and criticize me when I’m trying to helpyou. And maybe have a life of my own at the same time.”
“Sorry,” I say.
Mom drops out of her headstand and her feet whack the floor hard.
“Now you’ve got me disturbed, Sanskrit. I have to find my center again.”
Mom breathes deeply, stretches, breathes again. She rubs her forehead, upset. I hate it when she’s upset.
“I’ll go to Dr. Prem and get adjusted,” I say.
“You will?” Mom says.
“Anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Of course.”
“Give me a kiss,” Mom says.
“Gross.”
“Not gross. I’m your mother.”
She takes my head in her hands and plants a big, wet kiss on my cheek.
“My son,” she says. “I’m feeling better now.”
“I’m glad,” I say.
Mom always feels better when she gets her way. And honestly, it’s easier for everybody involved.
“Busy. Always very busy.”
That’s what Dad says when I climb into the car later and ask him how he’s doing. I have to clear a foot of junk off the passenger seat before I can even sit down.
“Busy with what?” I say.
“I could tell you,” he says. “But then I’d have to kill you.”
He chuckles like this is funny.
It’s not. Child Protective Services would not take kindly to jokes like this. It’s not like I would call them, but we’re on their radar after Sweet Caroline got sick of Mom’s tempeh stew a few years ago and told her teacher Mom was serving us dog food. The teacher took her seriously and called the hotline, and when the social workers showed up one night during dinner, they took a look at our plates and thought she might be telling the truth. Mom’s tempeh stew was brought to a lab for testing, and we spent the night at juvenile hall eating bologna sandwiches and spicy Fritos.
The next day the test came back negative for meat products. Sweet Caroline got in big trouble for lying and we were returned to the house. Mom spent the next six months on a mission to prove how delicious vegetarian food can be.
As far as I’m concerned, the mission failed.
“What has you so busy?” I ask Dad. “In general terms.”
“Dad’s working on important things,” Sweet Caroline says as she climbs into the back of the car. “Daddy, it’s disgusting back here.”
“I didn’t get a chance to straighten up.”
“That’s okay,” Sweet Caroline says as she pushes stacks of books and papers out of the way to make a space.
The car door doesn’t close correctly in back, so she has to slam it, then pull it hard three times until it clicks.
“You’re inventing things for the government, right, Daddy?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Dad says. “I only know I had to interrupt important work to be with you here today. To escort you on this critical mission, Sweet McGeet.”
Dad has, like, fourteen pet names for Sweet Caroline. He only has two names for me. Sanskrit most of the time, and Aaron when he’s angry at Mom and doesn’t want to say the name she chose for me.
“Remind me. What is this important mission?” Dad says.
“See’s Candies, Daddy,” Sweet Caroline says.
“I sees a chocolate truffle in your future,” Dad says with a smile.
I’ve heard that stupid joke fifty thousand times, but Sweet Caroline laughs like it’s brilliant. She loves See’s Candies. I wish the stuff would make her pudgy. It’s hard to be arrogant when you’re pudgy.
“Sound like we have a road trip on our hands!” Dad says, getting excited. “We had some crazy road trips in college. Back in the day, boy, the gearheads and I knew how to do it right.”
Gearheads. That’s what they called the engineers at Cal Tech when Dad went to school there.
“I have to go to Dr. Prem,” I say. “That’s why you’re here, remember?”
“Oh, right,” Dad says, depressed by the sudden appearance of responsibility. “And you have to be there at—”
He looks at the clock. It’s 1:30.
“We’re late!” he says.
“We have to be there by two,”
“Sorry,” I say.
Mom drops out of her headstand and her feet whack the floor hard.
“Now you’ve got me disturbed, Sanskrit. I have to find my center again.”
Mom breathes deeply, stretches, breathes again. She rubs her forehead, upset. I hate it when she’s upset.
“I’ll go to Dr. Prem and get adjusted,” I say.
“You will?” Mom says.
“Anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Of course.”
“Give me a kiss,” Mom says.
“Gross.”
“Not gross. I’m your mother.”
She takes my head in her hands and plants a big, wet kiss on my cheek.
“My son,” she says. “I’m feeling better now.”
“I’m glad,” I say.
Mom always feels better when she gets her way. And honestly, it’s easier for everybody involved.
“Busy. Always very busy.”
That’s what Dad says when I climb into the car later and ask him how he’s doing. I have to clear a foot of junk off the passenger seat before I can even sit down.
“Busy with what?” I say.
“I could tell you,” he says. “But then I’d have to kill you.”
He chuckles like this is funny.
It’s not. Child Protective Services would not take kindly to jokes like this. It’s not like I would call them, but we’re on their radar after Sweet Caroline got sick of Mom’s tempeh stew a few years ago and told her teacher Mom was serving us dog food. The teacher took her seriously and called the hotline, and when the social workers showed up one night during dinner, they took a look at our plates and thought she might be telling the truth. Mom’s tempeh stew was brought to a lab for testing, and we spent the night at juvenile hall eating bologna sandwiches and spicy Fritos.
The next day the test came back negative for meat products. Sweet Caroline got in big trouble for lying and we were returned to the house. Mom spent the next six months on a mission to prove how delicious vegetarian food can be.
As far as I’m concerned, the mission failed.
“What has you so busy?” I ask Dad. “In general terms.”
“Dad’s working on important things,” Sweet Caroline says as she climbs into the back of the car. “Daddy, it’s disgusting back here.”
“I didn’t get a chance to straighten up.”
“That’s okay,” Sweet Caroline says as she pushes stacks of books and papers out of the way to make a space.
The car door doesn’t close correctly in back, so she has to slam it, then pull it hard three times until it clicks.
“You’re inventing things for the government, right, Daddy?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Dad says. “I only know I had to interrupt important work to be with you here today. To escort you on this critical mission, Sweet McGeet.”
Dad has, like, fourteen pet names for Sweet Caroline. He only has two names for me. Sanskrit most of the time, and Aaron when he’s angry at Mom and doesn’t want to say the name she chose for me.
“Remind me. What is this important mission?” Dad says.
“See’s Candies, Daddy,” Sweet Caroline says.
“I sees a chocolate truffle in your future,” Dad says with a smile.
I’ve heard that stupid joke fifty thousand times, but Sweet Caroline laughs like it’s brilliant. She loves See’s Candies. I wish the stuff would make her pudgy. It’s hard to be arrogant when you’re pudgy.
“Sound like we have a road trip on our hands!” Dad says, getting excited. “We had some crazy road trips in college. Back in the day, boy, the gearheads and I knew how to do it right.”
Gearheads. That’s what they called the engineers at Cal Tech when Dad went to school there.
“I have to go to Dr. Prem,” I say. “That’s why you’re here, remember?”
“Oh, right,” Dad says, depressed by the sudden appearance of responsibility. “And you have to be there at—”
He looks at the clock. It’s 1:30.
“We’re late!” he says.
“We have to be there by two,”
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