There’s a loud clang as Mr. Montgomery drops his fork. He covers his face, groaning.
Mrs. Montgomery sighs. “More dinner rolls, anyone?”
“I’m married to ballet is what I’m saying,” Olivia continues.
“I really don’t see some rich guy falling for that sasshole anyway,” her brother mutters.
“Nathan,” his mother reprimands.
Olivia gives her brother the finger.
Monty flips her the bird right back.
It’s comforting to know their sibling relationship hasn’t changed over the years.
He’s her brother. Not me. I’m not even her friend, really. I mean, I care about her like a sister. Is that right? No, I just care about her. But it’s none of my business what she does with her life. “Your brain is what you’ll have to rely on when your body begins its inevitable demise,” I say. “It happens to all dancers. You have to think of your future.”
“I’m aware of that—thanks,” she says. “Believe it or not, I do have rational plans that I formulated using my excellent brain.”
“What kind of job are you going to be able to secure if you break your ankle?”
Mrs. Montgomery gasps at the thought of it.
Olivia shrugs. “I can do administrative work. Arts administration.”
“Any decent administrative position will require a bachelor’s degree.”
“It doesn’trequirea degree, but it might help to have a degree. It also might help to sleep with the right person.”
“Olivia.” Her father curses under his breath. “Give your old dad a break. Come on.”
“I’m not saying I’ddothat!” She snaps her head around to me. “Do you have any idea how many peopledon’tget a job after graduating from college?”
“That’s a lazy argument,” Monty says, punctuating his statement with an epic, not-at-all-lazy belch.
“And statistically invalid. College graduates earn far more money than high school graduates—even in the same positions. Over fifty percent more. That’s a fact.”
“What about all the college dropouts who founded the world’s most successful start-ups?” Olivia asks.
“They’re just lucky,” says Mr. Montgomery.
“They’re anomalies,” I say. I don’t challenge her to name any of them because I know she can’t.
“They’regeniuses,” snorts Monty.
“Well, so am I,” Olivia exclaims. There’s defensiveness in her tone. She isn’t as confident as she’d have us believe. Now I feel bad.
“No one’s saying you aren’t special, sweetheart,” Mrs. Montgomery says kindly.
“And no one’s telling you flat-out that you’re making a terrible decision that’s disrespectful of your family—except me.”
“I’mbeing disrespectful?You’retelling me thatI’mbeing disrespectful?” Her face is now flushed. I wonder if her skin is flushed anywhere else. Her nostrils are flared, and her chest is heaving. Why is it that a woman’s physical response to anger is so similar to sexual arousal? At least, it is with the women I’ve been with.
We haven’t had an argument this heated since before I left for college. What is this heat? Is it just me? Why do I care so much?
“No one asked your opinion, Nerdballs. You know what—talk to me once you’ve secured post-college employment. And then talk to me again a month later after the person who hired you realizes what a terrible mistake they made.” She’s getting angrier by the second. Like Anakin right before he goes full Sith Lord on the Tusken Raiders. “You havezerosocial skills. You havenoidea how to make someone like you, and youdefinitelyhave no right to talk to me about family—where isyourfamily?”
She has a point.
