“Huh?”
“Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“I guess it just doesn’t feel real. Out of nowhere Dad just tells us that everything’s gone and he wants to go back to China to reclaim our ancestral lands or some bullshit? That he doesn’t have enough money left for ASU tuition? How does any of that happen? I know we’re not billionaires, but he always said, you know—”
“‘Be happy that Daddy is rich man.’”
“Yep. So what the hell now?”
“Wait, he didn’t tell me that he wanted to go to China. That’s insane. He’s never even been to China,” said Saina, sounding surprised.
“Well, you know, he always said he wouldn’t go back until he could do it properly. But, yeah, it was on the message he left—I haven’t actually talked to him yet—”
“I have a whole conversation with him and he doesn’t tell me, but he leaves you his master plan on a voicemail?”
“Maybe he’s getting real Chinese in the face of adversity. I am the firstborn son.”
“But not the firstborn.”
“XY trumps XX.” Saina laughed and he felt that old relief. Before he could make another joke, something to keep her from sounding tense and worried, she spoke.
“Hey, Andrew, do you want me to pay your tuition? Look, I have my whole trust, everything that’s vested so far anyways, it’s not tied up with the bankruptcy as far as I know. And I still have money. I mean, you know, I made a good amount of money. So I could if you wanted.”
Stay at college. Let Saina deal with Dad. Pay her back when he could get at his money, if it still existed. It probably didn’t exist anymore. Whatever, pay Saina back when he earned some money. Make up with Emma. Do some more open mic nights. Decide to be in love with her. Maybe even try an open mic in L.A. some weekend. Fall in love with her. Write more material. Who knows, he could already be in love with her, and he wouldn’t know unless he stayed. And then sex, sex with Emma.
“Oh wait, here’s Grace calling again. She’s going to go crazy if we don’t talk to her already,” said Saina. “Hold on, let me merge calls.”
Andrew heard a beep and quickly shut down his Emma fantasy.
“Saina!” It was Grace, at her Gracie-est. “I’m so annoyed. Why haven’t you been picking up? Where have you been all day?”
Before Saina could respond, Andrew leapt in. “Did the king of the Watusis drive a car?”
“Andrew! How come you guys are talking to each other already? How long have you been on the phone without me?” demanded Grace.
“Barely at all,” said Saina. “Like, two minutes.”
“Well, why did you call each other first?”
“Gracie,” said Andrew. “Aren’t you going to answer?”
“No! I’m mad.”
“Then how do we know it’s you?” he teased.
“Fuck you, Andrew.” She really was mad. Grace always jumped to the angriest place without warning. She was capable of conjuring up a fury that felt like a living beast—a palpable, pulsating thing that crouched next to her—and the only way to stop it from appearing was to head it off with lightness.
“Language, language,” he said. “Now: Did the king of the Watusis drive a car?”
“No,” pouted Grace. “He was a savage. A noble savage.”
“Bzzzt! I’m sorry, that is not the correct answer. You may not enter.”
“Okay! Fine! Yes. He drives a specially built 1954 Pontiac.”
“Thank you very much, Bunny Watson.”
This was how he wanted them to remain, the careless, carefree brother and sisters that they had always been, that they had made themselves be. As long as they could do that, maybe nothing was different, maybe everything wasn’t ruined.
“Poor Gracie. Andrew, stop torturing her,” said Saina.
“This is brotherly love in action, yo. No torture.”
“Guys,” said Grace. “They’re on their way to pick me up. What should I do?”
“Stall!” said Andrew and Saina together, jaunty. It was their old routine, born of a hundred, a thousand, summer afternoons spent piled on the slipcovered couches in the media room, shivering in the air-conditioned house, hypnotized by the whirr of the film projector. That’s what L.A. kids do on sunny days: shut the doors, crank the air, pull the shades, dim the lights, and pop in the movies. For the three of them, it was a pile of old Katharine Hepburn movies in metal film canisters that Andrew found the year their mother died. All three of them could reenact the licorice gun scene in Adam’s Rib, knew every insult in Woman of the Year, and used the research questions in Desk Set as passwords. The films had been stacked in the dusty crawl space under the stairs and were marked PROPERTY OF BREEZY MANOR. Andrew pictured Breezy as a sexy sixties dollybird sort of lady until Saina told him that a manor was a house and that it was probably what the last owners had called their house.
“What is wrong with everybody? Saina! Andrew! Why aren’t you guys upset? Do you just totally not care about this? We’re. Poor. Now.”
“Well, not exactly,” said Andrew. “Saina’s still rich.”
“What? What do you mean?”