“Uh, yeah, I’ve been on this experimental drug since I was little. It’s…”
The door creaks open behind us, and Paige steps out wearing an apron with big block text that readsHi Hungry, I’m Dad. Her face is all splotchy and red from standing over the grill out back, and she smells like she took a meat bath.
“There you two are. Come on, food’s ready. Get in here before Ollie eats us out of house and home.”
“Ignore your aunt, Jo.” Holden pipes in, coming up behind Paige in the doorway. He stands a little too close to her, and ittwists Cecily’s placid expression into a pained one. “Only one of us here has won a hot-dog-eating competition, and it ain’t me.”
“I was nineteen,” Paige says, rolling her eyes.
“And it was impressive as hell.”
Paige swats him, and the pair heads back down the hallway, chattering and laughing like teenagers. It leaves a sour taste on my tongue, and from Cecily’s face, I can tell she isn’t the biggest fan either.
Cecily pushes to her feet. “Shall we?” she asks.
“Don’t think we have a choice,” I say, and follow her up the steps.
—
My mom dug out an old folding table from the garage and laid one of those plastic checkerboard covers over it, hiding all the Sharpie scribbles and paint globs left over from years of using it as a craft table. A bunch of mismatched chairs, some dragged from the kitchen and dining room, are scattered around it. The table is full of plates, potatoes and macaroni and all the fixings for the burgers and hot dogs Paige spent the afternoon on.
Mom even lets me and Margot have a glass of wine, though Paige warns us to not get too excited as it was on sale for seven dollars at the store and will taste just as cheap. Everyone but Cecily and Jasper gets a glass.
Paige sets the plates of hot dogs and burgers on the table, and for a few minutes it’s a mad dash of grasping hands and nearly toppling condiments as everyone fills up their plate.
“So, Jasper, are you excited for school to start in the fall?” Holden asks.
Jasper, half a hot dog jammed in his mouth, grins and says, “Yeth,” without chewing or swallowing.
“What grade are you in? Tenth? Eleventh?” he asks.
This makes Jasper giggle, and he nearly chokes on his hot dog, swallowing with a nudge from my unamused mother. “Second grade!” Jasper says.
“Wow. I remember second grade. Good times,” Holden says. “Addition, subtraction, all that fun stuff.”
“You’ve got a good memory. Second grade was a lifetime ago,” Paige says. She pats Holden’s arm. “For you.”
Holden scoffs. “You forget we’re the same age, Griffin.”
“It’s Dansby now, Ollie.”
“Dansbydoesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?”
Paige laughs. The put-together, mature aunt I’ve come to know has slipped away in Holden’s presence, and the pair could be my or Cecily’s age, the way they take shots at each other and snort with laughter, endlessly impressed by their own crappy jokes. It’s kind of cute, if you get past the whole neighbor-coming-on-strong-to-your-aunt thing.
Cecily, though, isn’t smiling. She glares at the potato salad on her plate.
“Margot’s going to be a sophomore. Wild, isn’t it?” Paige asks.
“Before you ask, no, I’m not excited,” Margot deadpans.
Inevitably, the attention shifts my way. There’s a pit in my belly before the words reach the air.
“What about you, Jo? Have you decided on any plans for after you graduate?” Holden asks.
The question kills the smile on my mom’s face, and even Paige’s expression is grim.
Once upon a time, I had plans. A list of schools with the top music composition programs in the country. The idea of me in a big city—preferably with Harper at my side, taking classes on music theory and composition techniques and musichistory—lived as a melody in my head for years. I had the beginnings of a portfolio in the works. The dream was to compose for movies.
