an old tank top, almost deliberately underdressing, as if to prove that I was over—so over—Lars, while Jill wore a billowy black skirt and a strappy shirt from Target.
Jill took the yellow bottle. “Premixed? Lars, you philistine.”
“You should have asked for martinis. Those I know how to make.” He trailed Jill into the kitchen. “Granite counters. Nice.”
After I poured the second-rate margaritas, Jill said, “I’ll make dinner. You kids go work on your play.”
I smirked. “Yes, Ms. Green.”
Lars and I spent the next hour discussing Romeo and Jules and enumerating the qualities necessary in our leads. For Julia Smythe (Jules) we needed someone “beautiful, vulnerable—just plain sexy,” Lars said. And Romeo Flores? “Charismatic, maybe a little dark, intense.” I deferred to Lars’s opinion because I hadn’t actually read the script yet, though I didn’t want to admit it. It had been sitting on my nightstand for a week now. But when I wasn’t grading papers I was planning lessons or slogging through The Odyssey (okay, through The Odyssey CliffsNotes ). I kept promising myself a night off, an evening spent slack-jawed in front of the television, but even that was more than I could fit into my schedule. Still, I told Lars I knew a girl, a new student, who might be perfect for the role of Jules.
By the time Jill called us to dinner, I was on my third margarita (the glasses were very, very small) and making statements like, “Shakespeare’s work stands alone for its timeless understanding of the human condition.”
Jill had set the table on the covered patio outside the kitchen. Above the stucco walls that rimmed the yard, the sky was turning all the colors of a Southwest sunset: powder blue and grayish purple and baby girl pink. It was hot outside, but not a midday, unbearable heat.
“How do you turn on the misters?” Jill asked.
“You don’t. They’re clogged.”
“You can get a water softener to help with that,” Lars added helpfully.
After some debate, we decided to eat outside despite the heat. We’d polished off the margarita bottle (not so terrible when you considered it was premixed and therefore largely juice). Lars took the opportunity to show off his skills with a martini shaker. My parents’ liquor fridge was well-stocked (not to mention maintained at an ideal temperature of sixty-five degrees). I took careful notes as Lars poured Grey Goose vodka, vowing to replace whatever we took and wishing my parents stocked cheaper booze.
“You could just fill the bottles up with water,” Jill suggested. “It’s what the kids at school do.”
“Do their parents notice?”
“Why do you think those kids end up in my office?”
Dinner was far better than anything I could make or that my parents could buy at the takeout counter: seared, blackened ahi tuna, sushi rice, grilled vegetables. The only harsh note was the martini, which burned my throat. I considered raiding my parents’ wine fridge (which sat next to the liquor fridge, with matching see-through doors), but they mostly bought the good stuff, and I didn’t want to shell out the money to replace it. I found myself annoyed at Lars. He was supposed to supply the booze, after all. I got myself a glass of water. Lars and Jill stuck to their martinis.
By the time we hit the brownies, I was starting to get that dull, thirsty, cranky feeling you get when you stop drinking too soon (or too late, depending on one’s perspective). Lars and Jill had moved on to Irish coffees (note to self: restock the Irish whiskey). I stuck to water. Sweat dripped down my back; the thought of a hot drink was utterly unappealing.
The heat, the coffee and, of course, the liquor all conspired to turn Lars’s face bright red and shiny. It made his Nordic hair look oddly yellow in contrast. Even his usually flippy hairdo had grown limp. “Shoulda passed on the coffee,” he murmured. “Man! I’m hot! I think I’m gonna have to jump in that
Jill took the yellow bottle. “Premixed? Lars, you philistine.”
“You should have asked for martinis. Those I know how to make.” He trailed Jill into the kitchen. “Granite counters. Nice.”
After I poured the second-rate margaritas, Jill said, “I’ll make dinner. You kids go work on your play.”
I smirked. “Yes, Ms. Green.”
Lars and I spent the next hour discussing Romeo and Jules and enumerating the qualities necessary in our leads. For Julia Smythe (Jules) we needed someone “beautiful, vulnerable—just plain sexy,” Lars said. And Romeo Flores? “Charismatic, maybe a little dark, intense.” I deferred to Lars’s opinion because I hadn’t actually read the script yet, though I didn’t want to admit it. It had been sitting on my nightstand for a week now. But when I wasn’t grading papers I was planning lessons or slogging through The Odyssey (okay, through The Odyssey CliffsNotes ). I kept promising myself a night off, an evening spent slack-jawed in front of the television, but even that was more than I could fit into my schedule. Still, I told Lars I knew a girl, a new student, who might be perfect for the role of Jules.
By the time Jill called us to dinner, I was on my third margarita (the glasses were very, very small) and making statements like, “Shakespeare’s work stands alone for its timeless understanding of the human condition.”
Jill had set the table on the covered patio outside the kitchen. Above the stucco walls that rimmed the yard, the sky was turning all the colors of a Southwest sunset: powder blue and grayish purple and baby girl pink. It was hot outside, but not a midday, unbearable heat.
“How do you turn on the misters?” Jill asked.
“You don’t. They’re clogged.”
“You can get a water softener to help with that,” Lars added helpfully.
After some debate, we decided to eat outside despite the heat. We’d polished off the margarita bottle (not so terrible when you considered it was premixed and therefore largely juice). Lars took the opportunity to show off his skills with a martini shaker. My parents’ liquor fridge was well-stocked (not to mention maintained at an ideal temperature of sixty-five degrees). I took careful notes as Lars poured Grey Goose vodka, vowing to replace whatever we took and wishing my parents stocked cheaper booze.
“You could just fill the bottles up with water,” Jill suggested. “It’s what the kids at school do.”
“Do their parents notice?”
“Why do you think those kids end up in my office?”
Dinner was far better than anything I could make or that my parents could buy at the takeout counter: seared, blackened ahi tuna, sushi rice, grilled vegetables. The only harsh note was the martini, which burned my throat. I considered raiding my parents’ wine fridge (which sat next to the liquor fridge, with matching see-through doors), but they mostly bought the good stuff, and I didn’t want to shell out the money to replace it. I found myself annoyed at Lars. He was supposed to supply the booze, after all. I got myself a glass of water. Lars and Jill stuck to their martinis.
By the time we hit the brownies, I was starting to get that dull, thirsty, cranky feeling you get when you stop drinking too soon (or too late, depending on one’s perspective). Lars and Jill had moved on to Irish coffees (note to self: restock the Irish whiskey). I stuck to water. Sweat dripped down my back; the thought of a hot drink was utterly unappealing.
The heat, the coffee and, of course, the liquor all conspired to turn Lars’s face bright red and shiny. It made his Nordic hair look oddly yellow in contrast. Even his usually flippy hairdo had grown limp. “Shoulda passed on the coffee,” he murmured. “Man! I’m hot! I think I’m gonna have to jump in that
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