Eleven
Kisses bring viewers out of the woodwork. That’s pure and simple fandom fact, and #KevinThursday is a prime example. A kiss is the culmination of everything unspoken—all the hints and hopes and uncertainties in a budding romance. Until that moment, it’s heat and simmer, heat and simmer. It’s a look, a word, a gesture. But the kiss is the boiling point. It’s what everyone waits on and cheers for.
I get that, but personally? I prefer what happens before the kiss: the accidental brush of a shoulder, the spark of a stolen glance, the seemingly throwaway comment that is steeped in history and means so much more. That’s what I love best, and it’s what I best direct.
Like today, as I film George, Eva, and Brooks. The scene is post-kiss, but Kitty and Levin aren’t all over each other because their friend Stiva is in the room. He’s rambling along happily, as Stiva is wont to do, and Kitty and Levin are trying to figure out how to tell him they’re an item. And as Stiva gushes about his new favorite restaurant and how choice the onion rings there are, Kitty and Levin are sneaking looks at each other, smiles tipping up both their mouths. Out of Stiva’s sight line, their fingers inch closer and their hands entwine. Kitty bites her lip, looking sharply to the distance, as though she’s liable to burst into a gut laugh at Stiva’s chirpy obliviousness.
It’s our fifth take, and the second after I asked Eva to try the lip biting. It’s perfect and adorable, even if Jack is rolling her eyes off camera. When I call “Cut,” it’s clear the others are happy with the performance too.
Eva giggles the moment Jack lowers the boom. “Brooksss,” she whines. “You can’t keep changing it up like that, I almost lost it.”
They’re both cracking up, because Brooks has been slightly altering his delivery with each take, and it’s been getting progressively funnier. Even George is in good spirits for—well, for George . He’s actually smiling, for God’s sake, and he hasn’t once asked to tweak a line or complained about how anyone else is “carrying themselves.”
Jack was right about the nomination: It completely overshadowed the news of Klaudie leaving. Brooks is perfectly chill about changing later scenes and losing a few lines. “It’s show business,” he said, as blithe and amiable as Stiva himself.
“So what’s up?” he asks now. “Want another one?”
“Nope. That was the money shot.”
“AW YEAH .” Brooks raises both hands. Eva and George—yes, even George —oblige him with high fives.
“The fans are going to love this,” I say.
It’s true. Even if our viewership won’t love it as much as the locking-lips installment, they’ll still eat this episode up. And for me, today’s shot is a fluff scene at its finest. It’s all wrapped up in the safety and warmth of two people who have passed a point of recognition, of openness. I’m not talking about the kiss, either. I’m talking about what came before it. There’s a moment in the Scrabble episode—right when the light kicks into Levin’s eyes, and he realizes Kitty understands him. That they’re on the same page. You can see it so well in George’s excellent performance; it’s the sheer joy of simply knowing another human being. It’s here, too, in this episode—that comfiness of being understood, evident in every little look and move. And it might be schmaltzy to say, but I’m proud I’ve had a hand in crafting it.
George leaves immediately, off to the next bullet point on his agenda, but Brooks and Eva stick around. They hang with me and Jack on my back porch, and together we eat through an entire box’s worth of Fudgsicles.
“I know it’s not the Academy Awards,” Eva says, imprinting bite marks along her Fudgsicle stick, “but it feels real now, you know? An awards show. Do you think I can put that on my résumé?”
“God knows I am,” says Brooks. “Though I kind of wish they had a classier name than Golden Tubas.”
“Yeah, well, Oscar isn’t such a classy name, if you think about it,” says Jack.
Both Brooks and Eva consider this. Brooks shrugs. Eva’s blond hair blows up in a sudden wind, and strands stick to her fudge-coated mouth. It’s a stupid, almost ordinary thing, but something about her reaction—an overdramatic gasp and lurch in her deck chair—sends us into cackles.
“Blergh,” says Eva, picking away at her soft, highlighted hair, and still managing to make the process look cute. Put me in that situation, and I’d have you fleeing for the hills. That’s why Eva is the talent, not me.
Eventually, Jack and the others head out, but I stay on the deck, feet propped against the wooden railing. I’ve found a pleasant surprise waiting on my phone: Thom has texted.
How’s it going? Filming today, right?
My stomach does a few of its usual backflips, but I’m grinning as I write: You know that feeling when you GET it? Everything comes together the way it’s supposed to? That’s what today was.
To my delight, I see activity on Thom’s end. I’ve caught him in time for a proper conversation.
Oh man. That’s the best feeling in the world. Like when I nail a vlog in one go? Minimal editing, good face day? Perfect.
Haha, when do you NOT have a good face day?
Oops. I guess that was flirty. But it’s also true. Is it really flirting if you’re stating a fact?
Thom’s response is immediate: Well, not as good as YOURS .
Oh my God. The muscles in my hand decide to stop functioning, and my phone goes clattering to the deck.
What is even happening.
I scramble to pick the phone back up. There’s a new message from Thom.
. . . Did I scare you off?
My thumbs tap like the wind: Ha! No. That’s sweet.
I’m pretty sure my face is the color of Sriracha, but I’m okay with that. Since this is such terrifying fun, I decide to keep it going:
Seriously, Thom, you should start your own beauty vlog. People want to know how you do it.
Beauty sleep, that’s my secret. A full eight hours every night.
Well! The sleep gods certainly favor you.
Flirting. Yep. Definitely flirting. I’ve crossed the line, and I don’t even care. I feel like I could run a marathon and projectile vomit at the same time.
I’m really excited for you, Thom writes. Deflecting. I get it. It’s what I do when someone compliments me too much. The nomination and the good shoots and your face. You’ve got it all, Tash.
My smile is a mile wide, though Thom isn’t exactly right. I don’t have it all yet . I haven’t attended the Golden Tubas. I haven’t met him in person.
But I’m well on my way.
• • •
All four Zelenkas are at the dinner table—a phenomenon that’s become increasingly rare over the past few weeks. I hardly ever see Klaudie in the house. She’s started her volunteer work with Connect!—an engineering day camp hosted by the University of Kentucky during which middle schoolers build robots and miniature bridges. At night, she’s out with Ally and Jenna and their whole lot of friends. Most evenings, she doesn’t get in until really late. I’ll hear her plod up the stairs at one or two o’clock in the morning, when I’m still sitting up in bed, clicking through Tumblr posts.
When I do see Klaudie, she looks—different. Kind of haggard. Like tonight, her eyes are pink and watery on the edges. She looks tired. Which is weird, considering the whole point of quitting Unhappy Families was to “enjoy her summer,” and you’d think that would involve plenty of naps. I’m pretty positive she and her friends drink, and I don’t want to think of what else. I guess it’s normal, even for perfect, smart people like Klaudie, to kind of go off the rails. It is her last summer before college, and that seems to cover a multitude of sins. Or at least, that’s how Mom and Dad have been acting. They don’t wait up for Klaudie, and I haven’t heard them scold her for breaking what used to be curfew during the school year. Even now, at dinner, they don’t comment on how quiet she is, or the pinkness of her eyes, or how she’s sullenly skewering food on her fork like she’s been forced at gunpoint to eat with us.
Dinner is a zucchini casserole. Most casserole nights, Dad makes an obligatory remark about how he never considered any meatless casserole to be a true casserole until he met Mom, who forever changed his mind and heart. When we were younger, Klaudie and I would coo at that last line. These days, we act like we’re going to throw up.
I don’t know how my parents manage it. On paper, they look so different that a mere acquaintanceship, let alone two decades of marriage, seems impossible. Mom is a self-professed communist nomad from New Zealand who’s been vegetarian since her fifth birthday, practices daily mediation and yoga, is soft-spoken and tenderhearted, and specialized in a career where she could help people. Dad is the son of two Czech immigrants, a meat-devouring extrovert who loves parties and exotic stouts and cigars, with a fervor for capitalism that rivals John D. Rockefeller’s. When the two of them met on a backpacking trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains, they had every reason in the world to hate each other. But they didn’t. It worked. It worked so well that they fought through endless visa paperwork to put rings on each other’s fingers and say “I do.” It’s worked for almost twenty years. Which isn’t to say Mom and Dad never fight, but their arguments only last a day, max.
I guess it has something to do with compromise. Dad cooks vegetarian meals and is responsible for any meat in his own dish; Mom never judges him for eating said meat. Mom raised me and Klaudie the way she was raised in Auckland, following the teachings of the Buddha; Dad takes us to Christ Church Cathedral for Easter and Christmas services. Mom converted our attic into a yoga studio; Dad can smoke his cigars and drink his stouts in the home office and only the home office. It works because of compromise. And, I guess, you know, because they love each other.
Tonight, as we sit eating our dinner, I expect Dad to make the casserole comment any minute. But time passes, and the table remains quiet.
In the end, I break the silence.
“I’ve got some exciting news,” I say.
I haven’t noticed how intently my parents have been eyeing their plates until now, when they both look up.
“Does this have to do with your newfound fame?” asks Dad.
“I’m not actually famous ,” I say. “I think I might have explained it to you wrong.”
“Hey, I’m glad you’re doing something that makes you happy,” Dad says, waving a zucchini-staked fork to emphasize his point. “When you do what you love, you’re bound to be successful.”
“Jan,” says Mom, her voice gently chiding. “I don’t think that’s necessarily true.”
Dad hikes his shoulders up in a way that says, Maybeee not?
“So,” I say, “our show got nominated for an award. Like, I guess you could say they’re the Academy Awards of low-budget web series.”
“What?” cries Dad. A bit of almond flies out of his mouth and goes skittering across the table. “That’s fantastic!”
Out the corner of my eye, I see Klaudie stabbing at her casserole. With more relish than necessary, I say, “Yeah, everyone is really excited about it. The awards ceremony is going to be at this convention in August, and they’ve invited us to attend.”
“All expenses paid?”
I really wish Dad hadn’t asked that. It makes what I’m about to say sound even more grandiose than it did when I practiced it in my mind earlier tonight.
“No,” I say slowly. “We get free passes to the convention, but we have to pay for our own transportation and accommodation.”
I see it: the dreaded unreadable glance exchanged between my parents.
Dad says, “Uh-huh.”
Not promising.
“I was thinking—and please, please hear me out, okay?—that I could buy my tickets and room with some of the college money I’ve saved up.”
“You mean all the college money you’ve saved up?”
I didn’t expect my parents to be jumping up and down with excitement, but I consider this a particularly mean-spirited question for my dad to ask.
“I know how much flights cost,” I say. “And hotel rooms. I know it’s expensive. But this trip means a whole lot to me. This is what I want to do with my life. I’ve thought it through, and it’s not irresponsible, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s an invaluable experience, and it’ll be great for my résumé, and anyway, someone has to be there in case we win.”
“Is Jacklyn not going?” asks Mom.
“No, she can’t afford it. But she thinks I should go.”
“By yourself,” says Dad. “On a plane. Staying in a hotel, on your own.”
“You’re making it sound so dramatic,” I say. “Like I’m some stupid kid who doesn’t know what stranger danger is. I’ll be safe, I promise. I’m seventeen. I can handle it.”
Dad looks like he’s preparing to say something very adult and disapproving. I brace myself for impact, but it never comes. Mom must’ve silently signaled him when I wasn’t looking, because he stays quiet, and she speaks instead.
“It’s clear you’ve put a lot of thought into it. Your father and I know how responsible you are, and how much this project means to you. And I understand it’s your money, but, Tasha, darling . . .”
Oh no. I am not ready for a “But, Tasha, darling . . .” They only ever end in misery. “But, Tasha, darling, don’t you think you should share the cake?” “But, Tasha, darling, couldn’t you clean off Klaudie’s dish too?” “But, Tasha, darling, don’t you already have shoes in that color?”
Some days, Tasha Darling wants to forget that she is supposed to be a kind and responsible entity.
“But, Tasha, darling,” says Mom, “I want you to consider what a big expense that is. I know college tuition looks like a bunch of zeros right now, but they do add up.”
“I know .”
“I’m only saying, I don’t want you to regret spending all that money on one weekend. You worked hard for it.”
“I know ,” I say, irritation soaking my voice. “I was there. Doing the working. And the only thing I’d regret is not going to the convention. It’s”—not for the first time, I recall Serena’s words—“a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”
Mom nods, but there’s a hesitancy, almost sadness in her eyes that I don’t get. It amazes me sometimes that Mom and I can be so similar in some ways, but other times I can’t read her at all. I wonder if she ever feels the same way about me.
“We’ll take some time to think about it,” Dad says, in a tone that means this conversation is over.
Then my parents get conspicuously quiet again. Mom lifts her head suddenly, catching me off guard. She smiles. I know that smile. I don’t like it. It’s the same smile Mom used to tell me and Klaudie that Ralph, our family dog, had passed away, and again, all the times she told me I couldn’t spend the night at the Harlows’ because of a family obligation.
“What?” I ask, every inch of my body on alert. “What’s going on?”
My parents seem . . . anxious . Like for once they are the ones breaking curfew, or getting a C on their biology test.
Dad says, “We have something to tell you girls. We’d appreciate if you heard us out from start to finish.”
Now it’s Klaudie’s and my turn to exchange a glance.
What the hell is going on? asks my glance, and Klaudie’s watery one replies, Your guess is as good as mine.
“All right,” says Mom. “There’s no easy way to put this, so I’m going to say it as clearly as I can. Girls, I’m expecting. Your father and I have consulted the doctor, and she says there’s every chance of a healthy pregnancy. If all goes well, you’re going to have a little brother or sister for Christmas.”
I set down my fork. I stare at Mom. Of all the hundreds of thousands of possible things to come out of my mother’s mouth, this is the one I would have never, ever expected.
“Girls, I’ve decided to spend a month climbing the mountains of Nepal.” Acceptable. “Girls, I’m going to dye my hair red.” Okay. “Girls, I’m going on a strict sugar-free diet.” Sad, but fine. But not this. Not “Girls, I’m expecting.” My mom is done being pregnant. Door closed. Moved on. She is an almost empty nester. She is a responsible adult. Women her age don’t have unexpected pregnancies. That job is left to girls my age.
Unless this wasn’t unexpected. Unless it was planned. Unless . . .
“Wait,” I say. “Christmas. December? So you’ve known about this for three months ?”
“Not the entire three months,” says Mom, conciliatory. Her large dark eyes look larger than usual.
So it was unexpected, I deduce. The thought brings on a rapid surge of repulsion, because I am now contemplating my parents’ sex life, and there has to be some fundamental law of the universe against that.
“I don’t understand.” Klaudie is pale. Her words come out abruptly, like sneezes. “What are we supposed to say?”
“Girls.” Dad is solemn. “We know this is an adjustment. It has been for us, too. But your mother would appreciate your support right now.”
“I don’t get it,” says Klaudie. “You’ve already had kids.”
“I know it’s a lot to process,” says Mom. “But it’s what I want, and it’s what your father wants too. I think it might be best if we all take some time alone so you two can process it on your own.”
I start giggling. I don’t mean to. I don’t want to giggle. I am experiencing an emotion far removed from amusement or happiness. Only, it seems, that emotion doesn’t know how to get out of my body the right way.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp out, covering my mouth. “It’s not funny, I just . . . can’t . . .”
Klaudie is looking at me like I’m crazy. Dad looks like he’s angry but doesn’t know what to do. Only Mom is looking at me with calm, understanding eyes. But I don’t want calm understanding from my mother. Not now. I’m still laughing in chest-squeezing bursts when I get to my feet and run from the room.
• • •
Tonight, my insomnia returns, full force. At four o’clock in the morning, I kick off my bedsheets and creep down to the kitchen, grab a sleeve of Pop-Tarts, and head to the Harlows’. As I hoped, they’ve left the basement’s sliding door unlocked. I go inside, spread out on the couch in the entertainment room, eat half a Pop-Tart, and fall asleep with the wrapper in hand.
I wake to the sound of Jack saying, “I’m not going to effing wake her up.”
Groggily, I lift my head to find Jack and Paul standing at the foot of the couch, assessing me as though I am a stray raccoon that has chewed its way into the house.
“You should lock your doors,” I mumble. “Or get a security system. If I were a criminal, you would be so robbed by now.”
“What’re you doing here?” Jack asks.
“Avoiding my parents,” I say. Then, “Ow,” because Jack is mercilessly shoving me over so that she has a square of couch cushion.
“Anyway,” Jack says, turning to Paul. “As I was saying, if you didn’t want to go, you didn’t have to buy a ticket.”
“I didn’t say I don’t want to go. I just said they’re not my style.”
I deduce that the conversation my unexpected break-in interrupted is about an upcoming trip to Nashville. Several months back, Tony suggested the whole Unhappy Families team take a day trip to Nashville, just for fun. His favorite band, Chvrches, has a show scheduled there in July, so several of us—including Paul—bought tickets.
Jack tells Paul, “Your style is wimpy guitar dudes who sing falsetto by default.”
Paul doesn’t reply, either because he’s too tired or he’s being the better person—I can’t tell.
When the silence gets too suffocating, I blurt out, “My mom’s pregnant.”
Paul teeters, then tips off the beanbag, onto the floor.
Jack coughs out, “What?”
“She sprang it on me and Klaudie last night.” I feel a torrent of words at the back of my throat, ready to break free, and I’m worried that if I continue talking I might not ever stop. “She’s, like, already in her second trimester and only now decided to tell us. And I . . . I can’t even wrap my head around it. It’s too weird. I keep waiting for her to tell us it’s some elaborate practical joke, and at this point I don’t know if I’d be angrier at her for pulling a joke that cruel or for just being pregnant .”
“Holy shit,” says Paul.
“Was it on purpose?” asks Jack.
“I’m trying not to think about that, but no. I’m pretty sure it was an accident.”
“Why would they want another kid?” says Jack. “They just got done raising you and Klaudie. And your mom’s, like, in her forties, right? Aren’t late pregnancies extra dangerous?”
“I don’t know, I guess.”
I catch Paul shooting Jack a reproachful look. He catches me catching him and says, “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“There’s something about it that’s so royally effed up,” I say. “I don’t even know where they plan on getting the money. It’s not like we’re rolling in the dough.”
I frown. Where do they plan on getting the money? What details would my parents have told me last night if I’d stuck around long enough to find out?
My phone rings. As I grab it, an irrational thought flits through my mind: Maybe it’s Thom.
It isn’t Thom. It’s Mom’s cell.
I mute the ringer.
“I should go,” I say. “Sorry I invaded.”
“Boo,” Paul says. “You sleep on our couch and then run away? Worse than Cinderella.”
Jack grabs the foil packet containing a Pop-Tart and a half.
“I’m keeping this,” she says. “As lodging tax.”
I nod distractedly and get to my feet, combing my fingers through my tangled mess of hair.
“See you later,” I say.
“Mmm-hmm.” There is already Wild Berry filling coating Jack’s teeth. “Give our regards to your very fertile mom.”
• • •
I don’t go straight home. I have a headache, which I guess has something to do with my unconventional sleeping situation this morning. I head right, not left, down Edgehill, away from my house and toward the neighborhood park.
As far as parks go, Holly Park is a shabby specimen. The jungle gym’s tan paint has peeled so severely that it’s more bare metal and rust than anything else. The slide is old school—wide and metal, made back in a day when park planners must’ve deemed thigh burning good for toughening a kid’s moral fiber. Just past a row of picnic tables, there’s a small pool, skimmed over with algae. I’ve only recently realized how dismal the place is. When I was a kid, I thought of Holly Park as this magical destination. I was always begging Dad to pack lunches for me, Paul, and Jack to tote off to the park in my Radio Flyer wagon.
Even now that I recognize the park for the little cesspool it is, I can’t shake that childhood affection. I still come out here to swing and to walk the park’s perimeter—a gravel path lined by trees. I walk the path today in short, even steps. At the moment, the park is empty, and I intend to take advantage of that for thinking purposes.
I’m so mad at my parents. For springing the news of Mom’s pregnancy on us, and more than that, for keeping it a secret. I’m mostly angry because of a horrible, unshakable jealousy that’s kicked up in my heart.
Maybe “jealousy” isn’t the right word. I’m not jealous of this unborn kid, exactly. I’m . . . disoriented. Enough is changing—Klaudie’s moving off to college and I’m about to head out myself. My parents are the constant, and home is the solid thing. But not anymore. Everything is going to change. I won’t be the youngest. My parents won’t care as much about my future now that they’re worrying about this new arrival’s present. Holidays will involve pacifiers and shrieks and toys underfoot. I don’t want that. I don’t want any of it. But it’s happening, whether I want it or not. So somehow, I’ve got to figure out how to deal.
I’m so dead lost in this angsting on the walk home, I don’t notice the bounce of a basketball, the shouts of teenage guys in a driveway, or Paul’s approach. Not until his arms are around me and I am cloaked in sweat.
“Aaack, urrrk,” I say, but I don’t push out of the embrace, because I’m happy to get some shelter from the sun and from my unpleasant thoughts.
“Hey,” says Paul close to my ear, so his basketball companions can’t hear. “You okay?”
I nod against his chest. A drop of sweat falls from his brow and smacks my nose. I rub it away on his T-shirt.
“’Cause I can quit the game. Break another Ping-Pong table talking about your feelings.”
This time I do shove Paul away, laughing. “I’m fine .”
Which isn’t true, but this is one problem I don’t think Paul can help talk me through.
“Dude, enough!” shouts one of the guys in the driveway. “Say good-bye to your girlfriend.”
Paul and I exchange a look like, Ugh, these fools know nothing. Then he blows me a kiss and I blow one back, just as someone throws the ball, hard, into his gut, and the guys bust into loud, hacking laughter.
Those fools know nothing.
Though . . . I walk the rest of the way home with a tight, bubbly feeling close to my throat—how it feels when I drink too much soda lying down. I kind of like someone mistaking me for Paul’s girlfriend. Which is really messed up, I know. Sure, he’s not attached to anyone since his breakup with Stephanie Crewe, but I know how he likes to be attached, and it is not the way I do.
But that doesn’t mean I can help that feeling of carbonated indigestion.
C’mon, Tash. Those fools know nothing.
I tug out my cell phone to plunge myself into a realm of thought-numbing social media. There’s a text waiting for me. From Thom. It’s about the most recent episode of Storms of Taffdor , a new premium cable channel show that’s fast becoming all the rage in my nerdier circles online. The text reads:
THE FEELS HAVE SLAYED ME .
And just like that, I’m in a better mood. I grin, stop in my tracks, and text back.