My dad placed a hand on hers and patted. She stopped speaking and looked at him. “Of course, the article has been well-received. We all know your mother’s brilliant.” He looked at Bubba. “Tell us something about you. You look…quite mature. Are you an undergraduate?”
Mature? What?
“Yeah. I’m a junior. And I’m twenty-one,” Bubba said.
“Ah. Sean was a little hazy on what precisely you’re studying. What’s your major?”
I saw Bubba swallow. He looked at me, his eyes a little wide. “Currently it’s physical education. I was thinking about being a personal trainer.”
“You mean…the type of person who teaches…yoga?” My mom’s face was carefully neutral.
Bubba grinned. “Yoga’s not my thing, Mrs. McKinney. More weights, running, team sports. Stuff like that. Possibly coaching.”
“But he’s going to change his major and go into physical therapy instead,” I put in quickly. “That’s in the medical field. In fact, he’s looking at the DPT program. That’s doctor of physical therapy. Aren’t you, Bubba?”
Bubba nodded his head. “I always wanted to be a physical therapist, but I didn’t think I was smart enough. Sean helped me see I can do it. And my advisor said my grades aren’t prohibitive. If I can get through some super hard courses next year, maybe I can do it.”
Shit. My parents had always obsessed about my grades. To them, anything less than a 4.0 was failure. And Bubba sounded so uncertain about the DPT suddenly. Why did he sound uncertain? I thought he’d decided.
I clutched my cup. “Bubba’s gifted at anything physical, and he knows the human body well. The phys ed courses are tougher than you’d think. So he should be able to move fairly seamlessly into physical therapy.”
My mom forced a smile. “Are your parents supportive of such a change? I imagine any doctorate would take considerably more investment in education than…than phys ed.”
Bubba took a noisy sip of tea and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Nah. I mean, it’s just me and my dad. He’s not a fan of me going to college at all, so he’s not gonna be thrilled if it takes three more years. Or maybe even longer. But he’s not paying for it anyway. So I’ll have to figure it out on my own.”
My dad blinked at him. “What does your father do, Bubba?”
Bubba turned his cup around on the island table. He snuck a glance at me. “He, um, he’s a mechanic. He owns an auto repair shop in Hartsboro, Wisconsin. That’s where I grew up.”
My parents said nothing.
“I think it’s admirable that Bubba has put himself through college so far,” I pointed out.
Bubba gave me a grateful smile. “I had some money from my grandma. That helped a lot. Plus playing football means I get all my food and some clothes for free, which is great too. And I saved my work money from all of my high school years.”
“Ah.” My mother’s tone was bright. “Well. Getting a sports scholarship is a perfectly respectable way to earn a decent education. Good for you.”
My dad made a vaguely agreeable noise, and they both sipped their tea.
I was annoyed that they were ignoring me, their only son and genetic heir, in favor of grilling my boyfriend. And I could tell it wasn’t going well. My mom had sounded… patronizing? But I didn’t have any idea what to say to change the mood.
The next day was Saturday and my dad’s birthday. Since he was the birthday boy, the day’s agenda was his choice—a trip into downtown Chicago to visit the Museum of Science and Industry, which had a traveling exhibit called Real Bodies: The Exhibit. It featured a number of preserved bodies—of humans and animals—with the skin removed so the underlying anatomical structure was visible.
Honestly, I found it more than a little disturbing, and I could tell my mother wasn’t a fan either. She remarked that there was a reason she preferred to work with a microscope. Bubba, however, was fascinated. He walked around the exhibits with my dad, talking about muscle groups and studying the action poses.
I wanted to hear their conversation, but I didn’t want to get that close to the desiccated tissue. Ugh. My mom and I commandeered a bench, and we chatted about my classes while Dad and Bubba wandered. I was relieved when we moved on to other parts of the museum but glad my dad seemed to be getting along with Bubba.
Bubba and I had fun in the flight simulator and spent a lot of time in the exhibit about genetics that featured baby chicks. My mom explained the exhibit to Bubba, describing how genes worked. I could tell he got a little lost, but at least she was making an effort.
As we strolled toward the submarine exhibit, Bubba and I were walking behind my parents. I took his hand, and he offered me a tentative smile.
“You had quite a conversation with my dad in Real Bodies. How’d that go?”
Bubba got a pleased smile. “Good, I think. Thank God for my anatomy and kinesiology classes.” His smile faded. “I tried to show him I’m not a total dummy. I don’t think your parents like me very much.”
“They don’t know you. You just met. They’re slow to change.” That wasn’t exactly true all the time, but it sure was today.
Bubba gave me a nod and tried to smile, but he looked a little worried. I wasn’t used to a worried Bubba, and it didn’t do my nerves any favors either. Suddenly, this weekend seemed much more portentous than I’d heretofore realized, and I didn’t understand why. I certainly didn’t like the feeling.
After the science museum, we had dinner at my dad’s favorite restaurant—Riva on Navy Pier. They had excellent seafood and a lake view. It was an impressive place, and as Bubba looked around, I thought it must be another new experience for him—like the theater in Madison.
“Well, young gentlemen, this is my treat tonight,” my dad said after we were seated.
“No, Sir,” Bubba put in. “It’s your birthday. We should treat you. I… I mean…” He glanced at me. “I’d be happy to treat you.”
My eyes widened. He didn’t have the money for dinner for four at Riva.
“Nonsense!” my dad said. “It’s my birthday, so I get to do what I want. You boys are both in college, so it’s my treat.”
Bubba didn’t argue further. In fact, he was quiet through dinner as my parents focused their questions on me. They asked about my classes, my housemates, and about Quiz Bowl, which I was no longer in. After the night before, with the interrogation of Bubba, I was glad to have their attention aimed in my direction. We got into a lengthy discussion of rabbit-breed mutations from a paper I recently did for a class. Bubba ate his food, his face carefully polite, but I could see his eyes glaze over with boredom. I knew we were leaving Bubba out of the conversation, but part of me reasoned it was better that than have my parents grill him again—or for him to unwittingly say something that would give them a bad impression. I didn’t care for my sake, but I wanted to spare him any further embarrassment.
I was so desperate for them to like Bubba the way I did. Well, not the way I did precisely, but for them to like him and find him a suitable boyfriend. My parents were important to me, and I wanted them to have a positive opinion. But while they were perfectly polite to Bubba, they were far from warm. Not that my parents were warm people, even with me, but they didn’t engage with him much at all.