Sixteen
Later that morning, I walk to Holly Park. We’ve been getting some unseasonably cool weather the past few days, and, given all the recent weirdness and negativity, I decide now is as good a time as any to meditate.
I walk along the shaded path, ten steps in one direction, ten in the other, keeping my eyes lowered and my breaths steady, and trying to block out the occasional interference of sound bites like junking up my newsfeed and script sounds so forced .
When I hear a car honk, I don’t register the sound as pertaining to me. It’s as much a part of the outside world’s white noise as the birds and wind and distant traffic. But when I change the direction of my ten-step walk and chance a look up, I see a familiar blue Camry parked on the side of the road. The window is rolled down, and my mom is in the driver’s seat.
She leans out and calls, “I’m sorry, darling! I didn’t realize you were meditating.”
I’m always taken aback when I hear Mom shout. Most days, she’s so soft-spoken that I start thinking she’s incapable of speaking at any level over the “2” tick on the volume knob. But here she is shouting—not angrily, but with perfect articulation; from yards away, I hear every word.
I hesitate for a second longer, then set toward the car in a jog. I stop at the open passenger window and wipe at my forehead, which has picked up a fine coating of sweat.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I was just finishing up. I hadn’t done a walking meditation in a while, and . . .”
“Now seemed like a good time,” Mom finishes. Her smile is so incisive I have to look away, or else I’ll get cut.
“Would you like a ride home?” she asks.
I smirk. “My mom taught me never to get in strangers’ cars.”
Mom laughs at that, in a water-glass-melody way. She unlocks the door, and I get inside. Once we’ve pulled away from the curb, she says, “Full disclosure: I still have some errands to run.”
I gasp at this betrayal and unclick my seat belt.
Laughing again, Mom says, “Before you throw yourself to the pavement, hear me out: Graeter’s is on the way.”
“You should’ve led with that,” I say.
I have a time-honored affection for the ice cream shop Graeter’s same as for Holly Park, only unlike the park, Graeter’s is wholly worthy of such affection. I know my mom is shamelessly buttering me up with the offer to take me there, but I’m not ashamed to accept this kind of buttering.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, following a familiar route toward downtown. We merge onto New Circle, the circular highway that connects the city’s main roads like spokes on a wheel. Once we’re settled at a steady pace in the right lane, Mom turns to me.
“You know, your father and I spent weeks trying to figure out the best way to tell you girls about the baby, and even then we messed up.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sorry I laughed that night.”
“Sometimes our bodies react strangely to big news.”
I nod. I remember when I was in seventh grade and Mr. Harlow was diagnosed with cancer, Jack didn’t cry for the longest time. It wasn’t until months later, when the two of us were watching Monsters, Inc. , that she burst into hiccuping tears and couldn’t stop for a half hour.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“How are you going to afford it? I mean, isn’t raising a kid expensive? And I know you told me you’d match my college scholarship, but . . . like, is that going to change?”
Mom makes this occasional humming sound as I talk, so I know she’s listening, but she doesn’t speak until she’s taken her exit and turned onto a less trafficked road.
“Some things are going to change,” she says. “Dad and I are going to live on a much tighter budget from here on out. But we made you and your sister that promise several years ago, and we won’t go back on our word. We’ll match whatever scholarship you get.”
“Which might be nothing,” I mutter. “Not at Vandy, anyway. Klaudie’s twice as smart as I am, and she’s only getting, what, like five thousand dollars a year?”
“Tasha, darling.”
I bristle. I know exactly what Mom’s going to say. I open my mouth to protest, but she waves for me to listen.
“I’m only going to say this once: I’m not sure Vanderbilt’s the best choice for you. I know you’re in love with the campus and Nashville and the idea of going to a private school, but you should count the cost. If you don’t receive any kind of scholarship, you’re going to have six-figure debt the moment you graduate. Which is one thing if you plan on becoming a neurosurgeon, but another thing entirely if you’re going into filmmaking. And I am not in any way belittling filmmaking. I’m only saying, a profession in the arts is a financial gamble, and I don’t want you starting a life saddled with debt and no way to pay it off.
“You could get just as good an education at UK for a fraction of the cost. You’d earn a much better academic scholarship there, and half your tuition is already paid through GSA . I want you to think about it, that’s all. And now I’ve said my piece.”
We pull into a metered parking space in front of a boutique cooking store called Whisk & Dish. Mom puts the car in park but doesn’t cut the engine. She’s riffling through the console compartment for quarters.
“So,” I say, “Klaudie can go to Vanderbilt. That’s fine, because she’s smarter and going be an engineer. But I can’t because I want to make movies?”
Mom clicks shut the compartment, two quarters in hand, and gives me a hard look.
“You know that’s not what I mean. I’m going into this store, and I will be out in fifteen minutes, and when I come back, then you can say whatever is still bothering you. Fair?”
No, I do not think this is fair, but it’s not like I have a choice. I’m used to this; it’s how my mom has handled conflict since I was a little girl. With her, conflict is all about taking time to cool off and think things through. I’m convinced Mom invented the whole “take a deep breath and count to ten” method. What pisses me off the most is that it usually works.
Today is no exception. By the time Mom returns to the car with two pink paper bags in tow, I don’t feel like arguing anymore. I’ve tilted back the passenger seat, directed all AC vents toward my face, and punched the radio to an oldies station playing “Tainted Love.” I know I can’t ignore everything Mom’s said about money and my foreseeable future. But for now, I’m going to. I’ve stored away the advice in an airtight compartment, to be reviewed at a later date when I’m not hot and irritated and craving ice cream.
We go to Graeter’s next. I order a double scoop of strawberry chip in a bowl and Mom orders an old-fashioned sundae. We sit at a window booth and talk about the renovated Kroger store opening down the street and the premiere of a new summer television show, 13 Saint Street . We talk about any and everything that isn’t the baby or my college education.
It’s then I know I’m still upset with my parents about the baby, but I’m too tired to keep acting that way. When we leave Graeter’s, Mom slides an arm around my waist, pulling me into a side hug. I don’t return it, but I don’t shirk out of it either.
• • •
When I get back to the house, there’s a notification e-mail in my personal inbox informing me that Thomnado007 has posted a new video. I click the accompanying link, but I’m confused. Thom updates his vlog every Monday; today is Wednesday. The video pops up, its title “Public Service Announcement.” I punch up the volume and press play.
Thom sits in his usual habitat: a green leather desk chair surrounded by world maps, dinosaur figurines, and a stack of books with titles like A Brief History of Time , Cosmos , and Death by Black Hole . It’s clear from his opening sentence, however, that this is not a normal episode of Beaker Speaker . I can’t believe it at first. I pause the video, drag the tracker back to the start time, punch the volume up some more, and begin it again.
“Hi, guys, Thom here, with some unscheduled programming. Most days, I’m talking science and sci-fi, but today I’ve got a more general announcement to make. It’s something that’s really been weighing on me the past few weeks, and I don’t think I can sit by as a member of the vlogging community and not say something.
“I know it’s easy to exist on the Internet without a face or real name or any identification that makes you personally responsible for what you say. It can lead to online bullying and a lot of unchecked hate that wouldn’t be cool in any other outlet. For example, if you absolutely despise some web series you see online, you might tell a few friends, gripe about it in private, and then move on. But some people out there decide to share the hate online, in a public forum. Now, as a fan of science, I’m all for peer review and open discussion, but I think it goes too far when people share the hell out of a post that’s only meant to hurt and offend.
“So this is a little note from me to you awesome people: Next time you’re about to post a comment or a blog that’s entirely negative, think about who’s on the receiving end. Most of us are just like you, playing and experimenting and trying to get better at what we love. We’re people, and the majority of us don’t get paid for what we do. So let’s make a concerted effort to dial back the hate, okay? Let’s keep this a positive place. That’s it. Stepping down from soapbox. Don’t forget to tune in this coming Monday for a scintillating discussion of Christopher Nolan, nuclear explosions, and wormholes.”
I pause the video on the last frame, at the point where Thom has just finished saying “holes” and is flashing a warm parting smile at the camera. His brunette hair is overgrown, a single lock encroaching into the right lens of his thick-framed glasses. He’s wearing an Iron Man graphic tee.
I told Paul the truth back on that Ping-Pong table: Thom is nice to look at. His face is drawn in pleasing lines, at good proportions. His arms are kind of lanky, but I hold out hope they’re good for cuddling. Still, I’m not sure Thom is what people consider “sexy.” I can’t figure it out from a cursory glance at the vlog comments, the way I can on videos by more popular girl vloggers. People are always making sexual comments there. Things like “10/10, would bang” and “she’s so hot.” Or “what a fugly hag, who would tap that?”
I don’t get it. How can people judge sex appeal as easily as that? By a simple video, one narrow look at a human, people whittle them down to a single quality: fuckability. I know trolls aren’t worth my attention. But there are so many of them. So many that I sometimes wonder if that’s how most people are wired: to assess procreational potential on first glance. It seems so animalistic, so superficial. But it also seems so . . . essential. Such a basic part of everyone around me. Which leads to the inevitable question: Am I missing something essential?
I shove that question into yet another one of those airtight compartments in my mental storage, as I’ve done dozens of times before. Right now, I want to focus not on Thom’s appearance but his actions. Because he’s done this for me . There’s no other explanation. Maybe he didn’t mention me or Unhappy Families by name, but the timing can’t be coincidental. Thom has done this because I’ve been upset, and he could tell.
I grab my phone. I have to let him know I’ve seen the video and how much I appreciate it. But as I sit staring at a blinking cursor, nothing comes to me. What’s a good way of putting it? I don’t want to make it awkward. I don’t want it to sound like I’ve assumed he made his PSA for me, even though he obviously did.
First, I text a simple Thanks .
Too fawning. Delete.
I saw your video.
Too stalkerish. Delete.
Good day so far?
Boring and oblivious. Delete.
I shut off the screen and try a new method of concentration: staring at the uneven Windex streaks on my bedroom window. I am so deep in thought and the text tone is so unexpected, I let out a squeaky little yelp. Then I look at the text. It’s from Thom.
Posted a video today. Stay strong, Tash. I think you’re great.
I tug in my lower lip until I feel like a pug dog. Is it possible for your whole body to grin? The answer is yes.