Seven Year Switch (2010) by Claire Cook Page A

the kitchen in their crinkly plastic leis.
    Conga lines originated in Cuba and later became popular as Latin American carnaval marches. It wasn’t until the 1930s that they made their way into the United States. It was a stretch to connect them culturally to Hawaii in any way. It was even more of a stretch to make the one-two-three-kick pattern of the steps work with the beat of “Wipeout.” But if it didn’t bother the class, I certainly wasn’t going to worry about it. I yawned and stretched discreetly, then went back to threading the now extremely well-marinated Huli Huli Chicken onto bamboo skewers.
    After Seth left last night, it was hard to know just what to say to Anastasia. Especially since she went right to her room and shut the door. I tiptoed up and down the little hallway a few times, pausing to listen casually outside her bedroom door. On one trip by, I thought I heard her talking to her stuffed animals, or maybe to the Senegalese pocket dolls.
    I walked into the kitchen. I opened the jar of shea butter, a soothing cream made from a nut that grows wild in West Africa, and rubbed some on my hands. Just because it came from Seth didn’t mean I couldn’t use it.
    Eventually, I walked back to Anastasia’s room and knocked. “Time to brush your teeth and go to beh-ed,” I called, sounding like a bad imitation of somebody trying to be a good mother.
    Anastasia opened her door, carrying her pink nightgown. She walked by me as if I were invisible.
    I knocked on the bathroom door. “Make sure you give me the tights so I can get those grass stains out,” I said.
    The door opened a second later, and Anastasia’s tights landed at my feet.
    â€œThanks,” I said to the closed door.
    When Anastasia came out, I was still standing there holding her tights.
    â€œWhat?” she said.
    â€œNothing,” I said. “I was just going to come into your room and talk to you for a minute.”
    She walked by me without a word.
    I followed her into her room. I pictured her climbing into bed, and me tucking her in and smoothing out the covers. Then I’d sit on the edge of her bed. We’d go over every detail of Seth’s visit, sharing her highest hopes and my deepest fears.
    She stopped just inside the door and crossed her arms over her chest.
    â€œWhat?” she said.
    I leaned back against the doorframe casually.
    â€œSo,” I said. “How did it go with your dad?”
    She squinted up at me. “You were there,” she said.
    â€œGood point,” I said. “Well, I think it went great. You two really seemed to hit it off.”
    â€œCan I go to bed now?” she said.
    â€œSure, honey. You must be tired after all that.” I took a moment to fake a yawn. “Wow, me, too.” I leaned over to give her a kiss. “Okay, good night, Anastasia.”
    She looked me right in the eyes. “It’s Asia,” she said. “From now on it’s Asia.”
    Okay, so from now on it would be Asia, and maybe in another seven years I’d be able to call her that without triggering a flashback to our early years as a family. I plunged a skewer into a piece of chicken and pretended it was Seth.
    By the time I finished threading the chicken onto the skewers, Seth was riddled with holes and I was feeling a bit more chipper. I arranged them on the community center’s well-used cookie sheets, which Ethel and her friends had wrapped in foil while T-shirt Tom preheated the oven. I’d planned on bringing my little Weber grill with me today and setting it out on the grass next to the building, but this morning when I got up, it just seemed like way too much work.
    After Anastasia went to bed, I sat on the couch. Then I got up and poured another half glass of red wine. I sat on the couch some more while I drank the wine. I knew everything would be different after to night. Even if Seth was already running away—back to Africa