4
That night I went out with my parents to a fancy French restaurant on Riverside Drive. My mom’s choice. It had white linens, small square tabletops, and tiny portions of food. I thought that my dad would complain about the disproportionate size of the salad in comparison to the price of the plate, but he surprised me. Instead, he seemed to really relish the experience. And even ordered a bottle of wine to celebrate. They didn’t card me, so I had a glass too.
My parents have always been good like that. It’s not that they condone underage drinking, but they have let me have an occasional glass of wine with dinner since I was 15. When I was younger, they would also bore me with an extended discussion of the horrors and dangers of binge drinking and drinking poor quality alcohol. But today, the three of us enjoyed the wine in peace.
“I wonder what it’s going to be like to have a glass of California merlot when it’s below zero and snowing?” my dad wonders out loud.
Again with the weather! Yes, it gets cold here. Yes, I don’t like the cold. Yes, it seems like New York is an odd choice for someone who hates the cold and has to wear long sleeves when it’s below 75 degrees. I want to say all of these things out loud, but miraculously, I’m able to keep my mouth shut.
“You know what your grandmother says, right? It’s not normal for human beings to live somewhere where it’s colder than in her freezer.”
Gram, my mom’s mom, grew up in Chicago and moved to Los Angeles when she was 18. She just got up and moved. No job. No friends. No man. I’ve always admired her for that. My family has a lot of strong women. For some reason, I’m the only one that’s a little weak now and then.
“So, it was a kick to see Tristan again, wasn’t it, Sharon?” Dad asks. Thump. My mom’s heel kicks him in the knee.
“Ouch, why did you do that?” he turns to my mom.
“Because you deserved it.” She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, sometimes you can be so insensitive, Eliot.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t really know what to say. I know my dad didn’t mean anything by it. He has known Tristan practically all of my life. We have been friends since the 5th grade. Best friends since 7th grade. Boyfriend and girlfriend since 11th grade. Exes since 2 weeks ago. And now roommates.
Roommates!
“I feel like the universe is conspiring against me a little bit,” I finally say.
“Oh sweetie, don’t be like that,” my mom says. “Don’t think like that. This was just a glitch. An accident. I’m sure it will work out. I mean, how often do you have to see the other suite mates anyway? When we came back from Housing, no one was there at all. Maybe you’ll have different schedules? Different routines?”
She’s mumbling now. But it’s making me feel better. She’s right. I have to believe that she’s right. Maybe there is some way to avoid him.
“My roommate, Juliet, seems nice.” I change the topic.
Both of my parents nod in agreement. And then my dad manages to stumble onto another topic that makes me uncomfortable.
“And what’s her major?” he asks.
Ah, the never-ending topic of majors. From what I’ve learned from my sisters, majors are an important topic of conversation in college. It’s almost like there’s nothing else. Your major puts you into some sort of classification. A particular phylum, order, or genus. According to my oldest sister, that is.
“Not sure.” I shrug.
“None of you are sure, are you? What is it with this generation, Sharon? Were we like this?”
“Yes, many people were. You? No, you weren’t like this.” She smiles. She’s making fun of him, but it all comes from love.
“No, I wasn’t.” My dad beams with pride as he says that. “I knew right away that I wanted to be a doctor. I can even remember my first semester’s course schedule. Can you believe that? All these years later? I took Biology, Chemistry 101, Physics 102, Calculus 1, and Western Civilization 1. The last one was some sort of inane requirement, of course.”
“Yes. Who could imagine that anything about Western Civilization would be useful to any human being alive?” I say sarcastically. I’m joking, but not really. And my dad knows that.
“Ah, I see, we have a smartass, here. Okay, then, smartass, what courses have you decided on?”
I sigh. But not because I don’t know. I’ve been pouring over the course catalog for the last month. I’ve got it practically memorized. And the only conclusion that I’ve come to is that there are just too many fascinating courses to narrow them down to just four or five. Some of my favorites are “The Writer’s Process,” “The Art of the Essay,” “Intro to Fiction Writing,” and “The Victorian Age in Literature.” But I can’t really come out and say that. Not if I want to have a full blown argument on my hands.
“I don’t know; I still have to meet with my advisor,” I say. “But probably some required electives and an English class or two.”
English sounds more professional than writing. At least in my mind.
“English? Again, with this?” My dad rolls his eyes. “Honey, I know you like to read and write, but what are you going to do after graduation? Now, if you pursue pre-med then at least you’ll have some prospects.”
Now, it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Pre-med. For some reason, my father is obsessed with the notion of me studying pre-med. Perhaps it’s because he’s a doctor and my mom’s a doctor, but they both wanted to be doctors. Isn’t it unreasonable to try to convince someone to become a doctor when it’s practically the last thing that she wants to do with her life?
“I don’t want to talk about this, Dad.” I shake my head and concentrate on the tiny piece of salmon and feta cheese before me.
If I don’t pace myself, I’m going to be done with dinner in two bites. Oh how I wish we went to some cheap, chain restaurant instead with unlimited breadsticks and other things to munch on. That way I would’ve at least had something to munch on during this interrogation.
“Oh, I know you don’t. But I feel like it’s necessary before you spend $50,000 a year at this fancy ivy-covered school on basket weaving or reading books you can read for free at the library.”
“Eliot, please,” my mom says, and the conversation is over. I’ve been waiting for this statement ever since the topic of majors came up, and I welcome it with open arms. Everyone in my family knows that when Mom says, “Eliot, please,” it’s time for my dad to stop beating a dead horse.