Page 3 of Sleeper: The Palisades Edition
“We’re s’posed to bring something red for art class. To paint. Something small,” she says with a loud sigh as she stands up and stares at me defiantly. Her jaw is set, like that explains why all ten of the carefully labelled bento box lunch containers I packed up for them are now opened and scattered around on the floor along with the mess of five days’ worth of food.
“Uh-huh. And?”
She exhales loudly, exasperated about having to explain this to me. “Soooo, I was looking for apples, but you got green ones! And then I kept looking for tomatoes or red peppers. But you got the yellow ones! You didn’t put any strawberries in there at all! Not even red gummy bears! And then I was looking for the round cheese. With the red stuff on them.”
“But the containers are see-through. You didn’t have to open them to see what was inside.”
“But you sometimes hide the snacks!” Her eyes are watery and her lower lip is quivering, but she is not backing down because she is just as stubborn as her mother, only she’s a million times cuter. And guess what—she’s also right. I do sometimes hide the snacks. As always, this is somehow my fault, and I don’t have time to remind her that art class is after lunch, so she probably would have just eaten any red food before getting the chance to paint it because that’s what she does. She eats everything.
Fuck you, art teacher.
One less minute to get to school.
“Am I in trouble?” she asks with a pout.
“I mean, I really wish this hadn’t happened, but no. You’re not in trouble.”I am. I’m in trouble.I take a deep breath. “I’m not mad at you, sweetie. Thank you for letting me sleep. But none of us are supposed to sleep in on a school day. And thank you for trying to clean this mess up, but we have to leave in two minutes. You gotta change into another uniform. Let’s get this one off you. Shit, have you guys eaten yet?”
“Noooo!” they both yell out.
I’m a shit dad. “Banana!” I declare.
“Banana banana banana!” Lucky chants. “Why do bananas get spots?”
“I have no idea, but we can look it up later.” This has become my go-to answer, and it fills me with shame. I grab two bananas from the fruit bowl on the counter, one for each of my spawn. I pull out two containers of yogurt from the fridge and put them, along with two spoons, on the kitchen table. There will be no time for the brushing of Summer’s teeth this morning. They can eat in the car. They will be havingalmond butter sandwiches for lunch, with tortilla chips and a handful of whatever fruits and vegetables I can grab and rinse and—“Hey guys, let’s not tell your mom about any of what happened this morning, right?”
I carefully remove the dress from Summer’s torso without getting any hummus or guac on her hair or face. I’m starting to think I might not suck at life by the time I’ve convinced Lucky to wear his sister’s sneakers (because they aren’t pink), and we are almost to the door to the garage, with our lunchboxes and backpacks and our clean uniforms, our bananas and yogurts and spoons, and my wallet and keys and twelve minutes to get them from the Pacific Palisades to Santa Monica.
“My pen is big…bigger the…than…you…yours.” Summer is blocking the door to the garage, staring up at my chest.
“What?” I look down and realize I’m wearing the gag gift that the crew gave me at the wrap party a couple of weeks ago.MY PEN IS BIGGER THAN YOURS“Shit.” What a stupid fucking T-shirt. I don’t have time to change. If anyone takes a picture of me in this outside the school, I’m screwed. It’ll be one of the first images to come up anytime someone Googles my name or the school’s. “To the car. Get.”
I take the shirt off and put it back on inside-out. I’m a genius, and this is totally appropriate because everything feels inside out and upside-down when I haven’t had enough sleep.
“My shoes!” Lucky points at the floor of the back seat of the Land Rover while I’m trying to get him buckled into his car seat. “I don’t want to wear Summer’s anymore.”
“You can take your shoes with you to class and change when you’re there. We gotta go.”
Summer manages to buckle herself up, but I still go around to make sure she’s all snug in there. I kiss her on the side of her head before shutting the car door. She totally smells like banana and hummus, but at least she looks clean.
By some miracle, the PCH is not backed up this morning, and we’re halfway to their overpriced private school, at a stoplight, when Summer reminds me that they need something red for art class.
“Does it have to be food?”
“No. It has to be something from home. That we can paint.”
“That sounds more like a preschool art project to me.”
“We have to really look at it and think about how it makes us feel. And then paint it when we’re feeling the feeling.”
Well, that almost makes the thirty thousand-dollar tuition worth it. “Red, huh? Can you paint that car?”
They both strain their necks to see the red Prius I’m pointing at.
“Noooo!” Summer says.
“Yes! But we can’t carry it to class.”
“Hmmm. Can you paint that lady’s hair?” I nod toward the lady who’s crossing the street in front of us.
