Page 68 of Even After This
“Sure.” I angle to the block down the counter and pick a substantially smaller chef’s knife. This will do just fine.
Chop. Harlan’s lanky carrot figure gets a haircut.
“Anyway, I know football season, especially the playoffs, is super busy.” Hannah’s fingers make dramatic quotation marks around the wordssuper busy. “But he’s not too busy”—repeated air quotes, this time with bug eyes—“to hang out with Candace Briggs for study group. Where, I might add, he was seen hugging her afterwards.” She throws her arms out in an I-rest-my-case sort of way.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Her story’s a little too close to mine for my liking.
“Rebecca says I need to ask him what’s going on. Like maybe his parents grounded him from his phone or something. She thinks Candace threw herself at him.” Hannah leans in closer to my salad. “Whatever.”
Chop chop chop chop chop. “Whatever.” I grind my teeth with the forced word.
Molly steps between us. “What is wrong with you?” Her question comes out the side of her mouth while she removes the newest knife from my hand.
I wipe my brow. “Nothing.” Nothing at all.
“Boys are stupid.” Hannah folds her arms over her chest, glaring at her mother.
“Boys are stupid.” I imitate my niece and glare at her mother.
“I think these vegetables have endured enough violence for today. Let’s see if you have more gentle ways with the ambrosia salad.” Molly takes my elbow and turns me toward the topping and canned fruit. “There’s no need to use your aggression. The Cool Whip comes already whipped.”
That’s unfortunate. Because I am seething.
I’ve been a simmering pot. Waiting, waiting, waiting, tiny combustible bubbles of emotion on the fringe of the water. Until today.
Today someone turned up the heat, and my feelings are roiling.
This morning my family participated in the Turkey Trot. A three-mile race around downtown Dallas in the most charming display of Thanksgiving pride. When I say charming, I mean 22,000 of our closest friends joined us in the walk. And for 15,840 feet, I listened to Hannah’s boy woes. She excelled in fueling the fire under my pot. Roil, boil, roil, boil. Stupid Jackson, stupid Harlan. Stupid Jackson, stupid Harlan.
Clank.
“How could he do that to me?” Hannah, expending too much energy on her crisis to help with Thanksgiving preparations, shakes her long-haired head and waits for my answer.
Clank clank clank clank. Molly misjudged this task. The metal spoon striking the Pyrex glass is quite therapeutic.
I put the bowl on the granite island, turn to Hannah, and take hold of her shoulders. “I don’t know, Hannah. How could he do that to you? He said he would call.” My exclamation is punctuated with a gentle shake, and I draw her into me for an overzealous hug.
Are her raging pheromones contagious?
Molly moves behind her daughter and mouths to me,What is going on?
Solidarity, I mouth back.
“Girls are dumb.” Taylor strolls by and takes a swipe of Cool Whip out of my bowl. “I’m going to watch football.”
“Shut up, Taylor.” Hannah clutches me tighter. “You don’t understand anything. Gah.”
“Anything.” I stick my tongue out at innocent-bystander Taylor. No one understands anything.
I’ve gone to the Bad Place.
“I just want to throw my cell phone away.” Hannah muffles my fantasy into my shoulder.
Yes. Let’s throw all cell phones away. Because if I check mine one more time without having any new messages, I’m going to scream. I’m stuck in Teenager-Waiting-for-a-Call Land, and it is worse than I remembered.
“Come on, Banana. Let’s do it.” I dig into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out my phone, hating myself when I glance at the screen one last time. Opening the trash can drawer, I drop it on top of the vegetable rejects.
Hannah freezes, her mouth gaping. “Um, Aunt Meredith, I can’t throw mine away. I was going to invite him to Thanksgiving if he called.” She stares wistfully at her phone. “Maybe you should call my phone and see if it’s working.”
