Page 91 of Hate You, Maybe
“Kind of like me,” he says.
I wander over to him, pat him on the back. “How are you feeling, Pop?”
He waves the question away, his knife slicing the air. “I wish everyone would stop hovering.”
“Well,Iwish someone had called me when you went to the ER. Instead, I had to hear about your little trip from Jo.”
“There was nothing to report.” My dad grunts. “Your mother overreacted. I was fine.”
Fine. Right. I’ve heard that one before. To reorient, I glance around the kitchen, taking comfort in the familiar. Same old white appliances. Wallpaper dotted with sunflowers. The sign over the table in the nook.
Happiness is a Choice.
“I saw all the cars out front,” I say. “But where are all the people?”
We usually do family dinners on Mondays, but this week my mom insisted on pushing to Thursday since I was away at the retreat. Everyone grumbled about the switch in the group chat. But it looks like they showed up anyway.
That’s the way of things with us Michaels.
“Kendal’s feeding the baby in the den.” My mom sets her ladle on a spoon rest and wipes her hands down her apron. “Tim took Rowan out back with Landry and Brock to watch the sunset.”
“It was a good one tonight,” I say. “Very pink.”
She nods at my dad. “Your father took a picture and posted it on his new Instagram page.”
“Your mother claims it’s never too late to become an influencer,” he says.
“Nice.” I chuckle. “Sunsets are a great start.”
To be fair, the views from the yard are pretty magnificent and probably worth renting out for special events. Not that my parents would ever do that. This place was always for us.
The five-bedroom rancher sits on top of a hill at the edge of a cul-de-sac in one of Harvest Hollow’s older neighborhoods. A lot of the original owners have been replaced by younger families, so there are still kids everywhere. On theirbikes in the street. Running around until the street lights come on. Same as when we moved in.
That was always the signal that we had to come in and wash up. Whatever we were playing, whoever we were with, we came home when we were expected.
We still do.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask.
My dad points his knife at a basket by the pantry. “Take the bread to the dining room.” The rolls are crusty on the outside. Soft inside.
Kind of like he is.
The big table is already set for eight with a highchair at one end for Rowan. My mom’s working her usual fall theme with a horn of plenty centerpiece flanked by taper candles that look like ears of corn. The salt and pepper shakers are shaped like pumpkins. The napkins are printed with fall leaves. Even the water glasses are a sheer orange.
It’s an autumnal extravaganza.
Over dinner, I fill everyone in on my time at Camp Reboot, skipping over any parts that involve me Velcro-ed to Sayla Kroft’s lips. Then I tell them about our new plan for the SACSS evaluation.
“So you’re the performing arts director now?” My dad squints at me from the head of the table. “What does that mean?”
“It’s just a temporary role switch until the visitation,” I explain. “The whole point is to show the accreditation team how collaborative our faculty can be.”
“So basically it’s a stunt,” Landry smirks.
“Pretty much.” I grab a roll from the basket and smear butter across the top. “But it’s a stunt that forces different departments to work together, which is the whole point. I have no idea how to teach football players to performShakespeare, so the theater teacher will help me. And vice versa, with Sayla coaching her actors in a scrimmage. We’ll be showing the SACSS a literal demonstration of what the previous committee asked to see more of at Stony Peak.”
“Who’s Sayla?” Kendal asks.
