“Seriously, Mom,” Theo says, his ears still fully covered, so he talks even louder than usual. These people have no sense of volume control. “Do we really have to play happy family? It’s bad enough that they live here.”
I look at my dad, roll my eyes to show that I’m not bothered. He gives me a tiny smile when Rachel isn’t looking. If Theo is going to be a bad sport, I’ll do the opposite. Play perfect child and make Rachel even more embarrassed about her spoiled brat. Pretend I’m not angry that my dad has brought me here, that he hasn’t even bothered to ask how I’m doing. I’ve mastered the game of Pretend.
“Looks delicious. What is this?” I ask, because it does look good. I’m getting tired of ramen and PB&J. I need some vegetables.
“Quinoa and a mixed seafood stir-fry with bok choy,” Rachel announces. “Theo, please take off your headphones and stop being rude. We have some exciting news.”
“You’re having a baby,” Theo deadpans, and then laughs at his own joke, which is not at all funny. Oh no. Is that even a biological possibility? How old is Rachel? Thank you, Theo, for adding one more thing to my biggest fears in life list.
“Very funny. No. Bill got a job today!” Rachel grins, as if my dad has just accomplished an amazing feat: done a triple backflip right in front of us and stuck the landing. She’s still in her work clothes—a white blouse with a jaunty bow tie and black pants with a satin stripe down each side. I’m not sure why, but she always seems to wear stuff that dangles: ties, tassels, charms, scarves. Her blunt-cut brown hair is blown straight, and its perfection ages her, despite her tasteful Botox. Too many sharp lines. I’ll grant her this, even though I’m not much in the mood to grant her anything: Rachel’s enthusiasm is generous. My dad’s salary is probably only a little bit more than what she pays Gloria. Still, I’m relieved. I can now ask for an allowance to hold me over until I get my own part-time job.
“Let’s toast!” she says, and to my surprise pours both Theo and me each a small glass of wine. My dad doesn’t say anything and neither do I; we can play sophisticated and European. “To new beginnings.”
I clink my glass, sip my wine, and then dig into my stir-fry. I try not to make eye contact with Theo; instead, I text Scarlett under the table.
“I’m so excited. Didn’t take long, darling!” Rachel smiles at Dad, squeezes his hand. He smiles back. I look at my phone. I haven’t gotten used to seeing them together, acting all newlywed-y. Touching. I doubt I’ll ever get used to it.
“Where will you be working?” I ask, mostly because I hope my talking will make Rachel take her hand away from Dad’s. It doesn’t work.
“Right down the street from your school. I’ll eventually run the pharmacy counter at Ralph’s,” my dad says. I wonder how he feels about Rachel making multiples of what he makes, whether it’s emasculating or attractive. When I objected to her paying for my school, my dad just said, “Don’t be ridiculous. This is not up for negotiation.”
He was serious. None of it was up for negotiation: his marriage, us moving, Wood Valley. Before my mom died, I lived in a democracy. Now it’s a dictatorship.
“Wait, what?” Theo asks, and finally takes off his headphones. “You are not working at Ralph’s.”
My dad looks up, confused by Theo’s belligerent tone.
“Yeah. The one on Ventura,” my dad says, keeping his own voice conversational, light. He’s not used to belligerence. He’s used to me: passive-aggressive. Actually, mostly passive, with the occasional storm of snappiness. When I rage, it is alone, in my room, sometimes set rhythmically to music. “Good benefits. Dental. I’ll be a pharmacy intern for a while, since I need to take an exam to practice in California. So I’ll be studying for my CPJE while you guys study for your PSAT. But, you know, it’s paid, not like an internship internship. I’ll be doing the same thing I did back in Chicago while I get certified.”
My dad stutters a nervous laugh and wears that half smile. He’s babbling.
“You got a job at the supermarket near my school?” Theo yells.
“At the pharmacy counter. I’m a pharmacist. You know this, right? He knows this?” my dad asks Rachel, now completely bewildered. “I’m not bagging groceries.”
“You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me. Mom: Are you serious?”
“Theo, slow your roll,” Rachel says, and puts her hand out. Who are these people? I think, not for the first time. Slow your roll?
“As if I’m not humiliated enough. Now my friends are going to see him working at the supermarket with one of those lame little plastic name tags?” Theo throws his fork across the room and stands up. I can’t help but notice the splash of soy sauce on the white dining room chair, and resist the urge to find some Shout. Or is that Gloria’s job? “Give me a break. It’s hard enough without this shit.”
Theo storms off, all ridiculous stomp and huff, like a four-year-old. It’s so overblown that I’m tempted to laugh. Did he learn to throw fits like that in theater class? Then I see my dad’s face. His eyes are sad and hollow. Humiliated.