventures . . . Waffles the dog . . .” On my lap, Waffles started growling as he looked at the boom mic operator, and Jackson drew back, alarmed.

  “It’s always interesting,” J.J. said, grinning. “But really not perfect.”

  “Nope,” my mother said, shaking her head, as Linnie, finally pulling herself together, raised her head from the pillow and smoothed her hair back.

  “I mean, they’re getting a divorce,” I said, pointing to my parents, who looked at me with alarm, which set Linnie off again, and she pressed her face back into the pillow, her shoulders shaking.

  “And just last night,” J.J. went on, “we almost got arrested!”

  “You what?” my parents asked in unison, sounding horrified, which was enough to make me burst out laughing.

  “Not me,” I said, trying to control myself and failing. “Just the guys.”

  “Well, that’s not going to make the funny pages,” Jackson said, clearly grasping at straws. Jill, looking like she was on the verge of an aneurysm, was making the wrap it up motion with her hand.

  “Could you imagine?” Linnie asked, still giggling. “It would be like Grant Central Station goes dark. Like, Cassie joins a biker gang and Waffles attacks the mailman.”

  “A.J. gets in too deep on the ponies,” J.J. added, laughing, “and Donny starts insider trading.”

  I covered my mouth, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop laughing, and I couldn’t help but notice how nice it felt—not trying to make everything perfect. Not trying to fit into some preconceived image. All the members of the Grant family were finally—in front of the entire country—being real.

  “Well, I think that’s all the time we have here,” Jackson said, his tone now very annoyed and no longer trying to hide it. “So—”

  “Wait,” I said, looking down at Waffles. “The dog! Someone adopt him!”

  “Yes!” J.J. yelled, picking him up from my lap and holding him up, like this was the beginning of The Lion King. “This isn’t even our dog! We don’t have a dog! It’s all a lie!”

  Just then the kitchen door slammed. “Whoops,” I heard my uncle Stu say. A second later, the alarm started going off.

  “Gah!” The sound guys ripped off their headphones, and the boom operator fumbled the boom mic, which swung down into the shot. Waffles, maybe seeing his chance, leaped straight up in the air after it and landed on Jackson, who shrieked.

  We were all laughing hysterically at this point, the alarm was wailing, and Waffles was barking ferociously at the boom mic. “The final strip of Grant Central Station is in newspapers today,” Jackson screamed to be heard over the alarm, as the crew ran around frantically behind the cameras, clearly trying to get it to shut off. “Bob?” he yelled, throwing it back to the anchor in New York.

  “And we’re out,” Jill yelled, sounding disgusted. But I didn’t care about that—or about the fact that Jackson Goodman was storming out of our family room, or that the alarm was still going off. I was still laughing, with little hiccups punctuating each one, and Rodney was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. I met Mike’s eye, which set us off again, and like he wanted to join in, Waffles threw back his head and started to howl.

  * * *

  “So, how soon do you think we’ll be asked back?” my mother said, raising her eyebrows over her mug of coffee. We’d all pulled ourselves together, somewhat. Our performance had caused a lot of commentary from the people who’d been watching it—and in the middle of Liz lecturing us about how we’d disrespected Jackson Goodman, my phone had buzzed with a text.

  Siobhan

  OH MY GOD CHARLIE

  WHAT THE FORK WAS THAT?

  FORK

  What the duck

  DUCK!!

  Anyway—what happened?

  It was the best/worst/best thing I’ve ever seen

  Did you get Jackson’s autograph for me??

  We’d all ended up in the
kitchen. The wedding guests were spread out in the dining room and family room, drinking coffee and eating donuts and offering theories as to why the Grant family had suddenly decided to collectively go off the rails on national television. Occasionally, someone would wander into the kitchen for more coffee—or mimosas, in the Jennys’ case—but for the moment, it was just the seven of us and Rodney.

  “I bet not anytime soon,” Mike said, raising his eyebrows. “Though I hope we can get a copy of it for posterity.”

  “No need,” J.J. said, shaking his head. “You know that’s going to be all over the Internet.”

  “Oh, good,” Rodney said with a sigh. “Just what I wanted.”

  “Wait,” Linnie said, looking around. “Did they take the papers with them? We never got to see the last strip.”

  “I can show it to you,” my mother said, gesturing out toward the office. “I have the original, you know.”

  “I kind of want to see it in the actual paper,” Mike said, and Danny nodded too. I felt the same way—we’d waited so long for this, it didn’t seem right to see the print my mom would have in her office, uninked, with penciled-in numbers for the colorist. I wanted to see out the Grants’ story properly—in the comic section of our paper, the way I’d been reading it my whole life.

  “We got the paper,” I said, and Mike nodded.

  “We finally got one?” my dad asked, eyebrows flying up.

  I nodded. “We were falsely accusing Sarah Stephens.” I looked around, finally spotting it on the kitchen counter under an empty donut box and shaking it out of its plastic wrapper. “Don’s been stealing it this whole time.”