By the time Mom was satisfied she’d gotten the shot she wanted, my shirt was stuck to my back, and I’d been forced to wear a fake smile for so long that my lips were stiff. We were a dour group that trudged back to the house, and the first thing Mom did when we arrived was uncork a bottle of wine, fill the glasses, and pass them around.
It was a tradition in our house to binge on bad disaster movies instead of football or parades. Watching the world end in various, ever more ludicrous ways sanded the jagged edges off the day. We made it through Runaway Gamma-Rays and three bottles of wine before Mom started yelling.
“What did you do? I can’t believe this! Are you stupid?”
Dulled by wine and lethargy, my reflexes were sluggish, but I scrambled off the couch and stumbled into the kitchen. Black smoke belched from the oven, and Nana stood beside it, looking dazed. “You were cooking it wrong. I added salt to your stuffing too. You never add enough salt.”
I grabbed Nana by the crook of her arm and led her out of the way while Mom threw open the oven door, releasing a gob of smoke that immediately set off the smoke alarm. The pulsating squeal made my brain throb.
Charlie shoved past me, frantic and confused. When he saw the blackened turkey smoldering in the oven, he grabbed two dish towels and hauled the bird into the backyard, where he unceremoniously lobbed it into the canal.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mom screamed, following after him.
“Keeping the house from burning down.”
“I could have salvaged that!”
Charlie dropped the roasting pan. “A Thanksgiving mir-acle couldn’t have saved that.”
Mom was shaking with rage. “Will someone shut that goddamn alarm off!”
Zooey said, “I’ll open the windows,” and tugged my sleeve, motioning for me to help. I climbed onto a chair and yanked the alarm out of the ceiling, but it kept shrieking until I popped the battery out as well. The house was smoky and smelled like charred turkey. Zooey tried to laugh it off after she’d opened the windows and brought the fan from Charlie’s bedroom into the kitchen to help blow the smoke out. “All we do at my house is smile politely and trade passive--aggressive compliments.”
I peeked my head outside but wished I hadn’t. Mom and Charlie were going at it for the whole neighborhood to hear.
“I’m not the one who cranked the oven to five hundred degrees!” The muscles on the sides of Charlie’s throat bulged, and he was sweating profusely.
“You had one job, Charlie! One job! Keep Mother away from the food. You couldn’t even do that, and now we have no dinner. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Charlie stormed inside and pulled Zooey toward the front door. “I’m done. We’re going to your parents’ house.”
“But they’re not expecting us until three.”
“Then we’ll be early.”
Nana shuffled to me and held my arm. I didn’t notice she was crying until she sniffled and wiped her nose with a crumpled tissue she produced from her pocket. “I only meant to help.”
“I know, Nana, but I don’t think anyone can help this family.”
? ? ?
Diego arrived to pick me up wearing a tacky Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts, and didn’t look embarrassed by either. “Is there a dress code?” I asked.
“Yes, but don’t worry, I can loan you a shirt.” Diego waited until I’d buckled my seat belt before taking off.
I didn’t know if Diego was joking about the dress code, but I would have worn clown shoes and a tutu to get out of my house. After Charlie and Zooey left, Nana passed out on the couch and Mom disappeared into her bedroom with a bottle of Chardonnay. “I’ve never been to a Thanksgiving barbecue before.”
Diego hadn’t stopped grinning since I’d gotten in the car. I even thought I’d heard him grinning over the phone when I’d called him to ask if the invitation was still open. “It’s Viv’s anti-Thanksgiving celebration.”
“Who’s going to be there?”
“Mostly Viv’s work friends. They’re cool, though.”
“Anything’s better than my house.”
“Yeah, so what happened?”
As we drove to Diego’s house, I told him the whole miserable story. It sounded worse the second time. “The problem is, I think my mom might be right about putting Nana in a nursing home. What happens when she actually does burn down the house? What if she decides to cook while we’re sleeping, and we die of smoke inhalation?”
“All the more reason not to press that button, yeah?”
“I guess.” Except, when I was with Diego, the button was the last thing on my mind.
We pulled up to a ranch house painted the color of key lime pie. The shutters were white with pineapple cutouts in the center, and the front yard was meticulously manicured. It threw off a vibe that said: Come in! Relax! Don’t track dirt on the floors!
Diego parked on the swale and motioned for me to follow him inside. It was even more colorful than the outside. The living room felt like a Key West bed-and-breakfast, complete with a stuffed sailfish mounted on the wall above a wicker sofa set upholstered in palm-tree-patterned fabric. Everything—the lamps, the entertainment center, the picture frames—was island themed. The only thing missing was steel drum music in the background.