Page 3 of The Rusalka and Mr. Right

“Oh, Lord. It’s going to be like an L.L. Bean catalog up there, and you’ll come home looking like Carlton fromFresh Prince.” My mother is offscreen now, but I can hear her muttering.

“Wait,that’swhat’s wrong? You’re worried I’ll develop badfashion?” I look down at my outfit. Polo shirt with a Temple Owls’ logo. Sweatpants. “Have you seen what Dad wears every day?”

“Hey!” My father glares.

“Help!” I mouth. My eyes roll pointedly in Mom’s direction.

We nod as one.

“If it’s some horrible, bigoted place, I’ll come right back home.” I cross my fingers under the desk. I need to get away from my parents. I’m almost twenty-seven, and I’ve always lived within an hour and a half from my parents, if not under their roof. I need some breathing room! No parents, no wild little brothers, no roommates, no checking in. I’ve always lived at home, in the dorm, or now with three guys who are also all struggling to finish school, make rent, and hold down a job. I’ve always been the big, responsible brother, the oldest “good example” son. Nothing against being a good guy (I’m actually into that), but I’d like to do it without an audience or my helicopter mother.

“Esther, it’ll be a good place for grandkids,” my dad says. That’s his way of helping.

It’s no helpat all. I glare.Thank you so much, Dad. Throw some lighter fluid on the fire, why don’t you?

“Grandbabies? What grandbabies?” My mother practically sends my dad into orbit, shoving him backward in the rolling chair so her face fills the screen of their old laptop computer. “It’s not that Laura girl, is it? I didn’t like her. Is it Shanise? She’s nice, sweetie.”

“There is no girl at the moment. Laura was just a friend. Shanise and I broke up in May. There are no grandbabies. None. And there will not be for years.”

My mother pouts. My father eases his way back to the front and center, pulling my mother into his lap.

“Look, I just want a job where I can make a decent salarywhileI finish getting my DPT. You know it’s been a nightmare juggling work and classes. I’ve been in this six-year program for almost eight years at this point! There’s either no money for a class or not enough time to take one, or a job that won’t let me be flexible with my course schedule.” I could go on, but my father now has to do his two-minute “we have to help the twins with their undergrad degree first” speech. This happens whenever I bring up the typical struggles of living in an Inflation Apocalypse.

“Now, you know that ‘full ride’ for Cal and Carter didn’t really cover everything, son. Carter needs a car, and Penn State isn’t giving Cal a stipend for his books and lab fees—”

My eyes glaze over and I nod seriously.

Time to run interference.

My fingers drum across my phone screen, pulling up my “Brothers Only Chat”.

Kev: Mom and Dad are up in my shit again. I got the job in NY. Help. Run interference.

Carter: Can’t. Swim practice just started. Coach looks hangry.

Calvin: Give me five minutes. I’m waiting to hand off my orientees.

Carter: Cal, what the hell is Penn State thinking putting you in charge of anything?

Calvin: The same thing Duke was thinking naming you MVP last year.

Kev: You are both infants. Why does Mom fixate on me when you two obviously need so much more help?

Calvin: Be nice, or I won’t call to tell her some fake problem about my laundry or my debit card.

“I hope you understand, Kev.”

“Oh! Yeah. I do, Dad. Totally. One hundred percent.” God, what did I just agree to? I hope it was the standard financial-slash-parenting guilt speech. “Um. So. I have to pack up my room. I already have someone interested in taking my spot.”

“But... It’s so far away!”

“It’s not Florida, Mom, and it sure as heck isn’t North Carolina! I’m just alittlebit farther away.” I give her my best “soothing an angry patient” tone.

“Baby, pull up pictures of Pine Ridge.” My mother pulls her glasses from the neckline of her flowered shirt and perches them on her nose. My father squints over the top of his bifocals, lips moving as he types.

They’re only around sixty, my parents, and they still call each other “baby.” They still act like they’re raising three rambunctious little boys at home. My dad still sniffs the back of my mom’s neck every time he passes by her while she cooks in the kitchen and says, “Mm-hmm, that smells good enough to eat—and the dinner’s not bad either!”

I’m ready for that. I’ve been ready for so long.

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