“Anytime, Neil,” my mom says. “If you want to come over later this summer, we can show you some drafts of sketches for our next picture book.”
“That would be amazing,” he says, and I swear he sits up straighter, seeming to gain more confidence. “You know what other kinds of books I love? Romance novels.”
And then he shovels more salad into his mouth, all casual.
Pardon me while I reattach the lower half of my jaw.
My mom lifts her eyebrows. “Huh,” she says in this perplexed tone. “Is that so?”
“You and Rowan have that in common,” my dad says. “I guess they’re not just for bored housewives anymore.” He places an emphasis on “bored housewives,” as though it’s not a phrase he likes, necessarily, but couldn’t come up with a better one. Dad, your misogyny is showing.
“And not just for women, either,” Neil says, after a pause that maybe indicates he was bothered by my dad’s comment too. “Though they center women’s experiences in a way little other media does.”
His voice is solid, steady. There’s no hint of sarcasm there, and I’m no longer convinced he’s teasing me. When his eyes meet mine, one edge of his mouth pulls up into a smile that’s more reassuring than conspiratorial. Almost like he’s trying to help my parents understand this thing that I love.
But that’s bananas.
“Well, I don’t know if that’s necessarily true,” my dad says, and rattles off the names of a few Netflix shows because, of course, three recent examples are incontrovertible proof that an entire art form isn’t still majorly skewed toward the male gaze.
What would they say if I told them right now? If I said when I take creative writing classes at Emerson, it’s because I want to write the kind of books they think are worthless? Would they try to change my mind, or would they learn to accept it? Part of me is hopeful they’d understand if I wanted to semi-follow in their footsteps, but I want a guarantee their reaction won’t flatten me.
My lungs are too tight, and suddenly there’s not enough air in here. In one swift movement, I get to my feet.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say before escaping into the kitchen.
* * *
I revel in my solitude for a few minutes, trying to figure out how this day went from Neil McNair winning valedictorian to defending romance novels to my parents. The laughter from the dining room is dimmed, but I can still hear it.
“Rowan?” My mom’s voice.
I turn from where I’ve been staring out the window at our backyard. My mom whips off her glasses, wipes the lenses on her sweater. Her hair is in the same kind of bun as mine, though hers looks professional-author sloppy somehow. It’s probably the pair of pencils sticking out of it.
“This can’t be the same boy you’ve been competing with for four years,” she says, motioning to the dining room. “Because he’s very nice. Very polite.”
“Same boy.” I lean against the kitchen counter. “And he is. Shockingly so.”
She gives me a warm smile and cups my shoulder. “Rowan Luisa Roth. Are you sure you’re doing okay? I know this last day must have been rough.”
Rowan Luisa. My middle name belonged to her father’s mother, a grandmother who lived and died in Mexico before I was born.
I only notice my mother’s accent on occasion, when she pronounces certain words or when she gets a paper cut or stubs a toe, mutters “Dios mío” so fast, I used to think it was all one word. When she’s reading aloud to herself—instructions, a recipe, counting—she does it in Spanish. Once I pointed it out to her, just because I thought it was interesting and I love hearing my mom speak Spanish. She wasn’t even aware of it, and I was so worried that now that she knew she was doing it, she’d stop. Fortunately, she never did.
“I… don’t know.”
I’ve always been able to be honest with my parents. I even told my mom when I lost my virginity. Romance novels made me so eager to talk about it.
The thing is, I’m afraid.
Afraid of saying I want what they have.
Afraid they’ll dismiss it as a hobby.
Afraid that if they read my work, they’ll tell me I’m not good enough.
Afraid they’ll tell me I’ll never make it.
Her hand brushes my cheek. “Endings are so hard,” she says, and then laughs at the double meaning. “I should know. We spent all day trying to get ours just right.”
“Yours are always perfect.” And I mean it. I was my parents’ first reader, their first fan. “Did you ever—” I break off, wondering how to phrase this. “Did you ever have people who looked down on you and Dad for writing children’s books?”
She gives me this look over her glasses, as if to say, obviously. “All the time. We told you what his parents said when the third Riley book hit the New York Times list, right?” When I shake my head, she continues: “His father asked when we were going to start writing real books.”
“Grandpa does only read World War II novels.”
“And that’s fine. Not my cup of tea, but I understand why he enjoys them. We’ve always loved writing for kids. They’re so full of hope and wonder, and everything feels big and new and exciting. And we love meeting the kids who read our books. Even if they’re not kids anymore,” she says with a nod toward the dining room.
“Have you ever thought…?” I chew the inside of my cheek. “What Grandpa said about your books. That’s—that’s sort of how I feel sometimes.”
“About romance novels? I’d never argue that they’re not real books, Rowan. We each have our preferences. We can agree to disagree.”
I try to keep my heart from sinking. It’s not progress, not exactly, but at least it doesn’t feel like a step backward. It’s going to have to be enough until I meet Delilah.
“Speaking of romance,” my mom says. “Is there something going on between you and Neil?”
My hands fly to my mouth, and I’m sure there’s an expression of abject horror on my face. “Oh my God, Mom, no, no, no, no, no. No.”
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”
I roll my eyes. “No. We teamed up for the game. Completely platonically.”
But my mind trips over the way he said the kiddush, the sound of those words I knew so well in a voice I thought I did. My fingers tingle at the memory of sitting on his bed, touching his shoulder. An unusual moment of physical contact between us. Then the pointillism of freckles across his face and down his neck, the dots that wrap around his fingers and crawl up his arms. And his arms—the way they look in that T-shirt.
It’s probably just that I’m really into arms.
“Well. I hope you enjoy the rest of your game,” my mom says with a smirk before she heads back into the dining room.
HOWL CLUES
A place you can buy Nirvana’s first album
A place that’s red from floor to ceiling
A place you can find Chiroptera
A rainbow crosswalk
Ice cream fit for Sasquatch
The big guy at the center of the universe