Page 34 of Don't Hate the Player
Dad smiles and points to Matt’s first frying attempt. “I like this kid. Matt, are you into computers at all?”
Matt nods robotically, focused entirely on his chips. I think he’s actually breaking a sweat from sheer concentration. “Yeah, my brother builds ’em.”
“After lunch I’ll show you what I have in my office. No one else around here is a techie. I might have some components your brother would be interested in.”
Matt breaks focus to look over his shoulder at me. Yeah, I know, dude. Telling my dad I picked up more computer skills than he knows would be mad suspicious. He doesn’t know about Florence, and that’s exactly how I like it.
“How’s the campaign planning going, Madam President?” my mom asks while she tosses the grilled chicken salad.
“Going good, Mrs. Romero,” she says sweetly. “Much better now that we have Matt as our campaign manager.”
“That’s good to hear.” My mom eyes Matt standing at attention next to her double-size kitchen range and appears to make up her mind about him. “Every campaign needs a good manager. Have you done student government before, Matt?”
“Heck no,” Matt replies. Penny coughs loudly, and he changes his tune. “But, I am . . . ?really interested in civics. Because”—he looks over my mom’s shoulder at Penny and me for a hint at what to say next, but I got nothin’—“we . . . are —”
“The future, Mrs. Romero,” Penny finishes for him. “We are the future of America, and it’s our job to learn how to be good citizens. Matt understands that, right, Matt?”
“I do.” He flips the last plantain out of the pan and admires its golden texture. “Hundred percent, I totally—that’s my whole thing.”
My mom nods solemnly, more amused than confused.
“I think that’s admirable,” my dad adds happily. “You’re all a few short years from college, and that’s when you can get really involved in the process. You know, when I was at UPenn—”
I groan. My dad has exhausted every single possible story about his time at UPenn. I hear them at the dinner table, at parties, doing yard work, in the car, through the door of the bathroom when I’m getting ready for school . . .
“Everyone knows you went to UPenn, dear,” my mom says, not unkindly. “Emilia, grab some forks and knives from the drawer. Everyone else can take a plate and come around the island. Someone has to feed the future of America.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Romero.” Penny walks over to take her plate. “So it’s fine if Emilia comes to my place next Saturday? The debate is the Monday after and I need an audience to really nail my delivery.”
“That’s fine.” Mom nods. My dad gives a thumbs-up over her shoulder. I shoot Penny the most grateful, wide-eyed expression I can manage and feel marginally less terrible when she sticks her tongue out in response. Penny has my back. I guess Matt does too. Last night may have been on the bizarre side of interesting, but everything is coming up Emilia.
PART III
Jake, Sunday Night
JAKE HAD DONEthe math, and there was a 28.6 percent chance of his dad being in the kitchen at the exact time Jake was hungry for dinner. He was aware of developmental research that suggested eating meals as a family was conducive to stronger parent-child attachment and a lowered chance of psychological problems, but as far as Jake was concerned, that ship had sailed a long time ago. He was here, his relationship with his dad was meh, and whatever his parents were going to do to him complex-wise was pretty much in the bag at this point.
Still, he was very hungry. Bob gave Unity a break from practice today so they could cool off from yesterday’s tournament, but Jake spent most of his afternoon checking up with Ki and Penelope and trying to noodle his way through homework assignments that felt cosmically unimportant in the scheme of Jake’s suddenly remarkable life. Somewhere between another chapter ofBeowulfand some absolutely incomprehensible bullshit about triangles, he felt his stomach rumble.
Jake rose from his desk chair with every muscle in his leg tensed to stop the chair’s old springs from squeaking. He poked his head out his bedroom door and squinted to see if his dad’s bedroom light was on. It wasn’t, which didn’t tell him much. His dad slept a lot lately. Sometimes Jake would be chilling in the apartment for hours without realizing his dad had been asleep in his room the whole time. Jake crept a little farther down the hallway and peeked around the corner to check the kitchen light. It was on: 28.6, your number is up.
He tried to look nonchalant as he strode into the kitchen on bare feet and saw Jacob Hooper the Elder eating a plate of reheated ziti at the table.
“Dad!” he said.Too high key, tone it down. “You are awake.”
“Haven’t seen you all weekend, son. Where did you go yesterday?”
There wasn’t any special reason Jake didn’t talk to his dad about the tournament. Not a reason like Emilia had anyway. When he was in the car with her, which by the way was freaking incredible, Jake understood her issue as being one of systematically detrimental attention. By no fault of her own, her existence in the world ofGLOwas a beacon for other people’s opinions and garbage commentary. Jake didn’t talk about the tournament for the exact opposite reason: no one gave a shit what he did.
“I met some friends,” he said. The inside of the fridge was packed with leftovers. He pulled the rest of the ziti his dad was eating out from underneath something steaky-looking and a tub of mixed greens.When did I make this?Jake thought, looking at the marker date on the bottom of the Tupperware.Thursday. Still edible.
“You’re already making friends at school. That’s good.”
Jake shut the fridge and grabbed a plate from the cabinet. “Not from school, Dad. My friends from that game thing.”
His sudden need to be honest wasn’t an attempt to connect with his dad. Jake knew enough about himself to realize that. It was guilt, manifesting in a regurgitative urge to say something true after lying to Unity all afternoon.
He really, really hated lying to his team about Emilia. Lying by omission counted, and he’d cringed when Ki reminded him he hadn’t even told them her name. Unity had a right to know that he’d gotten a ride home with Em, and theydefinitelyshould know that she was driving him to Round 2 . . . ?but telling them would break Emilia’s trust. What kind of choice was that? A smarter person could have figured it out to some grand moral satisfaction. Jake figured he’d just do what he always did and kept his mouth shut, like he promised.
