Ten
Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy lived one extremely impressive life. He was born into a wealthy, well-known family and was a member of the Russian nobility. He was your typical spoiled rich boy until he joined the army and traveled around Europe and got a taste of the real world. Then he began to rethink his whole life, and he began to write. He wrote War and Peace and Anna Karenina , which are basically the two best and most famous novels of all time. He was pals with Victor Hugo. He grew an out-of-control beard. And in his later years, he was a pacifist Christian anarchist (which, yeah, is just as crazy as it sounds) and a big advocate of nonviolent resistance. He died of pneumonia in a railway station. Thousands of peasants flocked to see his funeral procession.
My life is not as impressive. I was born to a suburban, middle-class family. I do okay in school. I suck at any sport. I want to spend my life making important documentaries that change people’s minds, but at the moment I’ve only made videos that are a copy of Leo’s own work or largely unedited footage of me throwing back tea and rambling about how much I love the 1995 BBC version of Pride and Prejudice . See? Not so impressive.
But this might be the turning point, because Unhappy Families has just been nominated for a Golden Tuba, and that is the most impressive thing that has ever happened to me.
The Golden Tubas have been around for three years, and during those years they’ve reached a status in my mind on par with the Oscars and Emmys. Three years back, Wuthering Bites —Taylor Mears’s wildly popular modernization and parody of gothic romances—uploaded its last ever episode, and the People of the Internet decided that something had to be done about all the great small-budget, independent web series being produced—most of which had been directly inspired by Wuthering Bites . Sure, there were the Streamy and Webby awards, but they were for bigger names and super sleek productions. Some people of the Internet wanted a more low-key option. So these people decided to create a two-day convention and award ceremony—a celebration of amateur vlogs, web series, and other creative video ventures. Both the event and the awards are called the Golden Tubas. Apparently the name is an inside joke, or maybe it’s a palatable substitute for Golden YouTubes, which just doesn’t sound right. Whatever the case, the event was a smashing success its first year. The award ceremony was held in a decked-out ballroom at an Embassy Suites in Orlando. Naturally, the bulk of the awards went to Taylor Mears’s production team, Latte Love League, and the cast of Wuthering Bites .
I stalked social media with giddy envy that weekend. People who’d only been screen names and credits in the description box of a video suddenly had faces—happy faces. Everyone looked like they were having the time of their lives. The absolute worst and best part was the pictures of the Wuthering Bites cast hanging out at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Best, because is there any better combination of awesome things than Taylor Mears, Joe Samson, and Kate Palomo clanking frosted butterbeer mugs? Worst, because I wasn’t there clinking mugs with them.
But now I have a vivid picture in my head: me, Taylor Mears, and Thom Causer standing in front of Hogwarts Castle, forming peace signs with our right hands, holding bottles of pumpkin juice in our left. I already have the perfect Instagram filter in mind. Because why not? At this point, why freakin’ not? Anything is possible.
That’s what I’m thinking as Jack reads aloud the e-mail that arrived in Seedling Productions’ inbox late this afternoon. She’s not hallucinating. Or else, we’re sharing a hallucination when we take a look at the Golden Tubas website. Sure enough, there’s a list of nominees that includes Unhappy Families in the category “Best New Series.”
What I’m having a hard time getting over is the fact that the e-mail we’ve received has been personalized. Not a generic “Congratulations! You’ve been nominated along with ten other so-and-sos.” It’s a letter from someone on the Golden Tuba nomination committee, who’s written to say:
We’re so glad we were alerted to your charming web series just last week. Your nomination came in a little past the cutoff date, but we’ve decided to make an allowance since you would no longer be eligible for “Best New Series” next year. We hope to see you in Orlando in August!
“I wonder who nominated us,” I say. “Doesn’t it have to be some higher-up?”
“Probably Taylor Mears,” says Jack, “as she is obsessed with us.”
According to the e-mail, the entire cast and crew are invited to attend the event the second weekend in August. We’ve been offered free passes and a complimentary dinner Friday night, but we have to pay for our transportation and accommodation.
Upon reading this information, Jack slumps and says, “Okay, yeah, let me magically shell out the money for a flight to Florida during vacation season.”
“It’s not impossible,” I say. “What about your Etsy profits? And Petco?”
“Yeah, that money’s for daily life, not two-day trips. There’s no way I can afford something like that. I don’t think most of the cast could.”
I deflate. I know money’s tight in the Harlow household. It has been ever since Mr. Harlow’s medical treatments. And I really want Jack to come with me. Because of course I am going to find a way to go.
“Maybe,” I say slowly, “we could do our Kickstarter now?”
“No,” says Jack. Sharp, immediate. “That’s sleazy, asking fans to pay for us to go to some award ceremony when we might not even win.”
Jack’s right, of course. She and I have already decided we don’t want to do a Kickstarter campaign until we’ve wrapped up Unhappy Families . We want to give our fans a finished product before asking them to fund a new one. It’s a matter of principle.
“Jack . . . ,” I begin.
She shakes her head. “You have to go. One of us needs to be there. Just let me live vicariously through you, and I won’t complain.”
It’s a weighty commission Jack’s giving me, but I nod soberly. I will find a way to go to Orlando. This is my dream . I have a little over two thousand dollars saved up from my last two summers’ worth of work. Granted, it’s supposed to be money for college, but at the moment higher education is looking a whole lot less important than a Golden Tuba.
• • •
In the morning, Jack walks with me back to my house. She’s been pretty quiet ever since last night’s news.
When we come to a stop in my driveway, I ask, “You okay?”
Jack nods. Pauses. Shakes her head. In a cloudy voice, she says, “Dad hasn’t been feeling well.”
This isn’t even close to what I was expecting. “What?”
“He didn’t start complaining until a couple days ago, which means it’s probably been going on for a few weeks. He says he’s getting really bad headaches.”
“Do you think it’s . . .” I don’t finish. I refuse to say the “C” word more than is absolutely necessary. Saying it out loud makes me feel like I’m lending it power, like I’m complicit in its existence.
“I don’t know,” says Jack. “He says migraines run in the family and that he used to get them when he was younger. Maybe that’s all it is. But he won’t go to the doctor to get it checked out. Mom’s mad at him, but he keeps saying he’ll just wait until his next oncology checkup, which isn’t for weeks.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yeah, that’s what we keep telling him. But he’s Dad. There’s only so much we can do to change his mind.”
“Jack. I’m really sorry. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I guess . . . because I don’t want it to be real? And Paul would be so pissed if he knew I was telling you. He said not to.”
“Why?” My chest twitches in discomfort.
“I dunno. He probably doesn’t want you worrying, because we don’t know what’s up yet. Headaches can mean anything—that you’ve had a long day, or you’re dehydrated, or you have a brain tumor and are about to die. There’s no way of knowing.”
“Until he gets checked out.”
“Yeah.”
In the silence, an unspoken request passes from me to Jack. In response, Jack fixes me with a heavy-lidded glare.
“Fine,” she grouses.
I pull Jack into a loose but solid hug. Then before she can shove me away, screaming, I let go.
“Just let me know what happens, okay?” I say. “No matter what Paul tells you.”
Again, my chest twinges.
Jack says, “Do you ever wonder what horrible things I must’ve done to earn such bad karma?”
“What?”
“I mean, for Dad to get sick the first time, and now this. I must’ve done some awful shit when I was kid. Maybe something I don’t even remember. Maybe I killed a family of squirrels and then suppressed it.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” I say softly. “You could be getting bad karma now for something you did lifetimes ago.”
“Or maybe it’s not karma, and shit just happens.”
“Dukkha happens,” I say, smiling.
I’m not sure how we’ve come to this place, making Buddhist jokes about the horrifying possibility that Mr. Harlow’s cancer might be back. But I have a feeling the only alternative to joking about it is crying.
“I don’t know,” says Jack. “You’d think some cosmic authority would put a limit on how many hard knocks people get in a lifetime.”
I think of my mom’s tears, illuminated by the flashing light of a television.
“Yeah. That would be nice.”
“So,” Jack says, “when are you going to tell everyone about Klaudie dropping out?”
“Um. Well, Brooks knows, and he’s the one it affects the most.”
Jack gives me a hard look. “I should send an e-mail.”
“No,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
“I don’t think you will. I’m going to send them an e-mail.”
“Jack . . .”
“Everyone deserves to know. Anyway, we also have to tell them about the nomination. It’ll be killing two birds or whatever.”
Defeated, I say, “Fine. Just please be nice about it.”
Jack looks affronted. “What’s that supposed to mean.”
“You know you can come off as . . . snippy in your writing.”
“I think you mean ‘bitchy.’ ”
“Jack.”
She raises her hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll be nice. I’m sure they’ll be too excited about the nomination to even care about Klaudie.”
I nod. The nomination is a huge deal. A Golden Tuba . Things just keep getting better for Unhappy Families . Now if only that could be the case for our families.
• • •
I texted Thom about the Golden Tuba immediately after Jack showed me the e-mail. Now, at last, I get a reply.
That’s AMAZING , Tash!! Congrats. Don’t know if you’ve seen the full list yet, but Beaker Speaker got nominated for Best Vlog. Which means I’ll be there. So you know what THAT means.
I blink at the screen.
I know what that means.
Wait. Do I know what that means?
It means Thom and I will finally meet in person, right?
It means I will finally hear his voice saying words directed at me.
It means we could go on a . . . date?
Is that what it would be? A date?
My thumbs hover over the keypad, but no coherent reply is forming.
What I want to text is, I know what that means, but I don’t know what it MEANS .
Like now, in this moment, what if I replied to him with Yes! Can I call and talk about it?
I could do it. I could text those eight words, two punctuation marks. I could change everything.
What I text instead is, YES . We should hang out.
We’ve been texting for a while now, and neither of us has mentioned the possibility. I know why I haven’t: I am terrified. What if Thom doesn’t want to take it there? What if he does, but when we do finally talk it’s stilted and a complete disaster? I’m not sure of Thom’s reasons for skirting the issue, but I like to hope they’re more noble than my own.
Part of me wants to call him up right now. I could dial at any time, and he could pick up, and we could talk, actually talk to each other. I stare at our conversation for a couple minutes, willing that blessed bubbled ellipsis to pop up. Thom sent his text only fifteen minutes back, so there’s a good chance this will turn into an actual conversation. But another minute passes, and there is no sign of life on Thom’s end.
I groan and throw the phone into a wadded-up fleece blanket at the foot of my bed. I reflect, not for the first time this week, that the twenty-first century is a screwed-up place to be. How is this even a normal human interaction? Back in the old days people waited weeks, even months, to receive letters, and that had to suck. But on a regular day, when they were out and about having normal chats, no one had to wait in crippling suspense to see if their conversation partner would deign to answer them. If said partner remained unresponsive for a full three minutes, the only possible explanation would be that they’d had a stroke, not that they’d heard the question and didn’t want to answer for another few hours.
But Thom hasn’t heard the question. Probably not. He’s a busy guy, and he hasn’t had the chance to check his messages yet. He wouldn’t keep me in suspense on purpose. Right?
My phone chimes, and I bolt up, making a convulsive grab for it.
As I read Thom’s text, I’m hit with sweet relief. He’s written back OF COURSE , and he tells me to let him know when I buy my tickets and the exact dates I’ll be in Orlando.
I’ve yet to bring up the Golden Tubas with my parents. I’m pretty sure they won’t give their wholehearted approval to their daughter blowing her college savings and flying out of state, alone, for a weekend. But I’m seventeen, and the money is mine to spend, and this is a big deal. Also, my parents don’t have a history of keeping me under lock and key. I have a reasonable curfew, and I’ve gone on plenty of overnight school trips and vacations with the Harlows. I just have to phrase this right, at an opportune time. Meanwhile, I’ve already found the cheapest flight to Orlando. Because I am so freakin’ professional.