Page 138 of Pick-Up
It makes everything that’s been depressing me feel less heavy.
We laugh long and hard to the point where my dad gets curious about what’s happened. He rises from the couch and crosses over to the table.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Mom is a pothead,” I say. “She’s applying to be the new editor ofHigh Times.”
“Really?” he says with genuine interest. “I haven’t seen her smoke dope since the sixties.”
And we start laughing again. I am in bliss.
After my mom promises to stop her massive daytime weed intake, I make tea, sit at the table with my parents and tell them all about my trip to Citrine Cay. About the stingray and the food and the tiny plane. About the shoots and even my jellyfish sting, though I leave out the racier and romantic details.
My mom looks at me thoughtfully. “Sounds like an incredible trip and like it could be an incredible job.”
“I’m not sure.” I frown. “It’s a long story, but I think I might have hurt my chances.”
“Why don’t you talk to this Ethan person about it? Since he’s also a parent at the school? Make sure he knows you want the position. He let you do your thing without intervening at all, even though his job is tenuous. He gave you a shot. It sounds like he trusts you.”
She’s right, I realize. He did trust me. He took a risk. Put my career aspirations on par with his. But, now, I’m not so sure. With all the complications, how can we trust each other? I know he was wrong in not telling me more, about the job opportunity, about his ex-wife. But I have to admit, if I’m honest with myself, he was mostly afraid of scaring me off. And he’s not wrong. I do scare easily.
Thinking of him standing all alone in the schoolyard at the Harvest Festival after Kaitlin’s meltdown, I am suddenly hit by a tsunami of regret. It steals my breath.
It’s not that I think I did the wrong thing. I haven’t heard from him, so I guess he’s given up too. I just hate how it’s all turned out. My heart is broken—for everyone involved.
Later, as they’re leaving, my mom thanks me.
“It was nothing, Snoop,” I say.
She smiles, though she surely has no idea what I mean, and lays a hand on my shoulder.
“You know, when I was worried I was losing my memory, I kept thinking, at least I have you and your dad. At least I’m not by myself.”
“True.” I am too happy that she’s healthy to even be annoyed by the obvious implications. This is a huge weight off my shoulders, at least for now. Still, the lesson remains: life is short.
“I know you don’t want to do those dating apps. I understand. It sounds like torture. But, the truth is, I worry about you being alone.”
Same, woman. Same. But I worry about losing my autonomy too.
“I will try to remedy that,” I say. But we both know it’s an empty promise. I just came as close as I had in years, and where did that land me?
I am getting it from all sides. When I go into Nettie’s room totell her it’s time to stop reading and go to sleep, she tells me she wants to do “true secrets.” This is what we call sharing without fear of consequences or judgment.
“How do you know if you have a crush?” she asks, toying with the corner of her batiked duvet.
This is not what I was expecting. Usually, it’s about how she argued with a friend at school or Bart stole candy without permission. (Like mother, like son.)
“Oh, well. I guess you just want to be around the person as much as possible. And maybe you get butterflies when they’re around, like you’re extra nervous or excited.”
“Yup. Yup.” She diagnoses herself. “I’ve got a crush.” She groans, grabbing her giant penguin stuffy to cover her face.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“No comment!”
“Is it Henry?”
“What?!” she tosses the stuffed animal to the side and sits up straight in abject horror. “Henry is myfriend?!”
