“It was a defining moment in history,” my dad says.
Of course I know about Watergate, but I don’t feel like explaining myself. Too much effort. So I nod. Watching her. Wondering what her articles were about. Why she started teaching.
“The only journalists I like are comedians,” I say. “At least they make you laugh while talking about how depressing everything is.”
“Apathy, apathy, apathy,” my dad says.
“Hey! Apathy! That’s on my PSAT.”
He shakes his head.
“Do you have a school paper or something? Do school newspapers even exist anymore?” she says.
“Actually they do have a school paper. Didn’t it win an award last year?” my dad asks.
“Yeah, we have a great school newspaper. And I know all about it because the boy that I used to be in love with was in it all the time. I used to cut his face out of it.”
More deadpan. My dad looks down at his plate.
“Are you interested in journalism, Ali?” she says. She’s not letting this go. She’s insisting on a serious conversation.
“I don’t really know what I’m interested in right now.” That’s the pathetic truth.
“Okay,” she says, uncomfortable. “Well, if you’re at all interested, maybe you could look at some places online. There are a lot of female journalists out there writing great stuff about college campus rape, eating disorders, abortion rights . . .”
I think of the first thing she said: college campus rape. Rape. My mind buzzes and buzzes as I stuff food into my mouth, nodding, Yes, sure, send me something, I think I say, my mouth filled with food because there’s not enough food, not enough of anything to fill me up and make this feeling like I’m disintegrating go away.
* * *
* * *
Later that night, I’m watching what seems like an endless stream of YouTube videos on babies who can’t see. A doctor places glasses over their little, confused faces and then their world becomes clear. Imagine your world so fuzzy. That you can’t see. That you don’t know anything is different about that fuzzy green thing hanging from the tree. Then it becomes shockingly clear: that fuzzy green thing is a leaf.
Blythe texts me: What are u doing?
Watching babies with bad eyesight see for the first time on YouTube
ALI
YES
Can I come over?
I look around my room. Some of my room seems so babyish. I bet Blythe’s room is glamorous. She’s got like silver wallpaper or something. A canopy bed with long white silk drapes hanging from each end. Some chic white chair in the corner with black fur pillows.
My room on the other hand. My desk is painted turquoise because my dad and I painted it together. My mirror is from the 1970s; it’s got tiny little daisies painted in clusters except for the center. My mother picked it up at a garage sale years ago. “When you look at yourself in the mirror,” she said, “you’ll always be surrounded by flowers.” There’s a Nirvana sticker in the corner that came with it, otherwise it would have been worth something. God. Do we have to be so fucking quaint?
Mother driving me crazy.
Sure, come over.
Blythe will be here in ten minutes. That’s not nearly enough time to clean up. I assess my room. What’s the most messy thing? My bed. My bed has to be made first. But oh my God, why do I have Dora sheets? What am I—two? Everything else was in the laundry, I’ll tell her. It’s the truth! I found them at the back of the closet. Everything was dirty! But Dora sheets? How has it come to this?
“Dad! Where are those white sheets that you got me from Target?”
He’s downstairs, yelling something I don’t understand. I’m at the top of the steps.
“The white sheets from Target! Where are they? The new ones!”
“Still in the bag. Next to the washing machine.”
“Ugh, they’re not clean?”
“If you had cleaned them, Ali—”
“Does everything have to be such a chore?”
I run down the stairs, and he’s calling after me.
“It’s only a chore if you make it a chore.”
I unwrap the sheets and a duvet cover. Everything has to be white. That’s what it means to have a normal bed that’s not a loser bed. That’s not a baby bed. Everything white. I kick the bags to the side and race back up the stairs.
He follows me, stairs creaking behind me. “Why are you doing this now?”
“Blythe is coming over now.”
“Wait . . . now?”
“Don’t start with me, Dad. My room is a mess—”
“What are you doing with those?” He points to my Dora sheets on the floor.
“I’m throwing them out. That’s what I’m doing.” I’m standing on my bed trying to shove my pink comforter into the white duvet cover.
“I want to save those, Ali.”
“What? Why? Even if I have a kid one day, which I won’t, I wouldn’t let her watch Dora because her head is too big for her body and she doesn’t even look like a real person.”
“When did you decide you’re not having kids? I’m so lost—”
“Dad, seriously. Be cool when Blythe comes over. She’s upset about her mom. And I don’t want her freaking out. This is a new friend.”
All of a sudden my bed is white and sparkly. And I’m so proud of myself. I throw all my shoes and clothes into my hamper—shove it in the closet. Everything. Boxes. Books. Everything goes in the closet. I stack two bowls with pretzel crumbs and three empty water glasses together and hand them to my father, pressing them against his chest.
“Please take these down for me.”
“What’s wrong with her mother?”
“Bipolar.”
“Oh.”
His face looks worried. I see the crease between his eyebrows.
“Everyone has problems, Dad.”
The doorbell rings. It’s Blythe.
“Dad?”
He looks around my room. “It looks great. Don’t worry. I’ll be cool.”
I stand at the middle of the steps watching my dad let Blythe in. I think even he’s surprised how together and pretty she is. Her hair tonight is all swung to the side, wavy. Shiny. She’s wearing a strategically washed-out sweatshirt and tight black jeans with holes in the knees. She gives my father the whole it’s so nice to meet you shtick. I wave my hands toward her, grab her hand, and lead her up the stairs.