“Translation, please,” I say as Napoleon, our German shepherd, nudges his wet nose against my bare leg.
“What would you like for dinner?”
I scratch him behind his ear. “Sounds better in Italian.”
“Pretty much everything does,” Mom agrees. She tucks a strand of her silver hair behind her ear. I hate that she stopped dyeing it—it makes her look old.
“Actually, I’m not staying for dinner,” I say. “I’m going out with Ben.”
My mom’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly. She’s getting better at keeping her thoughts about my boyfriend to herself, but I know that doesn’t mean her opinion of him has changed. Still, we don’t fight about him quite as much as we used to.
I open the fridge and grab a pitcher of iced tea. “Dad in bed?”
She nods, her lips now pressed together so hard that they’ve almost completely disappeared.
My dad has been sleeping a lot lately. He’s been depressed for months, ever since his company went through a merger and he was let go from his position as sales director. It hasn’t helped that he’s had trouble finding work. You’d think the more experience someone has the better, but it turns out that’s not the case. He’s overqualified for most of the jobs he’s applied for. And not many companies are looking to hire someone who’s only a handful of years away from retirement.
My mom thought a vacation might help, even though we can’t afford one. She’s always dreamed of going to the Amalfi Coast. I’ve spent hours online looking at photos of pastel houses perched on jagged cliffs, imagining myself swimming in the vast blue stretch of the Mediterranean or walking along the cobblestone streets, taking in the quaint shops. But instead of seeing it as a relaxing distraction, some family time, and a much-needed chance to recharge, my dad is getting really stressed out by the cost of the trip. As a result, the level of tension in our household is at an all-time high.
“Che cosa mi consiglia?” the computerized woman says.
“Che cosa mi consiglia?” Mom repeats.
There are no clean glasses for my iced tea, so I grab one from the dishwasher to rinse out. I turn on the faucet and water sprays everywhere. I quickly shut the water off, but not before my T-shirt is totally soaked.
Mom sighs. “I guess we can add that to the list of things that don’t work in this house.”
I know she’s referring to the closet door that has slipped off its track and the ceiling fan that no longer spins, not my dad, but in the case of the worst timing ever, he walks in. And I can tell from the way his face falls that he thinks it’s a knock against him.
Mom obviously catches her blunder too, because she blushes. “I’ll call the plumber.”
“No need,” Dad replies. He’s wearing an old, holey Rolling Stones T-shirt, sweatpants, and three days’ worth of scruff on his cheeks. His dandelion puff of rust-red hair badly needs a comb. His hair color is the only physical attribute we share. Everything else about me is my mom. “I can fix it.”
Mom and I exchange a skeptical glance. My dad is not exactly handy. In fact, I can’t remember a time when he’s ever done more than change a light bulb.
This probably isn’t going to end well.
“Are you sure, Jeff?” Mom says. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to—”
“I can fix it,” he repeats, an edge of irritation in his voice. “I just need a wrench.” He pauses. “Do we have a wrench?”
Mom shrugs.
While Dad disappears to search for the tools, I pop into my room to change into dry clothes. I grab a T-shirt from my closet, trying to avoid looking at the joker cards that paper one of my walls. Alistair and I started collecting them back in elementary school. I can’t even recall why. It was strange, but we used to find them everywhere. He claimed it was magic.
My throat thickens. I should probably take the cards down. I don’t know why I haven’t already. Maybe because they remind me of him and how we used to be, before I torpedoed our friendship.
* * *
“Em, you can’t keep canceling on us,” Marisol said, cornering me at my locker a few weeks after I chose Ben over Alistair. I’d barely spent any time with my friends since then, I’d been so swept up in Ben and my exciting new life.
The bell rang. “I know, I know,” I said. “I’m that girl, the one who’s always with her boyfriend. I know we hate that girl. I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
“Em,” Ben called down the hallway. I glanced over at him. He twirled his car keys, his signal that he was anxious to leave for the day. I quickly shoved my biology textbook into my bag and bent down to root around in the bottom of my locker for my calculus homework.
Marisol squeezed my arm. “We just miss you.”
“I miss you guys too,” I said.
And I did miss them. But the truth of it was, I’d been steering clear of Alistair. I told myself it was to spare his feelings, but deep down, I knew it was because I didn’t want to deal with the complicated emotions that washed over me every time I saw him.
“Em, come on,” Ben said.
My shoulders tightened. I slammed my locker door shut and turned to smile at Marisol. “I have to go. I’ll text you later and we’ll catch up. I promise!”
But somehow I never got around to sending her that message. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and soon enough my eyes would skip over Alistair and Marisol when I saw them in the cafeteria. The three of us had once been entwined like the roots of a tree, but now we’d become strangers. All because of me.
* * *
If they only knew how much I wish that I could take it all back. I’d do everything differently, if I only had the chance.
Ben honks to let me know that he’s outside. I grab my hoodie and run down the stairs and out the door. I know how much he hates to be kept waiting.
* * *
Ben and I trail behind Olivia and Drew as they wander from booth to booth at the summer night market, trying to decide what to eat next. Drew has already worked his way through a bowl of fried pickles, two corn dogs, and a blooming onion, and we’ve only been here for half an hour.
He turns around and points to a glass case lined with a rainbow of different candies and fat slices of fudge. “Bacon-wrapped caramel apple?”
Ben shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”
“We’ll all pass,” Olivia says, lightly shoving Drew’s shoulder. “How about something that has some nutritional value?”
Drew grins at her, all wolfy white teeth. “Apples have nutritional value.”
“Not if they’re covered in caramel,” she replies.
“Bacon is protein.” He pats his stomach. “And I’m a growing boy.”
Olivia yanks him away and we keep walking. The air is smoky and thick with the smell of barbecue and fried food. We came early to avoid the worst of the crowds, but now that the sun has set, the lines for everything are getting longer. The night market is waking up, and the neon lights from the few rides—the Tilt-A-Whirl, the Ferris wheel—are flickering to life.
Drew stops dead in front of a red-striped booth, inside which a man is flipping hamburgers. He stares slack-jawed at the sign advertising burgers on glazed doughnuts instead of regular buns.