by Sean Boling
Chapter Ten
I’ll never know why they ultimately decided to stick with their plan to take me along. I suspected it was simply because they had already told me it was a graduation present, and turning it into something just for them would be pretty selfish even by their standards. That night in Dad’s car I had vowed to keep my parents out of my reality checking, and focus on the other adults. I was still interested in the truth, but not about myself.
Admittedly, it was helpful to know how I could improve my act. I already knew what I faced in terms of attitude, so that was nothing new, but in light of the challenge my emotions presented and how beyond my control they seemed at times, the insight into the deeds I could be performing to enhance my manners came in very handy. If I could not corral the instincts to spite either of them in conversation, then I could at least fetch them a drink refill; if I could not keep my eyes from rolling, I could clear the table. Suddenly these tasks that would have most kids moping about fairness and a lost childhood revealed their value; not in building life skills, but in rerouting all the psychological snot that was so hard to expel into tangible diversions. I may not be as nice as I wished, but I would be helpful. “There’s good in him,” they would say. “I can see it in the way he holds the door open for us.”
None of which made the drive to the coast any less interminable. Much of the slowing of time was due to Mom’s incessant narration, as though she was taking video of the proceedings with a hand-held camera and voicing what we were all seeing, and how we should feel about it. Dad meanwhile remained relatively quiet most of the day. While we were driving I assumed it had to do with concentrating on the road, or sharing my silent prayer that Mom’s play-by-play would cease. Though I could not help but wonder if he was wishing that it was just the two of them on their way to a romantic weekend, and that I was getting in his way of being able to agree with Mom’s assessments on how beautiful and fun everything was.
The coast was indeed beautiful. Saying it a thousand times would not diminish the fact. The shoreline district was filled with plenty of tacky pomp, but it was cleverly disguised in most cases and made for an agreeable lookout onto the ocean, which I hadn’t seen in years and found very humbling. The day ended up even being kind of fun in its own odd, lengthy way. I could tell when we finally arrived and he was out from behind the wheel of the car that Dad was not irritated by my presence. He was neither upset nor content, having cast aside strong feelings for deep thought. He would look at the ocean as though asking it questions, and study fellow families of tourists walking by as though evaluating them for pointers on how to be a happier bunch. I found myself relating to his pensiveness, wondering what it would be like to come to a place like this someday with a girl, on our own, in love; I imagined being there with Lana, only she was able to speak; I then imagined Shay, only she looked more like a whitish version of Lana; I imagined being with Lourdes when we were older, both in our twenties, our respective ages no longer an issue. I thought of the things we would say to one another as we leaned over the wharf and looked at the tide swirling below us, the funny things and interesting things as our voices competed with the sound of the gulls and the sea lions, the flirty things that would lead to us kissing, and I wondered what those kisses would feel like.
The hush from the two males in her life only increased the intensity of Mom’s verbal chronicling of our day, which made it more funny than grating. I practiced my newfound leveraging of attitude with actions by suggesting we get an early dinner, and then jumped at every chance to act on wrappers, cups, trash cans, and doors.
My foray into etiquette went over well. We spoke pleasantly, and when I felt the urge to peck at them, I grabbed some used paper napkins to throw away or took a trip to the condiments station and asked if anyone needed anything while I was up. They were impressed enough to let me in on the fact that along with some of the other parents, they were planning a surprise for after our eighth grade graduation ceremony that week. They wouldn’t tell me what it was, claiming light-heartedly that they didn’t trust me with a secret, but were clearly proud of finally being involved in something related to school, even if it was on the last day. The references to keeping secrets made me laugh, loudly enough for Dad to ask, “What, you think you’re good at keeping them?”
I took a deep breath then shook my cup, rattling the ice inside. “Anyone need a refill?”