“Practice safe crafts,” says Smita. Erin laughs. She’s still laughing when Dodger returns with a laundry basket full of supplies, dropping it onto the table and beaming at them.
“I was set up inside, but Mom said I should move out here once you arrived, since four of us is more than she could reasonably be expected to bear,” she says blithely, and begins unpacking the basket. “Who wants to string popcorn?”
“Is there another option?” asks Roger.
“We need to make more paper chains,” says Dodger.
“Maybe you should have invited Candace to this thing,” says Erin, looking dubiously at the bowl of cranberries. “She’s the one with an interest in early childhood development. This is probably like taking a final exam for her.”
“Candace flew back to Portland yesterday,” says Dodger. She waves a hand at the sky, like she’s indicating the arc of Candace’s flight. “Besides, she’s a vegetarian. I don’t think she’d appreciate the carnage that is my family Thanksgiving.”
“Well, on behalf of the world’s meat-eaters, I want to thank you in advance for the carnage,” says Roger dryly. “I’ll string popcorn for you, Dodge. How hard can it be?”
It can be quite hard. The popcorn is crumbly and the cranberries are slick, trying to shoot away when he holds them too tightly, rolling out of the path of the needle when he doesn’t hold them tightly enough. There’s a trick to this, and while he may have known it as a child, the skill seems to have left him. Only Erin seems to have the knack: for her, the craft supplies behave perfectly, the needle finding its angle every time. Silence falls, punctuated by the snick of scissors slicing through construction paper, the occasional soft curse word, and the distant sound of Dodger’s father swearing amiably at the barbecue.
The first Roger knows of Peter Cheswich’s approach is when a male voice—a voice he’s heard countless times through Dodger’s ears, but only once through his own—says behind him, “It’s nice to see a normal-looking garland. When Dodger does them, she always winds up using the popcorn to make a Fibonacci sequence, with the cranberries as markers between the numbers we’re supposed to pay attention to.”
“Why is this not surprising?” asks Smita.
“You thought it was cute when I was four, Daddy,” says Dodger, looking up from her latest paper chain. She wrinkles her nose, scrunching up the lower half of her face like a much younger girl. It’s both endearing and a little weird. Roger has only ever seen her guard this low when they were alone together in her room, her holding a marker, him staying out of her way.
“It’s still cute,” says Peter. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
Erin and Smita have been through this process before, often enough to know the expected steps. They turn, smiles on their faces. Roger does the same. In his case, the smile feels like it’s cemented in place, so tight and heavy that it might crack and fall off at any moment. Dodger’s mother was an easy bar to clear compared to this.
I might have been better off going home, he thinks, and feels his skin tighten, becoming two sizes too small. No. He would not have been better off going home. He doesn’t know how he knows that, but he does, oh, how he does. Going home would have been the end of all things.
This may not be much better. “This is Erin, one of my housemates, Smita, from the biology department, and Roger, my best friend and most tolerant companion,” says Dodger.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cheswich,” says Erin, holding out her hand.
Peter, laughing, shows her his own grease-stained fingers. “I’m normally all in favor of normal social ritual, but right now, I think it’s better if I leave you in the condition I found you in,” he says. “I’ll shake later, after I’ve had time to wash up.”
“Good plan,” says Erin.
“Hello, sir,” says Smita.
Peter’s attention shifts to Roger, taking his measure. Even if Roger didn’t know that Dodger had never bothered to date during high school—it took time away from more important things, like homework—he’d be able to tell from the look on her father’s face. He’s been the first boy a few girls ever brought home. All of their fathers looked at him like that, with a mixture of hope and suspicion, like he could either rescue or ruin their daughters.
Aren’t you going to be surprised, he thinks, and keeps smiling his