We don’t really celebrate Christmas, but we don’tnotcelebrate it. We do a tree and presents, and it’s Mom’s year to come visit us, so we’ll do dinner and see the Plaza Lights and stuff. But it’s not like we go to church or put up inflatable nativity scenes.
Even Amy, who was raised Catholic, seems fine with us doing the Hallmark version of Christmas, though she does go to Mass on Christmas Eve. Which works out fine, since that’s when we have the awkward Mom-and-Dad-whole-family dinner.
Dad’s a decent cook, with oneglaringminor weakness: vegetables.
“Tell me if these are cooked enough.” He hands me a fork and points at the pot of carrot chunks simmering on the stove.
“How long have they been going?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
I poke at one of the carrots with the fork. As soon as the tines touch the chunk they sink in, and as I pull the fork away, the whole thing splits into three pieces, turning to ragged mush that sinks to the bottom of the pot.
“They’re dead.”
He’s only half listening to me, though. “Good. Your mom should be here soon. Can you check on your sister and Liam?”
The door is open, and they’re both sitting on her bed, shoulder to shoulder, listening to music. Liam’s in a purple polo and a pair of jeans; his UT Austin hoodie lays over the back of Jasmine’s desk chair. The way he’s sitting, his shirt has ridden up a bit, exposing the bottom of his stomach, where a small patch of dark hair has started growing ever since State—the end of the season—where he won three of his events (100 free, 200 free, and the medley relay).
Bowie won the 200 IM and the 100 fly, setting a new school record. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them smile so wide.
“You need something?” Jasmine asks. She’s in her usual winter break attire: fuzzy leggings, lilac today, and a sweatshirt. I blink when I see it’s for UT Austin too. I wonderif Liam got it for herwhat Dad will think.
“Dad says dinner’s almost ready.”
“Is Mom here yet?”
“Not yet. But if she waits any longer, we’ll be having hot carrot water.”
“Ugh.” Jasmine rolls her eyes. Her hand is resting on Liam’s thigh, nearly in his crotch.
I glance up and realize Liam’s caught me staring athis crotchJasmine’s hand. His lips are slightly parted, but he doesn’t say anything.
We haven’t been hanging out much in the two weeks since the show ended. He’s been busy with swimming. And I’ve been busy with post-show cleanup and organization and stuff.
It’s not that I’m avoiding him.
I clear my throat. “Anyway. Come down soon.”
Jasmine nods absently and scoots closer to Liam, like she’s trying to climb into his lap so they can make out.
I beat a hasty retreat.
***
I suppose our dad has a type.
Because Mom is white, like Amy, with brown hair, like Amy, and brown eyes, like Amy, and freckles, like Amy.
But while Amy’s a librarian, Mom’s a doctor like Dad, which is doubtless one of themillionreasons they got divorced: Both of them have to have the last word.
“More brisket, Angela?” Dad asks.
Now that they’re divorced and live hundreds of miles away from each other, they act super friendly in a way they never did while married. So friendly it’s awkward: some unholy combination of Iranian taarof and Midwestern niceness, rolled in a heavy coating of passive-aggressive let’s-get-along-for-the-kids.
“I’m full, thanks. It was so good. Interesting texture too.”
Dad pretends not to hear the backhanded compliment.
