“I’d long resigned myself to a life of only eating falafel in restaurants,” his dad said, gearing up for one of his patented monologues. Everett had always wondered if his dad became a professor simply so he’d have a captive audience.
“Who am I to attempt deep-frying at home? The oil. The mess. The work. But today I wanted falafel, and I thought to myself, ‘Dave, what sort of example are you setting for your children? That you shouldn’t take a chance? That you shouldn’t risk an oil-splatter burn on your forearm? That you shouldn’t make your own pita?’”
“Am I correct in assuming that the oil-splatter burn wasn’t purely hypothetical?” Everett asked.
He caught Gretel rolling her eyes as his dad cheerfully held up his arm, which sported a bandage. “No risk, no reward—that’s what I always say. Let’s eat.”
Dinner was delicious, especially when compared to what Everett usually ate: frozen pizza while working at home, fast food while working at the studio, vending machine snacks that his producer, Astrid, pelted at his head when he forgot to eat and got snappy.
“This is amazing,” Everett’s mother said, throwing her hands in the air. “The best thing I’ve ever eaten. You know I hate hyperbole—”
“That’s one of your most defining characteristics, dear,” Everett’s dad said with a solemn nod.
“But this might be literally the best falafel I’ve eaten in my entire life.”
“You know why I think that is?” Everett asked, pasting a thoughtful look on his face. “Because it’s made with love.”
Everyone pretended to gag, Gretel so convincingly that Everett started to worry she’d throw up on her plate.
“Mom’s right,” Everett said when everyone was done gagging. “This is fantastic.”
“It is,” Gretel agreed, wiping her face with her cloth napkin.
“So!” Everett’s dad said with a subject-changing handclap, after absorbing his required amount of praise. “Everett, what’s happening in the world of public television puppetry?”
“Yes, do tell,” his mother said, leaning forward.
Everett looked at Gretel, who mouthed Do tell, then crossed her eyes. He ignored her.
“I’m working on a new character,” Everett said. “I need another girl puppet.”
His mother nodded. “Your puppets do skew male.”
“I believe the term is ‘sausage party,’” his father said, patting his mother’s hand.
Everett wrinkled his nose and avoided making eye contact with Gretel. “Regardless, I’m working on a new puppet, but she isn’t feeling real yet. Something’s missing.”
“So you’re at the fun part,” his mother said, eyes gleaming. “The part where you’re uncovering the idea.”
“Sure, the fun part. Also known as the part where I have no clue what I’m doing, no clue if it will work out, no clue if I’ll ever have another idea again for the rest of my life, no clue if I’m a washed-up has-been who will spend his remaining days chasing an original thought that will never come.”
“Also known as the creative process,” his dad said with a smile.
“You say this every time,” Gretel said.
Everett turned to look at her as she shoved a piece of pita into her mouth. “What?”
“Every time you start something new. You walk around all spacey, moaning about how you’re never going to make anything new ever again, and then guess what.”
She paused, and everyone waited.
“You always do.”
“This is why I say you’re my smartest daughter,” Everett’s mom said, then looked him in the eyes. “She’s right. You’ll be fine.”
“Gretel!” his father boomed. “What did you get up to on this fine day?”
Everett knew that the prevailing parenting logic in this day and age valued protection and security over freedom, and people didn’t let their young children roam unsupervised. But Everett’s parents were—in case this fact has not already been established—different. For them, it was always the 1970s, and they let Gretel go where she wanted as long as it was on foot. It was also important to note that Gretel, being Gretel, was almost constitutionally unable to make a bad decision and despised most strangers, so there were limited worries about her running off with one.
“Much like Everett, I’m working on a new project, although I’m feeling significantly less tortured about mine,” Gretel said. Everett suppressed an eye roll.
Everett’s dad’s smile shone beneath his mustache.
“I’m making a comic about my childhood,” she said.
“You’re twelve,” Everett said.
Gretel raised her eyebrows. “And?”
Everett held up his hands in surrender. “Point taken.”
“I’m currently in the research stage,” Gretel said, and Everett watched his parents beam. No two people loved research more.
“I visited a vintage toy store today,” Gretel continued. “Colossal Toys. They have a lot of old stuff . . . Star Wars. GI Joes. Barbies.”
Everett’s mind flashed briefly to what he’d been working on last night. He’d emailed some ideas to Astrid, and he fought back the strong urge to pull his phone out of his pocket to check for a response.
“Everett?” his mother asked, and he realized they were all staring at him.
“Stop thinking about your own work for two seconds and answer our question,” Gretel said, frowning.
“What was the question?” he asked.
His mother smiled patiently, long used to his distractibility. “What was that cartoon you and Gretel used to watch when she was a baby? The one with the tiny man who rode a fox?”
“David the Gnome,” Everett said without hesitation, and Gretel pulled out a notebook and scribbled something down.
“Is that really going in your graphic novel?” Everett asked. “An old cartoon we used to watch?”
“Perhaps,” Gretel said with a sigh.
“But here’s the real question: what are you going to write about your dear old pops?” Everett’s dad leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head and his elbows splayed out.
“Absolutely nothing at all,” Gretel said, but she was smiling.
Everett’s dad pointed to his bandage. “You guys wanna see my gnarly burn?”