My room at the apartment doesn’t have the same feel as at the house. I can’t paint, wallpaper, or do anything too permanent here. Luckily all my bookcases fit and I can tape my artwork—what my mother has approved—on my walls, which makes the sterile space feel enclosed and safe.
Almost.
The drumstick wasn’t enough, so I head to the kitchen to see what’s there and go to my favorite staple, the pasta cabinet. Most homes have some pasta—we have a whole cabinet in the kitchen. Three shelves full, front to back, top to bottom. So much that if you remove a single package or box, inevitably the rest will come crashing down. There are all kinds, from your basic Kraft mac and cheese to a generic brand to some very odd-colored pasta my mom got for free from the Depot because they were going to throw it out.
I put a pot of water on to boil and notice that there’s a piece of yellow cake with chocolate frosting on the counter. Just a single piece. It’s on a small, round paper plate. The plate and cake are loosely covered in plastic wrap. I want to eat it so badly, but this isn’t something my mother baked. It was brought over by someone. I can tell, probably a store-bought mix. This would never be an option in our home. I once snuck in a Duncan Hines Classic Yellow Cake Mix. It was contraband. I had tasted some at a neighbor’s house and flipped out. I knew better than to ask for it, so I bought it one day at Geffy’s Market on my way back home from school. I waited till everyone went to bed and made the cake. Not realizing that the frosting was not in the same box, I just made the cake. I hadn’t bought frosting. I washed and dried all the evidence and ate the whole unfrosted yellow cake in my room.
If I eat it, this one in front of me right now, it could become a “thing,” and no cake is worth that. I turn away from it and look in the fridge. There must be something to snack on while I’m waiting for the water to boil. There’s a saucepan on the second shelf of the fridge. I open it and see that it’s lentils. There are always lentils in this house. I have a spoonful to tide me over. Ugh. Stupid lentils.
“We’re home!” My dad turns on the entry light.
“I’m in the kitchen waiting for water to boil.”
“Get your coat. Your father is taking us to N-Joy Suey! We have things to celebrate!” My mother sounds giddy and her voice is higher than normal.
I’m immediately on guard.
We walk into N-Joy and get seated near the window right away. The place is usually busy on a Sunday for dinner, but it’s still early. I take off my coat and place it next to me in the booth. My father takes his off and hands it to me across the table. “Put mine there too.”
My mother keeps hers on. She’s always cold. Her coat is camel colored, fitted, and well tailored with a large, white, fully fake-fur collar. It’s one of her favorite and most expensive pieces of clothing. She’s incredibly proud of it and the way she looks wearing it. She paid almost two hundred dollars for it, on sale, at Linderfield’s—not the one downtown, but the mall one. She’s rubbing her hands together and blowing on them.
“It’s not that cold yet, Mom.”
“You don’t know cold. You’re young. Your blood is boiling. When I was your age I would spend all winter in a thin dress and sometimes no shoes and not feel the cold.”
“We didn’t exactly get snow in Greece,” my dad replies, so low we can barely hear him. He takes a sip of his water as soon as the waiter sets it down, and buries his face in the menu.
“I was filled with life!” My mom makes a fist and tightens her lips as she raises her hand to the sky. I bury my own face in the menu.
“Strong and hardworking. Not like today. Everyone is just looking, always looking, at the phones and machines with dead eyes. I see you kids walking around like mindless robots staring down. What future—”
“What’s the good news?” I interrupt, genuinely curious, because there’s rarely any good news and I want her to stop talking.
“You tell him, Elias.” She takes her hand and rubs the back of his neck.
They are rarely loving or playful with each other. My dad tries more than my mom, and it’s not like I like it when I see it.
“The brothers and sisters at the church want to help me open a restaurant!” They are both smiling and looking as happy as . . . well, I don’t know when the last time was that I’ve seen this.
The waiter comes back to the table. “Everybody ready?”
We haven’t even looked at the menu, but there’s no need. We always get the same things.
My mom starts to order. “I’ll have the shrimp chop suey and the vegetable eggrolls, two, and just a water with lemon, please. Thank you.” She hands the menu to the waiter and smiles warmly at him.
He smiles back. My dad starts to order and I glance out the window.
Holy. Shit.
Henry and his family are getting out of their car. Henry. His parents. Even Claire is there. All of them. Where are they going? Maybe the pizzeria? Maybe even a family outing to the 7-Eleven. Sunday-night family Slurpees? Please let it be one of these.
But no. They are coming into the N-Joy.
“Hey, daydreamer! The man is waiting for you.” My mother’s eyes are now squinting directly at me.
“Oh, um. Sorry, I’ll have the orange chicken,” I say, trying not to stare at the entire Kimball family as they enter the restaurant. As they slide into a booth. Was this calculated?
My father says, “I ordered the Double Happiness for the table as well.”
You could not have ordered enough happiness, I almost say. My stomach is so tense that the thought of eating seems impossible. And then Henry spots us and lights up. I force myself to smile and wave back, too late to pretend that I don’t see him. It wouldn’t help anyway. He’d still come over here and just be Henry.
Mom turns around and sees the Kimball family. She smiles and waves. Then she turns back around at us, scowls, and rolls her eyes. Suddenly everyone is waving. The Kimballs. Us. This is one of those moments you think can’t get any worse, but it does. Henry breaks away from the pack and heads toward our table. He’s taking off his coat as he approaches us, and of course he’s wearing shorts. He has on a pale-blue polo shirt that makes his eyes look even brighter.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Panos. So great to see you here.” He smiles so large, mostly at me and my father, it’s like he’s trying to psych us out or something. I slowly push my coat and my dad’s farther out into the booth next to me. I even try to fluff them up so the booth looks extra full.
Henry turns his gaze toward me. “Hi, Ev.” He tones down his smile to something that feels more tender. “Look at this. It’s later.”
I try to remain incredibly casual. As if I haven’t just seen him a couple of hours earlier. As if I’m not going full-on red in the face. “Hey.”
“Well, it’s so great to see you all here.” He looks back at his family.
His mother and father are studying their menus. Claire is fixed on our table and her brother.
“I better get back to my table. Everyone is really hungry. Evan, let’s get ice cream after. Okay? You can come back with us, if that’s okay, Mr. and Mrs. Panos. I’ll bring him home early. We both have school tomorrow and—”
“Henry, I don’t think—” my mother cuts him off.
Then my dad interrupts. “Just not too late, Henry.”
Henry gives me a last meaningful look and returns to his table. I want to shout, What about my say? Can you please not decide stuff for me? Did you see how he did this . . . demanded we get ice cream? Didn’t even ask! I should have said something. I should say something.
“Elias! On a Sunday night you let him go with that String Bean Boy?” Even her whispers are loud.
“He’s been at work all weekend. Let him have some fun.” My dad is clearly in a great mood. “Henry’s a nice boy and they’re a good family. His sister is going to a very fancy school, right, Evan?”
“What church do they go to again?”
“His sister is going to Brown University. It’s a very good school and they’re Presbyterian. They go to Kalakee First Presbyterian, I think.” I answer like a machine.
“That’s not a real church. They believe in the gays and other sins. It’s just for people to feel good. Feel-good church is not a church.” She believes you should feel 100 percent persecuted at all times in order to be a child of God. “At least the girl seems to have her head on straight. And who wears shorts in winter?” She looks at me as if this is my fault.
I don’t even have the opportunity to answer, or remind her that she just told me that I don’t know cold. So much wrong here.
“You should hang out with the girl. She’s pretty. Very pretty, even though she’s not Greek and Presbyterian. Needs some more food on her bones.” She looks at me again. “You like them like that? Skinny?”
“Mom.” I try to stop this avalanche. “So what is this about the restaurant?”
The waiter and a back waiter are now at our table with lots of plates. They start to lay them all out in front of us and I glance over at the Kimball table. Henry is looking over in this direction. Has he been looking over here the whole time? What is he thinking? He’s hurt? Does he think that reading my journals makes him some sort of savior, or hero? Do you think you can save me, Henry Luther Kimball? Think again. God couldn’t save me and I asked him. A lot!
I look back at our table, which is now covered. Every square inch of it is taken up by either empty plates or plates of steaming, hot, greasy deliciousness.
“Your father and I are going to open a restaurant. Tula and her husband, as well as Andy and his wife, Melina, are going to invest in your father and help him open up a small place. He has a great reputation.” She looks at him lovingly and rubs the back of his neck again as she scoops a big spoonful of shrimp chop suey onto her plate. “Here, you want some?” She motions toward me.
I take a plate and put a little on it.
This is my mother at her best. I tell myself to enjoy it, but I can’t.
My dad has already filled his plate with a little bit from every dish. Between bites he says, “I think we can get something going after the holidays. Now is not the time to start looking, but this is it. We can control our future. I’ve been wanting to do this for years.” He keeps eating.
How can they eat?
“You know your father works very hard. Now it will be for us, not to make money for other, ungrateful people. We can work in there like a family and build something together. You can have this thing we build when we die.”
I don’t say anything. We’ve had hundreds of these discussions before. I don’t want to work in the restaurant business. I don’t want to inherit one. I don’t want anything from either of them. We finish our meal in silence.