“Dinner!” A brief pause, then a short punctuated, “Girls! Dinner!”
“Tara,” I sigh, “time to eat.”
No response. Typical.
As I make my way through our long, ranch-styled house, I can hear my mother say, “Patrick, they’re not coming.”
“I’m right here!” I announce, a little too disgustedly.
I take my place at the table between Brennan and my mom while assuring her that “Tara’s on her way. I swear.”
“The meat might be too well done,” my mother frets.
“You like it well done,” I remind her.
“Well, I know, but I’m the only one. You try it, Patrick. Is it too well done for you?”
My father sighs and replies automatically, “It’s perfect, April.”
“You didn’t even take a bite. You didn’t even look at it.”
“Do we have to go through this every meal?” Brennan pipes up. “Everything’s great, Mom.”
Tara finally wanders into the kitchen. “You don’t even like steak, Brennan.”
“Well, duh. But if I did, I’d think the steak was great.”
Tara slides into her chair while continuing a conversation she and I had been discussing several hours ago. “So anyway, when I went shopping yesterday, I got this new shirt. It’s really cute—kinda sheer and it has these—”
“Patrick,” my mother declares, “before we go on vacation next week, you need to fix this window.”
My father gives a snort of disgust. “It’s on the passenger side of the car. That means it’s your window. That means you need to fix it.”
“It doesn’t roll down. It really needs to be fixed. … I tell you, if you sat on the passenger side of the car while I drove, this window would be fixed in no time.” After getting no response she continues, “Yup…no doubt about it. Fixed in no time.”
“April, call and set up an appointment to get it fixed.”
“Oh no, I don’t want to do that. I want you to fix it.”
“I can see it now. If I go before you, April, and the window isn’t fixed, you’ll be completely helpless.” His voice takes on an outrageously falsetto tone as he cries, “The window isn’t fixed, whatever shall I do? Aaaaugh!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom laughs.
“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m being you.”
“No, no. I mean don’t be ridiculous—I wouldn’t have to worry about it because I’d just buy a new car.”
“So it’s kinda sheer and has these button thingies with sleeves that go to just below the elbow,” Tara continues.
“I know exactly what you mean,” I respond as I ladle some corn onto my plate. “I can see it perfectly in my head. Is it black?”
“Er … no.”
“Oh. Well, then, never mind.”
“Where are you getting the money to buy these clothes?” my father interjects suspiciously.
“Um, hel-lo! I have a job and get a paycheck and everything.”
“Shouldn’t you be saving your money for more important things? Don’t you have enough clothes?”
“No, that’s Erica. I barely have any.”
“Right.” He rolls his eyes.
“Where’d you buy it?” my mother inquires brightly.
“Vanity.”
Brennan interjects, “It doesn’t bother you that you purchase your clothing from a store telling you you’re vain?”
Tara ignores him entirely, so I take it upon myself to answer. “You know, you’d think it would, but sadly enough, I actually really like the name.” I twirl my hair and snap my gum while exaggerating a Valley girl accent. “Does that, like, make me, you know, like, shallow?”
“I don’t know about shallow, but it definitely makes you an idiot,” Brennan diagnoses helpfully.
My mother takes control of the conversation. “Speaking of idiots, Brennan, as soon as your dishes are done, you’ve got to clean up that mess in the sun porch that you and the guys made yesterday.”
“That’s not my mess! It was already messy when we went in there.”
“That’s only because it was still messy from you guys the day before.”
“Ryan doesn’t have to do anything around his house!” Brennan whines. “Why should I have to?”
“Isn’t Ryan the one who was going to let his rabbit starve to death because he was too lazy to feed it?” Tara interrupts.
“Yeah,” Brennan confirms. “He’s an idiot.”
“Well, that settles that. Erica, have some corn.”
“I had some, Mom. I already ate them.”
“Have some more.”
I’m torn between whining, “But I don’t wanna!” and acting my age. Maturity wins. “Mom, please. I’m 21. I’ll decide if I want more vegetables.”
“You know, if you’d eaten your veggies when you were a kid you’d be taller than 5-foot-two.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but then all my pants would be too short. Come on, not this again!”
She changed tactics. “You’re being awful quiet, Patrick,” my mom informs him.
“Sorry.” Tara and I exchange a glance over the now-empty bowl of mashed potatoes. I don’t remember a meal in the last two decades where my mom hasn’t notified my dad he was being abnormally quiet. If he ever snaps out of it and contributes to the frenzied discourse of an Acton meal as much as the rest of us, I’ll probably choke on my carrots and die of shock.
“Hey, you know what?” my mom asks. “I think this is the first meal in months that we’ve had with no outside interruptions. Mark that one down in the record books!” And then, just as she begins to stand up, the phone rings.
She slumps back in her chair and motions for Brennan, Mr. Popular, to get the phone. “I spoke too soon.”
“Yeah,” Brennan adds, as the rest of us move to begin the dishes. “But at least the meat wasn’t overcooked.”
