there is no way I’m leaving Gramps. More than ever he needs us not to bail. Mom is good at chasing down truths, but she’s not so good at witnessing the ones that find her instead.
Her expression softens. “Oh, I know, babe. Of course he’s sad, we all are. I mean, well, your dad talks to him almost every day and, well, we just thought he’d be more—together. And the house … Look, all I’m saying is I know you wanted to be here, but you can still come with us. We’ll hire the best tutors. You’ll graduate on time. This time next year, we’ll be moving you into NYU. Besides, this trip is going to be life-changing. Think about how much closer we’ll be to our culture.”
Mom doesn’t get it. We’ve always been A Levitt Family Production, whether we were investigating the ethics of cattle farming in the Midwest, examining the effects of climate change on the beaches of the Outer Banks, or exposing the realities of gentrification in major cities.
I love chasing stories with my parents, but I can’t go to Israel with them. It isn’t even about graduating on time. It’s about having a senior year that’s mine—I have big plans for OTP and building an NYU-worthy resume, a resume that screams publishing.
If I say yes, I’ll get caught up in A Levitt Family Production—distracted by long days on location, switching out camera lenses to capture the perfect headshot, proofreading interview questions—the familiar, comforting chaos of filmmaking. It’s a chaos I haven’t felt since my parents moved us to Charlotte for their raising teenagers sabbatical three years ago, devastated by Oscar loss number six. Being on location and behind a camera is the closest thing to home I’ve ever had—until Kels.
If I go, OTP will take a back seat to my parents’ demanding schedule and fitting school in.
I can’t afford to go on hiatus for a year.
My presence will evaporate. NYU will have nothing to look at. Kels will disappear.
“I’m staying. For Gramps.”
For me.
Mom nods. “I get that. It just might be harder than you think, okay?”
“Every day is already hard.”
Mom’s arms open and I fall into her embrace. She strokes my hair like I’m a little kid again. It used to be identical, our hair. Long and medium brown. Whatever Mom’s chosen hairstyle was for the day, she’d replicate it on me. If Mom braided her hair, she braided mine. Crown braid days were my favorite. Along with matching green eyes and the same small mole above our lip. Everyone on set used to call me Mini-Mad.
Now, I keep my hair shoulder-length and styled in layers.
Mom’s is still as long as ever because, quote, screw ageism.
I’m going to miss her so much.
Mom lets go first and glances at her smart watch. “We need to get going.”
Still chewing my cheek, I nod.
“Come on, the boys are all outside.”
I follow my mother’s footsteps out the back door. Mom referring to Dad, Gramps, and Ollie as “the boys” gives me flashbacks to sand between my toes and the smell of hydrangeas in bloom. Summers were always for Middleton. If we weren’t on location, we were here. But now it’s August, and there’s a whole year here in front of us.
Dad pulls me into a hug as soon as I reach him. We don’t say much, but we don’t need to. Dad isn’t a man of many words. Mostly, he speaks in cupcakes and cinematography. I can’t wait for the pictures I know he’s going to send me from Israel.
“Take care of Gramps,” he whispers in my ear.
“I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry,” Mom says, then smushes Ollie and me together into one giant group hug and promptly bursts into tears.
There it is. We’ve been waiting for it. Mom always cries in threes, and she cried twice during the road trip to Middleton. It’s like three-act structure is built in her DNA.
On that note, Gramps turns around, Scout in his arms, and retreats inside. It’s the first Gramps thing that has happened since we’ve arrived, him running away from Mom’s tears. He kind of always has.
Mom wipes her eyes. “Okay, well.” She looks back and forth between Ollie and me. “I love you. We love you.”
“We’ll love you more if you win an Oscar,” Ollie says.
“No pressure,” I say.
Mom rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing. Ollie always knows what to say like that.
“Okay, one more hug. Then we’ll go—I promise!”
After a final round of hugs, Mom