“I want us to think positively about this,” she says, reading my pessimism loud and clear and seeming to smile harder in the face of it. “Make a wish and blow them out!”
What on earth. I glance from Dad, full of ire and bluster, to Mom, who’s propping herself up with this bizarre-yet-fierce kind of optimism and looks like she might fall apart if I refuse.
They are so weird and I am so screwed.
But I take a deep breath in, and then blow.
Because this is apparently how things are going to be from now on in my family—give bad news, pretend it’s good news, and then force everyone to eat cake.
3
PRIME DIRECTIVE
After this horror show of a dinner I need to get out of the house.
I bundle up for the January temperatures—warmest coat, hat, mittens (not gloves), scarf, and serious boots—and trudge the two blocks through the bitter, windy streets to my best friend Emma Leung’s house.
Emma’s dog, a rescue mutt named Ben, greets me with wild enthusiasm that cheers me, in spite of the fact that I’m too allergic to him to reciprocate. Emma’s dad, John, stylishly rumpled in his signature librarian work clothes— button-down, vest, loose tie, and dark jeans—beams at me with almost equal enthusiasm. He escorts me into the high-ceilinged kitchen of their Victorian house, where, instead of having all gone their separate ways after dinner, Emma’s family is still sitting around the table in the midst of some kind of debate.
“Come, sit!” John says.
I was hoping to talk to Emma alone, but just being here with her family has a thawing/warming effect on me. Plus she’s in the middle of something with her younger brother Albert. She pauses mid-sentence to wave me toward the empty chair next to her. I check surreptitiously for dog hair, see none, then sit.
Emma’s mom, Vivian, passes me a can of sparkling water and gives my shoulder a squeeze before sitting back down. Vivian is one of my favorite adults—she’s smart, perceptive, has no patience for idiots, and she’s also really sweet—all things that make her one of the most sought-after physicians in Pine Ridge. She and Emma look very much alike with their straight black, shoulder-length hair and athletic builds. I grin at her and then turn back to focus on the conversation.
“I mean, in the original the directive is more of a suggestion anyway,” Emma is saying. “And Kirk violated it so many times.”
Ah, Star Trek. I should have known.
“But I’m talking about the ethics of it. What would happen if we tried to apply it in the real world?” Albert asks, all earnestness.
“Uh, good luck with that,” Emma says with an eye roll.
“I know, but just go with it,” Albert says. “If you were put in charge of the world—”
“Which I should be—”
“Sure, sure,” he says, waving this off. “So if you were in charge, would you institute the prime directive? And how strict would you be about not interfering?”
“I dunno,” Emma says. “Sometimes interfering is the lesser evil.”
“But in theory you’re not supposed to interfere at all.”
“Sometimes I think they should have interfered more,” John throws in, and Albert looks at him aghast.
“That’s colonialism!” Albert’s face is red and he looks furious, but the fact is he’s enjoying every minute of this. They all are.
“Think about the UN,” Vivian says in her usual warm, reasonable tone. “The UN interferes with countries for their own good all the time.”
“And yet there are often unforeseen consequences,” John says, seeming to jump from one side of the argument to the other.
“We’re all on the same planet,” Emma says. “So I’m not sure it’s a fair comparison.”
“Perhaps,” John says, a definite twinkle in his eye, “the question is whether we would want a species from another planet coming along to impose their rules on us, or save us if we need saving.”
“You would consider letting an alien species dictate your life?” Albert says.
“What do you think, Libby?” Vivian asks me.
They all turn to look.
“Um . . .” Even though I’m used to Emma’s family and their debates—which are Trek-oriented today, but might be about cloning or freedom of speech, or the best way to make popcorn tomorrow—I still freeze up when asked to join in.
There’s no debating in my house and I don’t even know how to do it.
“Come on, throw your hat in the ring,” Albert urges me.
“My only Star Trek opinion is that the new Kirk is better than the old Kirk,” I say, feeling like this, at least, is something I can contribute to.
“Ohhhhh!” Albert clutches at his chest. “You wound me.”
“It’s the hotness,” Emma says.
“Shallow consideration,” Albert says.
“It’s true he’s not ugly,” Vivian says with a smirk.
“Mom!” Albert says, scandalized.
“You think Shatner was chosen for his intellect?” Emma says, and then they launch into a new debate, this one about casting and Hollywood reboots.
I sit there, just letting it wash over me. The incessant debating in this house only makes me tense when I’m put on the spot—otherwise I kind of like it. They get mad at each other sometimes, but it’s all in the spirit of sharpening their wits and teasing out all the angles of a given subject. It’s always been kind of a relief to me, to know I can come here and enter this whole other family reality.
But tonight it’s also a bit depressing.
Emma must notice something in my demeanor, because after casting a few glances my way, she abruptly exits the debate, and leads me up to her very pink (with red and black accents) room.
She still has all the color-coded charts and graphs she made to track her college application process, plus her various scholarship options, on her magnet board. She went crazy over the details, even making pro and con charts involving walk scores and cafeteria ratings of various campuses. It’s impressive, but she also drove herself into a frenzy and ended up having five panic attacks during the final three days before the applications were due, and only got hers into the portal on time because I came over and did the final steps for her.
I can tell from the shadows under her eyes that she’s not completely recovered.
“Are you sure you still want all that stuff up there?” I ask her, and then study her body language—her breathing and how she’s holding herself—for signs of trouble.