bad.
“And that reminds me,” Mom says. “Happy Father’s Day.”
The table erupts in a chorus of “Happy Father’s Day,” aimed at Max, Jerry, Billy, and Pop. Yep. It’s June twenty-first. Which means, this year anyway, we’re supposed to be celebrating our fathers.
Just five minutes ago, I was fine. I wouldn’t call myself happy, maybe, but the pleasant aftereffects of last night’s decompressing dancing and soul-spilling with Nick still lingered in my system. I was calm, relatively speaking. I was ready to go home and figure all of this out.
But now everything’s been turned on its head.
Pop’s here. He’s sitting on one side of Mom, and Billy Wong is sitting on the other side of her. From my angle the three of them are in a perfect triangle.
The waitress comes and takes our orders, but I don’t order anything but fruit. Watching Mom has made me lose my appetite. She’s being uncharacteristically affectionate toward Pop, even holding his hand, leaning in to whisper things in his ear, smiling, smiling so hard, with all of her teeth, her eyes squinty.
She’s putting on a fine performance, and it makes me want to throw up. Or throw something at her. Or I could throw a fit. Whatever I do, I decide, should definitely involve throwing.
My phone buzzes. Nick. I glance down the table at him. His face is the quintessential expression of sympathy. He feels bad for me. He knows.
I feel bad for me, too.
I can hardly hear the words everyone is saying. It’s like I’m underwater. But suddenly I hear Billy say, “And tell him about last night.”
“Last night?” Mom repeats. “What happened last night?”
Billy turns to Pop. “Your wife, as I’m sure you’re aware, is simply amazing. She was the star of the awards ceremony.”
“Oh, well, she’s always a star in my book,” Pop says. She puts her hand over his and smiles at him.
But Billy’s not done. “But she wore heels. All night.”
Pop turns to Mom with a kind of mock surprise. “My wife wore heels?”
“I regretted it, trust me,” Mom says. “I’m still regretting it.”
“You were pretty, Mama,” Abby says. “You talked good, too.”
“Thank you, bug,” Mom says. She looks at Billy again. “But I wasn’t the only one who was amazing last night. You, if I remember correctly, won a ‘distinguished service’ award last night.”
Oh god, I think. I’m glad I missed that.
Pop raises his eyebrows. “Congrats, Bill. What did you win it for?”
Billy waves his hand, like it’s not important. “It’s complicated,” he says. Like maybe Pop isn’t smart enough to understand it. He looks at Mom knowingly. “Let’s just say, I won it for my ‘distinguished service’ in my field.”
My blood starts to heat. Every sentence, every flirty word that passes between my mother and Billy Wong right in front of Pop like this is transforming me from girl into volcano, filling me with white hot magma, the pressure building.
My phone buzzes. Afton this time.
Be cool. You don’t want to freak in front of everyone.
My thumbs whips across the surface of my phone. Mind your own fucking business, I write.
Down the table, I see Afton turn her phone facedown.
Mom is still talking about the stupid award. “I don’t know if I’d call it distinguished, though. I’m just saying.”
Billy’s still smiling that nice-guy smile. “I will have you know, Aster, that I am extremely distinguished. Ask anybody.”
“No,” says Peter. “I don’t know what distinguished is, but I’m pretty sure you’re not it, Dad.”
“Yes, he is,” says Josie.
“He is,” Jenny agrees sweetly, because everything Jenny does is sweet, poor dear Jenny who has no idea.
All eyes then turn to Michael, who has until now been texting on his phone. He glances up. “Uh, I plead the fifth, Dad,” he says. “But I do think you’re a great guy.”
“Gee, thanks, son,” says Billy.
Mom pats Billy arm. “Aw, now, everybody’s always so hard on Billy.”
He smirks at her. “You most of all.”
She puts a hand to her chest, her blue eyes widening. “Me? I would never—”
I clutch the edge of the table. “Stop,” I murmur.
Nobody hears me. They just keep on talking, laughing, making light of everything. Mom is still holding Pop’s hand, while she’s joking about being hard on Billy.
It’s too much. Vesuvius is about to erupt.
I stand up. “Stop!” I yell as loudly as I can.
Conversation at the table fades to silence. Everyone, not just the Wongs and my family, but Marjorie and the Kellys, the Ahmeds and the Jacobis, all turn to stare at me.
But I am focused on