“Yeah,” I said, laughing, tears in my eyes with every step.
“That’s gonna hurt.”
“Yeah.” I looked down to examine my shin, where the lump was already growing. “It was awesome.”
CHAPTER 33
Mom and Melinda Oates declare it’s a sign from the universe that there is a night where Ben Oates is in town and there are no sporting events, music lessons, board meetings, or other events on either family’s calendar. This is not strictly true, because Tyler is supposed to be at a hockey scrimmage, but Mom decides to ignore it because Melinda Oates has asked us all to dinner and maybe the universe didn’t have the updated hockey schedule.
“Whose house are we going to again?” Tyler asks. He’s on his third shirt in ten minutes. Mom wasn’t satisfied when she told him to wear something other than a dirty old Chicago Blackhawks T-shirt and he came back in a clean old Chicago Blackhawks T-shirt, so he’s returned in a blue pullover that doesn’t say a team but has a big Under Armour logo on the front. Mom looks at it crossly, but knows it is not going to get better than this unless she trades in Tyler for a kid who will wear something with buttons.
Luckily for me, it’s gotten cold enough to wear my gray sweater with the giant floppy cowl neck, one of two non-sweatshirts I have in case Mom needs us presentable.
“My clients, the Oateses. The older boy goes to school with Greer.”
“You’ve met them,” I remind Ty. “Except for the dad.” None of us have met the dad. People spot yetis more often than they spot Jackson’s dad, who travels twenty-nine days out of every month, including February.
Tyler’s cramming on his shoe without untying it. I realize that I never see him tie or untie his shoes. I wonder if he even knows how. Maybe he can’t button or tie. He’s wearing a pair of draw-string joggers; maybe he can’t zip, either. But once he’s dressed, he looks perfectly fine, like he was born wearing this ensemble, which fits exactly as it’s supposed to. It’s how Ty always looks. I bet he’s never spent five seconds wondering if his pants are too tight or his boobs look too big. “Why are we going there?” he demands.
“Melinda wants to have us over to thank me for all the help resettling.” She says it with a pleased smile, like she can’t help that she’s so wonderful.
“She does know that you get paid for that, right?” I ask.
“People appreciate when you go the extra mile,” Mom says. I know that Mom gets reimbursed sixty cents for every mile she drives for a client, so driving extra miles translates directly to income for her, but I don’t mention this. She won’t think it’s funny, someone will have to explain the phrase “go the extra mile” to Tyler, and Dad has just popped in from work. “We were about to leave without you,” she says.
“Where’re we going?”
Mom gives him a giant eye roll because she has told all of us thirty times that we are going to the Oateses’ house for dinner. She and I are the only ones who are properly obsessing about it.
Mom is excited, because she loves people in general, and new people in particular, especially when she can check out their houses and furniture.
I am lukewarm on people in general, even if I’m rather enthusiastic about one in particular. I am also nervous for several reasons:
I’ve never been to Jackson’s house before and that would make any reasonable person nervous. I talk to him for six minutes before math class on school days, and the bell rings before we run out of things to say. I am not convinced I can be interesting for more than seven or eight minutes. I am fairly certain he can be.
I’m not visiting Jackson’s house with reasonable people. I’m coming with these weirdos. I might be able to avoid horrible and embarrassing things on my own, but throw Ty and my mom in the mix and who knows?
I need to find and rescue Grumpy Dwarf. I have no idea how I’m going to do this.
CHAPTER 34
Ben Oates swings open the door before we even knock. He is wearing an apron over a striped button-down shirt and a pair of jeans that hang loose on his hips. He’s got brown wavy hair that’s started to recede in twin paths on either side of his forehead. He and my dad look like they could be standing next to each other in the same Nordstrom ad, like my mom shops for both of them.
“Welcome! Come on in!” Mr. Oates leans out to hold the storm door open for us, so I have to pass really close to enter. He looks like Middle-Aged Jackson, but he smells like a delicious Indian restaurant. “Ben Oates,” he says, shaking my dad’s hand. “You’re Eric.”
“I am,” Dad confirms.
“And you’re Greer and . . . Tyler?” He squints up one side of his face like he’s worried he’s gotten Ty’s name wrong. Tyler grunts a “yeah” and Mr. Oates grins. “And you are my wife’s saving grace.” He leans in to kiss Mom’s cheek, and she beams.
Jackson is nowhere to be seen. I have a tiny panic that he won’t be joining us, even though at school this morning he said, “Make sure you have a camera, because you will get a rare sighting of my dad.” (I said, “In his natural habitat?” Jackson replied, “His natural habitat is a Hilton.”)
But for someone who is making a guest appearance, he seems entirely in his element charming strangers. That must be where Jackson gets it.
“Let me get everyone a drink.” Mr. Oates strides through the house and we follow, like he’s a magnet and we are little bits of iron. “Jack and Mel just ran out to find some kokum.” We all look blank. “It’s a spice. I doubt they’re going to find it. I just got back from Bangalore and one of our partners sent me home with all her mother’s recipes. We can find most of the stuff, but there are a couple that I’m going to have to bring home with me next time.”
He leads us into the kitchen, where there is a spread of dips, breads, spreads, and fruits that looks like it is from a magazine. There are pots steaming on every burner and it smells unbelievable, like we’ve just walked into Padma Lakshmi’s kitchen. My mother is rapturously soaking it all in. Jackson’s dad hands each of my parents a glass of red wine. “Melinda said, ‘Let’s just have filets or something we know how to make,’ but where’s the fun in that? Anybody can grill a filet. Go big or go home, right?”
I steal a glance at Tyler, the conversational void, who is looking at the spread of food like it’s made of toxins and dog poop. If this is “go big,” Tyler would choose go home and eat a chicken nugget.
“Either of you want to try a banana lassi?” Mr. Oates pulls the pitcher off the blender and holds it up.