out of a fridge that appears to be constructed entirely of shitty finger paintings.
Looking back, I recall him living in a houseful of siblings. And I recall being superannoyed by them, particularly when they’d run through the sprinklers and squeal. Like nails on a chalkboard, that sound.
“How many brothers and sisters do you have again?” I ask.
He’s puzzled for a second, but I play it off like Lissy Ryder can’t be bothered to know the comings and goings of this sleepy little burg, even though we’ve lived across the street from each other since third grade, rather than the truth that Lissy Ryder just got here from the future and struggles to remember anything that wasn’t explicitly posted in her diary, so please don’t call the authorities. Brian replies, “Four. I’m the oldest. The first set of twins—Diana and Holly—are nine, and the younger set—Paul and Greg—are six.”
I shudder inadvertently. “Your poor mother.”
Brian cocks his head and when he does, his eyes catch a swath of afternoon sun. I thought they were brown, but with the light on them, I see they’re more of a lake-water green with tiny speckles of gold. Did I ever notice this before? I suspect I may have. “How do you figure?”
“She’s got to deal with all those brats! My God, what a nightmare! I mean, they’re sticky and loud and they ask a million questions. Ugh. Who wants that?” My skin crawls at the notion of being saddled with so many progeny.
Brian grins again. “I’m pretty sure my parents like their kids. They’re a little worried about paying for five sets of college tuition, so they’re careful how they spend, but otherwise, we have no plans to sell ’em on the black market.”
“That’s a damn shame,” I reply. “Healthy Caucasian kids like that would fetch enough to fund an Ivy League education.”
Aw, crap, what’d I just say? I’m supposed to make small changes and be nice, and the first thing I do is suggest he sell his siblings into white slavery. Smooth, Lissy. Real smooth.
But Brian just laughs and the moment passes. While he fills a couple of glasses with ice, his two brothers run screeching through the kitchen to the family room like a thundering herd of asshole buffalos, LEGOs toppling in their wake. I clamp my hands over my ears but Brian is completely unaffected. “We call that ‘joyful noise’ around here. You learn to tune it out.” I smile and nod, hands still firmly in place over my ears. He peels a hand back. “But you’re clearly not into it, so let’s head upstairs.”
We gather up our drinks and a bowl of butter pretzels and exit the kitchen. We arrive at the landing in front of his door on the third floor and he opens it with a flourish. “Welcome to the jungle.”
Brian’s room is still exactly the way I’d described it in my diary—organized and meticulous without being sterile or lacking in personality. It’s kind of cozy in here, with slanted ceilings, and it’s refreshingly clean for a boy’s room. Unlike Duke’s room, which smells like sweat socks and is plastered with bikini sluts lounging on Lamborghinis, this place is populated by neatly aligned books and model airplanes and Star Wars memorabilia. (I’m glad he has a solid eight years of bliss before the whole enterprise is ruined by Jar Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace .)
There’s a hilariously boxy Macintosh computer on his desk and he seems very proud of it. Oh, honey. Wait until you see the iPad. For a moment I consider asking him how one might go about building a complex social networking site but I’m not sure how to describe it except that it involves “likes” and “dislikes” and something called Farmville.
His desk overlooks the street, and now that the leaves are falling off the (huge, pre–Dutch elm disease) elm tree, I notice he has a view right into my bedroom. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Half of Brian’s room is devoted to high fidelity—he’s got a turntable,
Looking back, I recall him living in a houseful of siblings. And I recall being superannoyed by them, particularly when they’d run through the sprinklers and squeal. Like nails on a chalkboard, that sound.
“How many brothers and sisters do you have again?” I ask.
He’s puzzled for a second, but I play it off like Lissy Ryder can’t be bothered to know the comings and goings of this sleepy little burg, even though we’ve lived across the street from each other since third grade, rather than the truth that Lissy Ryder just got here from the future and struggles to remember anything that wasn’t explicitly posted in her diary, so please don’t call the authorities. Brian replies, “Four. I’m the oldest. The first set of twins—Diana and Holly—are nine, and the younger set—Paul and Greg—are six.”
I shudder inadvertently. “Your poor mother.”
Brian cocks his head and when he does, his eyes catch a swath of afternoon sun. I thought they were brown, but with the light on them, I see they’re more of a lake-water green with tiny speckles of gold. Did I ever notice this before? I suspect I may have. “How do you figure?”
“She’s got to deal with all those brats! My God, what a nightmare! I mean, they’re sticky and loud and they ask a million questions. Ugh. Who wants that?” My skin crawls at the notion of being saddled with so many progeny.
Brian grins again. “I’m pretty sure my parents like their kids. They’re a little worried about paying for five sets of college tuition, so they’re careful how they spend, but otherwise, we have no plans to sell ’em on the black market.”
“That’s a damn shame,” I reply. “Healthy Caucasian kids like that would fetch enough to fund an Ivy League education.”
Aw, crap, what’d I just say? I’m supposed to make small changes and be nice, and the first thing I do is suggest he sell his siblings into white slavery. Smooth, Lissy. Real smooth.
But Brian just laughs and the moment passes. While he fills a couple of glasses with ice, his two brothers run screeching through the kitchen to the family room like a thundering herd of asshole buffalos, LEGOs toppling in their wake. I clamp my hands over my ears but Brian is completely unaffected. “We call that ‘joyful noise’ around here. You learn to tune it out.” I smile and nod, hands still firmly in place over my ears. He peels a hand back. “But you’re clearly not into it, so let’s head upstairs.”
We gather up our drinks and a bowl of butter pretzels and exit the kitchen. We arrive at the landing in front of his door on the third floor and he opens it with a flourish. “Welcome to the jungle.”
Brian’s room is still exactly the way I’d described it in my diary—organized and meticulous without being sterile or lacking in personality. It’s kind of cozy in here, with slanted ceilings, and it’s refreshingly clean for a boy’s room. Unlike Duke’s room, which smells like sweat socks and is plastered with bikini sluts lounging on Lamborghinis, this place is populated by neatly aligned books and model airplanes and Star Wars memorabilia. (I’m glad he has a solid eight years of bliss before the whole enterprise is ruined by Jar Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace .)
There’s a hilariously boxy Macintosh computer on his desk and he seems very proud of it. Oh, honey. Wait until you see the iPad. For a moment I consider asking him how one might go about building a complex social networking site but I’m not sure how to describe it except that it involves “likes” and “dislikes” and something called Farmville.
His desk overlooks the street, and now that the leaves are falling off the (huge, pre–Dutch elm disease) elm tree, I notice he has a view right into my bedroom. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Half of Brian’s room is devoted to high fidelity—he’s got a turntable,
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