I’ll probably have a tattoo of a unicorn on my ass by Tuesday.Or a septum piercing. Or be running drugs for the Colombians through Newark airport.
“Where is Gunnar?” my dad asks, his voice stern.
I look back to where he just was, but he’s a phantom. If I know my brother, he’s halfway out of the city by now on one of those rickshaw carts, headed for a Devils game or something. He doesn’t give a fuck. And when he doesn’t give a fuck, it’s as if he has magic powers. “I don’t know,” I answer candidly. “I really don’t know.”
Thatcher sighs, and I take a deep breath. Sighs are better than rage. Sighs are a sign of defeat.
“Well, shit. I guess we might as well get a beer, hun.”
My mom nods. “I’ve been reaming out the Bahamian police’s asses for a day straight. I need a drink. Did your brother get Heineken?”
I swear, my life is an early 2000s comedy starring Stifler’s mom.
“Uh. Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. “Pretty sure the keg in the kitchen is.”
“Perfect. Come on, T-bag. You can hold my legs when I keg stand.”
I watch as my parents head for the party in the kitchen and take turns handstanding on the big silver drum while chaos reigns supreme around us. Philmore oinks and scurries around them, and whatshisface holds my dad’s legs when he takes a second turn.
It is hell on earth, and Finn and Scottie haven’t even managed to make it up the elevator yet. The night is so, so young.
And the only thing that could make it worse, does.
Julia hangs there with my parents and whatshisface, laughing and smiling and possibly falling a little bit in love…
With the wrong fucking guy.
My plan…foiled. Couldn’t have gone worse, actually.
Guess I’d better get busy coming up with a new one—one that’ll work.
Monday, June 9th
Ace
My mom sits spread-eagled in sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, a bag of peas at the apex of her thighs and a sleep mask with cartoon bug eyes strapped on her head. She lies back, groaning lightly, and I sneak on light feet through the hall at the back of the couch to try to avoid conversation.
She pops up quickly, resting herself on one elbow and pulling the mask up off her eyes, and I freeze, a cramp in my toes forming immediately.
“Where are you going?” she asks, accusation making the words lash.
“I…uh…out?”
“Nope. Nuh-uh. We need all hands on deck cleaning this place up, and I’m, as you can see, vaginally indisposed.”
“Ugh, Mom.” I groan. I’m still tired, drained, and fucking bleeding from the eyes and ears over the things I saw last night—over the things that were still happening up until three short hours ago when my dad and Finn finally managed to kick the last group of lingering people out of here. I don’t need my mom saying the word “vaginally” any time of day, but of all the times of day I don’t need it, this is the pinnacle.
“Don’tugh, Momme. You’re on Solo cup duty until I can get my feet back under me. Your father is vacuuming.” She adjusts her position on the couch and nods down the hall, where the faint hum of the vacuum moves slowly closer.
“Vacuuming? Does Thatch even know how to vacuum?” I can hardly picture my big, meaty-handed father operating such a short domestic device with any skill, let alone to the tune of 12,000 square feet of living space.
“Please, Ace.” My mother sighs. “Ask something that makes sense. Of course he knows how to vacuum. As a matter of fact, suction is one of his specialties.”
“Oh-kay. Jeez. Really?” I cry. “Must you?” I know I left myself open by interacting at all, but you’d think the universe, having seen Julia hand in hand with Colonel Frat Mustard for so many hours last night while Finn and Scottie did an excellent job of reminding me exactly the kind of loving relationship I’m missing at the same time, would cut me a break. I’m a walking wound. My pus is festering among the mess and infecting my whole life.
She laughs, unbothered. That’s one thing about my mom—she’sneverbothered. It doesn’t matter if I’m on the brink of the most formidable moment of my manhood. That’s a me problem.
An overwhelming hum enters the room briskly, my tall-ass father behind it with big black headphones on. He shoves and wields the vacuum wildly, ramming it into furniture and concentrating more on dancing with high knees than what he’s sucking up.
