“That boy, your friend, is high,” Dad adds. He’s all white-lipped and rigid as he says this.
“What?” I fume. “Have you lost your collective minds? Liam’s an elite athlete—the last thing he would do would be to ingest an illegal substance. He’s not high. He had a sports injury and he’s taking medicine, like Tylenol or something. That’s it. You’re both being incredibly irrational.”
“Simmy, no,” Mum says gently. “That’s not what Tylenol looks like.”
Dad is a lot harsher. “He’s jammed out of his head, Sim. That boy was off to see the wizard. He was not of this world. He was flying. You have to trust me, been there, done that, sculpted the goddamned fetus out of it.”
I know exactly what the problem is here; the problem is not me.
The problem is that since we’ve been in America, my dad has lost his spark. He’s not created a damn thing and that always puts him in a right foul mood. Last week, I thought he was finally inspired when I saw these huge lists written out on the wall of his workshop.
Turns out, he was simply trying to organize his fantasy football picks.
Mum’s concerned, too. He’s not himself when he’s not enmeshed in a project; it’s like his creativity is replaced with anger. The last time he was blocked like this, he went to war with the greengrocer on Drury Lane, saying Mr. Saccomandi was passing off factory-farmed leeks and beetroot as organic produce. Was quite a whole to-do there for a while, until he finally took that trip to Peru and came home inspired.
Mum and Dad eye each other before Mum starts to speak. “Simmy, sweetie, your Dad and I... Well, we’re older and wiser than you. We’ve been around the block. You have to trust us when we say that Liam was not right-minded. His pupils were little pinpoints and he was all ruddy and breathing hard—none of that is normal. All are signs of drug use. Bad ones, not just a blunt at a party.”
I want to stomp my feet or throw a knickknack or something, which is not at all like me. I can’t even recall the last time I wasn’t on the same page as my parents; maybe that’s why I feel like overreacting. I’m boggled by the very unfairness of their accusations. No one should be projecting his or her own shortcomings onto this perfectly lovely boy.
I calm myself and try to express my feelings. “I disagree. Those are completely normal reactions for someone who’s coming over to tell a girl that he likes her. Can’t you trust my judgment?”
“We trust you,” Dad says. “Always have. We don’t trust him. Who comes to a girl’s house when caned? My God, the lack of proper judgment is astounding.”
“Are you serious?” The urge to stomp is back. “He’s not on anything! And, hypothetically, what if he did experiment with something, just the once? You’re such hypocrites! Or did you forget traveling to Peru for the sole purpose of taking ayahuasca just last year?”
I’m referring to the hallucinogenic plant that’s cooked down into a tea and administered by a shaman. Chugging the elixir is supposed to give users insights regarding their earthly purpose and users have told stories of visiting different spiritual realms. Mum said it mostly made her throw up in a bucket and appreciate first world bathrooms, but Dad said this was what inspired him to create SegaGenocide.
Thank God it did. The veg weren’t nearly as fresh at regular supermarkets.
“That’s a single instance,” I add. “I know all about your lives back before I was born. People have written books about your crowd! I mean, if you Google ‘cocaine’ and ‘1990s,’ your picture appears first, Dad! You both used to chill with Keith Richards! Honestly, how I wasn’t born with flippers or a vestigial tail is a complete mystery! You two are the LAST BLOODY PEOPLE ON EARTH to judge anyone for anything, particularly without a shred of proof.”
With a preternatural calm, Dad says, “Go to bed, Simone.”
Mum and I are both taken aback at the notion of Dad doling out discipline and the use of my Christian name, but as I’m ready to end this conversation, I do as I’m told.
“Gladly,” I reply. I stomp up the stairs without bidding either of them goodnight...for the first time ever.
26
STEPHEN
“How do you want to be remembered after high school, Mr. Cho?”
“Mom, please, can I have one second? I need a timeout. Lemme get my head together, okay?”
My phone’s been blowing up the whole ride down the expressway but I haven’t even been able to glance at my texts because my mom’s too intent on quizzing me until the very last moment. I finally unblocked Kent and Simone, largely because I didn’t want to get into why I’d cut them out in the first place. Doesn’t even matter.
My mother’s been peppering me nonstop for the past week with potential questions that the alum might ask at today’s MIT interview. She doesn’t reply to my request for a respite and I see her narrowing her eyes at me in the rearview mirror.
Oh, did I not mention that despite being eighteen years old, I’m still forced to sit in the back seat? Her rationale is I’m safer back there. Didn’t Ralph Nader himself conclude that shame was the best airbag?
Kent always says I should play it off like she’s my chauffeur. Works in theory, but I ask you, what Uber driver rolls down the window upon drop-off, insisting I make the family proud? Some days it’s like I want to contact NASA to calculate exactly how embarrassed I am, because the humiliation can’t be measured on the tools I possess.
I’m so anxious about my interview right now I want to puke. I feel my guts churning and I’m all lightheaded. I can taste bile in the back of my throat and I swallow again and again to keep it down. Perspiration is pouring out of my palms and my feet are so sweaty that my socks are slipping around inside my stiff dress shoes.
What would make me feel better isn’t more prep; I desperately need amnesty from this rolling quiz bowl. This morning she was shouting questions at me through the closed bathroom door; I can’t even take a shit in private. If I could have a few minutes to listen to my tunes and center myself, I’d come back to this refreshed. I unzip the case and pull out my headphones so I’ll be ready to plug them in the minute the warden releases me for yard time.
With every question my mom throws at me, the invisible band around my chest constricts harder, practically choking the life out of me. Thank God Caitlyn needs her for a day of wedding planning after she drops me off, so I’m taking the train home by myself. At least I’ll be spared from the play-by-play recap until dinner.
Headphones in hand, I say, “I’ll do a better job if I go in there relaxed. Take five?”
My mom doesn’t look away from the road as she answers, generating oceans of bad karma as she cruises down the expressway at her usual forty-seven miles per hour in the center lane. “Oh, yeah, you think MIT wants students who’d rather relax? This is the homestretch, pal. Quit stalling.”