to sixty-five.”
That’s a key demographic.
They’re all key demographics.
Yes, Lisa flitters around in the background as I try to decide which drawer should house my socks. A cameraman hovers over me: the great sock decision must be recorded for posterity.
I’m feeling rather warm toward Lisa, as she did politely suggest I mark any box that shouldn’t be opened in front of the cameras. I decided on the infinity symbol for a few reasons, but I told Lisa only one: “Infinitely embarrassing.” She had actually laughed.
Everyone helping me unpack knows to put the infinity boxes aside because I don’t need the whole nation to know what brand of tampon I use or that I write in a diary that has some glitter on it. (Yeah, yeah, I know, but it’s a diary, it’s supposed to be indulgent). I also don’t need the whole nation to know that I brought my floppy, orange stuffed cat that I’ve had since I was six. My dad got it for me when we went to Maine—just the two of us—for a week. Him researching a book, his daughter in tow. I named the cat Sandy because it got sand all over it. Yes, I was a rather innovative child. There’s no way that I was leaving Sandy at home, and I don’t care that home’s only a twenty-minute metro ride away.
“Peyton, what’s it like having such a monumental moment without your father here?” an eager beaver of a reporter asks as I move another non-infinity box.
“Sad.” I slash the box with orange-handled scissors.
“So you miss him?”
I clutch the blade of the scissors in order to keep myself from saying something really snarky. But the camera’s on me, the boom hovers over my head. I smile, as sweetly and as genuinely as I can. “Of course, I miss him every day.”
And it’s true.
But I have my mom.
Once there’s a semblance of order in Annie’s and my room, my mom and I go to dinner, like you’re supposed to. Only we go to Tombs instead of someplace like Friendly’s, and, of course, the cameras follow us. I can see the voiceovers being scribbled and dribbled already.
“
Amber
,
as you saw
,
Senator Arthur had to say goodbye to her daughter today.
Every parent knows what a bittersweet moment that is.
”
“
Why yes
,
Todd
,
they sure do.
Jen Arthur is just a regular mom
,
isn’t she?
Completely worthy of our vote.
”
I can’t loosen up, not fully, while my distorted hair reflects in the camera lens and Lisa taps her pen lightly on her clipboard. I comment on things like how our flowers need rain and how the salad is good, especially the goat cheese, and any other inane thing that gurgles to the surface of my mind.
My mom nods and plays along. Or am I the one playing along?
Eventually, the meal ends. The camera people pack up. The waitstaff get back to whatever they usually do. It’s time for my mom to go.
“I need to use the ladies’ room,” she says. As she walks by, she touches my shoulder and looks down at me with intensity, before her face once again loosens and her confident heels click toward the restrooms.
I get up, careful as possible given we’re basically in an impromptu set—with cords, big black boxes of equipment, and other ambulatory hazards—and follow her. When I get in, she’s waiting for me. “Check the stalls, please.”
I kneel down and my now notorious reddish locks flop against the tiles. It’s clear. “No one.”
She takes a jewelry box out of her purse and presents it, her thumbs on top, her other fingers supporting the base. “I saw this a year and a half ago. I thought about giving it to you after your graduation, but I just couldn’t. It would mean you were grown up, and I fooled myself into thinking that you wouldn’t grow up, not really, until the summer was over.”
She hands it to me and I detect just a bit of redness in her usually perfectly polished, perfectly porcelain cheeks. I open it and a brilliant emerald stone along a silver chain announces its presence.
“It’s your birthstone,” she says as
That’s a key demographic.
They’re all key demographics.
Yes, Lisa flitters around in the background as I try to decide which drawer should house my socks. A cameraman hovers over me: the great sock decision must be recorded for posterity.
I’m feeling rather warm toward Lisa, as she did politely suggest I mark any box that shouldn’t be opened in front of the cameras. I decided on the infinity symbol for a few reasons, but I told Lisa only one: “Infinitely embarrassing.” She had actually laughed.
Everyone helping me unpack knows to put the infinity boxes aside because I don’t need the whole nation to know what brand of tampon I use or that I write in a diary that has some glitter on it. (Yeah, yeah, I know, but it’s a diary, it’s supposed to be indulgent). I also don’t need the whole nation to know that I brought my floppy, orange stuffed cat that I’ve had since I was six. My dad got it for me when we went to Maine—just the two of us—for a week. Him researching a book, his daughter in tow. I named the cat Sandy because it got sand all over it. Yes, I was a rather innovative child. There’s no way that I was leaving Sandy at home, and I don’t care that home’s only a twenty-minute metro ride away.
“Peyton, what’s it like having such a monumental moment without your father here?” an eager beaver of a reporter asks as I move another non-infinity box.
“Sad.” I slash the box with orange-handled scissors.
“So you miss him?”
I clutch the blade of the scissors in order to keep myself from saying something really snarky. But the camera’s on me, the boom hovers over my head. I smile, as sweetly and as genuinely as I can. “Of course, I miss him every day.”
And it’s true.
But I have my mom.
Once there’s a semblance of order in Annie’s and my room, my mom and I go to dinner, like you’re supposed to. Only we go to Tombs instead of someplace like Friendly’s, and, of course, the cameras follow us. I can see the voiceovers being scribbled and dribbled already.
“
Amber
,
as you saw
,
Senator Arthur had to say goodbye to her daughter today.
Every parent knows what a bittersweet moment that is.
”
“
Why yes
,
Todd
,
they sure do.
Jen Arthur is just a regular mom
,
isn’t she?
Completely worthy of our vote.
”
I can’t loosen up, not fully, while my distorted hair reflects in the camera lens and Lisa taps her pen lightly on her clipboard. I comment on things like how our flowers need rain and how the salad is good, especially the goat cheese, and any other inane thing that gurgles to the surface of my mind.
My mom nods and plays along. Or am I the one playing along?
Eventually, the meal ends. The camera people pack up. The waitstaff get back to whatever they usually do. It’s time for my mom to go.
“I need to use the ladies’ room,” she says. As she walks by, she touches my shoulder and looks down at me with intensity, before her face once again loosens and her confident heels click toward the restrooms.
I get up, careful as possible given we’re basically in an impromptu set—with cords, big black boxes of equipment, and other ambulatory hazards—and follow her. When I get in, she’s waiting for me. “Check the stalls, please.”
I kneel down and my now notorious reddish locks flop against the tiles. It’s clear. “No one.”
She takes a jewelry box out of her purse and presents it, her thumbs on top, her other fingers supporting the base. “I saw this a year and a half ago. I thought about giving it to you after your graduation, but I just couldn’t. It would mean you were grown up, and I fooled myself into thinking that you wouldn’t grow up, not really, until the summer was over.”
She hands it to me and I detect just a bit of redness in her usually perfectly polished, perfectly porcelain cheeks. I open it and a brilliant emerald stone along a silver chain announces its presence.
“It’s your birthstone,” she says as
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