Imperfect Spiral (17 page)

When Adrian told our parents he was apprenticing to a plumber, you would have thought from the looks on their faces that he was joining al-Qaeda. Afterward, when he vented to me, I said, “Adrian, what reaction were you expecting? I mean, we know them by now.”

“Look, if they hadn't shut me down with their inane questions—
Do you intend to make plumbing your life's work? Do you not have higher dreams than this?
—we might have had a reasonable discussion,” he said.

And the thing was, he wanted to have that reasonable discussion.

“Maybe Mom's work is the fulfillment of her highest dream,” Adrian said. “I mean, it definitely fits her personality. Lecturing. Telling people what the rules are.”

Oh, yes.

“But Dad—you can't tell me that he, or anyone, ever dreamed of looking at people's feet day after day.” Dad is a foot doctor. “Does being a foot doctor really ring his chimes?”

“It might,” I said. “It's Dad, Adrian. His chimes are easily rung.”

I didn't mean anything mean by it. Just, Dad's easy. It doesn't take much to satisfy him.

“Point taken,” Adrian said. “And actually, Dad's a good example here. He doesn't love feet. He's not fulfilled by feet. He likes being his own boss, and being good at something.”

“Even if it's feet,” I said.

“Exactly. Feet, toilets, whatever. So, to answer the question you were tactful enough not to ask me, no, snaking drains isn't the fulfillment of my highest dream. I don't know that it will be my life's work. The point is, I feel the need to stake out on my own. So I learn a trade, I make money, I support myself, and
that
makes me happy. Because I can't live under this roof.”

“Why?” I couldn't stop myself from asking, even though I knew I was practically whining. “Why can't you live under this roof? I like you under this roof.”

He moved over to me then and hugged me.

“I can't
take
from them anymore,” he said.

“Is that different from I can't take
them
anymore?” I asked.

“It's close, but different,” he said. “I can't take their money or food or a room in this house. Because then I have to take all that comes with it. Especially all that disapproval I see in their faces.”

I wanted to disagree. But he was right. Sure, they were right that Adrian had higher dreams than being a plumber, but it's
just too bad that they couldn't lay off enough to let him work his way toward those dreams while living under the same roof as the rest of us. Down the hall from me, where he belonged.

The front door opens and closes.

“It smells wonderful in this house!” Mom says. “I detect the presence of Adrian Snyder!”

“Hi, Mom,” Adrian calls out.

“How great to come home to my talented son cooking,” Mom says as she walks into the kitchen. “Danielle, are you taking notes?”

“Copiously,” I respond.

Mom goes to change. Dad pokes his head in the kitchen and makes appreciative noises on the way from his basement workout to a quick change of his own. Ten minutes later, we all sit down at the kitchen table to eat. Adrian serves; when he cooks, the food even looks attractive.

And, of course, it's totally delicious. As always.

We talk about the buzz on the neighborhood e-mail list a little bit. Mom and Dad aren't exactly in total agreement with each other on immigration issues. Mom has become more negative about undocumented immigrants ever since a day labor center opened up near the mall. As for Dad, he likes to remind us that we're only two generations away from being immigrants ourselves; both his and Mom's grandparents came from Europe in the 1930s.

After some aimless back-and-forth on all this, Adrian says, “I have exciting news.”

This is not the smartest strategy for him. With an introduction like that, you know my mother is thinking that he's announcing his decision to go back to school. I can already see a smile beginning to form around her eyes.

Instead, he tells Mom and Dad about the restaurant thing.

Dad repeats something Adrian says: “Seven people are starting this restaurant?”

This is a Dad-ism. He repeats a piece of information, and cocks his head as if he doesn't get something. But, Adrian and I both know, he almost always does get it. This is his way of expressing his doubts about whether something is a good idea.

“Yeah,” Adrian says. “There are seven guys in total, including me. Five of us have been playing music together.”

Pause. Their carefully arranged faces give my parents away. Dad, especially, is trying to keep his face expressionless, but he's so not good at it. Mom exercises less self-control, and I see her attempt to maintain neutrality break apart, one eyebrow at a time. I know she will go in for the kill.
Resist
, I message her telepathically.

She doesn't get the message.

“Does anyone in this group of seven have experience in the restaurant business?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Adrian says. “Two of the guys have managed places. Applebee's, I think.”

“Where's the money coming from? Creating a business isn't
cheap. There's rent, probably renovation, equipment, supplies, labor costs—”

“We're all putting in some money. And we're getting investors. We might also get a bank loan.”

“You're putting in some of your own money?” Mom's voice rises to a higher register on this question.

“Some,” Adrian says. “I've saved. But it's not like I'm putting up an equal share of the money. We're forming a kind of partnership, but with different levels of participation. So I risk less of my own money than some of the other guys. Which also means I'll make less when we start earning money.”

“Adrian, did you know that the majority of new businesses fail within a year?” Mom says. “And the percentage is significantly higher for non-chain restaurants? The likelihood that this place will earn money is—not great.”

Adrian briefly closes his eyes. He doesn't answer.

“Son—the place will serve liquor?” Dad asks.

“Yes,” Adrian says. “It will. That's how most restaurants make money.”

“And it's not a problem getting a liquor license for you, one of the owners, to be under the legal drinking age?” Dad asks.

“No,” Adrian says. “We checked. You can own a restaurant that sells liquor if you're nineteen. You can bartend if you're nineteen in Meigs County. You just can't drink.”

“Who are your outside investors?” Mom asks.

I see Adrian's jaw tighten. “So far, only one's for sure. My bass player friend's parents.”

“Uh-huh,” Mom says.

“Don't worry,” Adrian says. “I'm not asking you to invest in this.”

I see the gears clicking in Mom's brain, and here's what they signal: Adrian is doing something unwise. She disapproves. She will not support this. He tells her it's happening anyway. He tells her he doesn't need her support—her money, in this case.

Wait for it. If he doesn't want her to invest, then, of course, she'll go in the opposite direction.

“Why
aren't
you asking us to invest?” Mom says.

Bingo. She can't help herself.

Adrian just shakes his head. It's almost unnoticeable, but I notice. Other than that, he doesn't react. And Mom doesn't press for an answer. So there isn't a big unpleasant scene, but the rest of the meal isn't exactly a barrel of laughs.

After dinner, Adrian doesn't stick around. Before he leaves, though, there's another debate between him and Mom about, of all things, leftovers. She wants him to take them. He cooked, after all. He pushes back: He was happy to cook. She: There's enough for one, not three. He: Plenty of food at his place. She: Don't be stubborn. He: Now he's stubborn because he's not taking food out of her house.

Mom gives up, says good night, and goes upstairs.

“Adrian,” I say as he shrugs on his jacket to leave. “Take the poor Moroccan chicken. Otherwise Mom will deport it.”

He doesn't laugh, but he does smile. A little. And he takes the chicken.

After Adrian leaves, I see that I missed a call on my cell: Marissa.

I haven't heard from her since she texted after the accident. Wait, that's not quite true. I got a Rosh Hashanah card from her—yes, even though she's not Jewish. Marissa is big on everyone's “heritage,” as she puts it. My “heritage,” according to Marissa, is being Jewish. Hers is being Mexican American, at least on one side of the family. Her great-grandparents—her father's grandparents—came from Mexico way back in the day.

Anyway, Marissa usually knows the dates each year for the High Holy Days—Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur—before I do. Do you call someone when she sends you a Rosh Hashanah card? I did not.

I consider not calling her back now, too. But there's her Rosh Hashanah card, this call, and the message Adrian relayed
from her the day of Humphrey's funeral—I can't not call Marissa back. Unless I want to close the book on five years of flamenco-playing afternoons. I dial the phone.

“How are you?” she asks.

“You know,” I say. “Fine. Not fine. It depends.”

She murmurs sympathetically.

“Thanks for the card,” I say.

“You're welcome.”

“And—thanks for calling today.”

“I should have called earlier,” she says. “I guess—I don't know. We've grown apart. I wish we hadn't. I don't want to. But I felt like it would be strange for me to rush in as if—as if you needed me.”

“You texted me,” I say. “Thanks for that, too.” I pause. “I'm also sorry we've grown apart.”

We push through an
I-feel-bad-no-I-feel-bad
exchange, in which I cannot, cannot bring myself to mention, much less apologize for, last winter's video game idiocy. She, of course, doesn't apologize for the things she said about Adrian. Why would she? She has no idea that they bothered me. So we talk as if there was nothing in particular, no precipitating event that pushed us apart.

No particular precipitating push
. Are you listening, Humphrey?

But soon we're on the other side of all that, and talking about ordinary stuff. My school, her school. Movies. Music. She does ask about Adrian. I hesitate, then tell her about the jobs he's been working and the restaurant, although I don't fill
her in on my parents' reaction. She's already heard from someone else that he moved out of our house.

“Wow. He's busy,” she says.

“He really is.”

“How are he and your parents getting along?”

“Oh,” I say. “Pretty well. When he comes over, he cooks dinner, and it's—nice.”

“He cooks dinner?” Marissa asks. “Has he become a good cook?”

“The best,” I say.

“That's great.”

“Except that I miss having him around,” I say. “You know, you have brothers—they're fun to have in the house.”

“Some of the time.” She laughs. Then, more seriously: “Most of the time. But at least you don't have to be the peacekeeper between Adrian and your mother anymore. There's a job at least as tough as being a plumber.”

Is that what she thought she saw me doing when she sat at our dinner table or joined us for post–hockey game pizza outings—peacekeeping?

“I don't know,” I say. “I don't know about being a peacekeeper.”

“Okay, but
something
. Some kind of go-between.” When I don't say anything in response, Marissa adds, lightly, putting on a fake accent, “And zat is zee doctor's p-sychological analysis of zee Snyder family dynamic.” She laughs. “Because I'm such an expert on family dynamics.”

I laugh, too, relieved, somehow, that she backed off from telling me what role I play in my family. We move on to talk about her own brothers.

“Martin got his license last spring,” she says. “Which means Matt has to share the car he thought was his God-given birthright. You know how some families have ‘chore wheels' up on the refrigerator, so everyone knows whose turn it is to take out the garbage? So, we have a ‘car wheel,' to settle their arguments over whose turn it is to take the car. And a ‘gas wheel' so they know whose turn it is to put gas in.”

I think about this. “What if it's Matt's ‘car wheel' turn but Martin's ‘gas wheel' turn?” I ask.

“A gold star for you, Danielle! That is exactly the problem with this system,” Marissa says.

“I suppose then Martin could just give Matt money for gas,” I say.

“A reasonable person would suppose that.” Marissa laughs. “And yet, oddly, that is not how M&M interpret it.”

I have always liked hearing about her family. As you may have noticed, everyone's name begins with
M
. With
M-a
-, to be exact. From youngest to oldest, Marco, Marissa and Martin—who are twins—Matt, Manny, and Malcolm. It matches their last name, too: Martinez. Yes, Marissa's twin brother lives with the name Martin Martinez.