Scarlett Epstein Hates It Here(14)

“No. I mean, not that I know of. I just . . . something’s bound to be wrong with him, right? If he’s single at this age?”

“Not necessarily! You’re single at this age.”

Dawn glares at me.

“I mean, your age! Okay, sorry, you’re single at ‘an’ age.”

“That’s different. Single moms have a harder time.”

Inside, I wince with guilt. Like, she could’ve just named me Baggage Joan Epstein and then at least we’re all being honest.

“Well, I don’t know! Maybe you’re catching a break! I mean, finally, you know? You gotta climb up a mountain before you . . . I don’t know. Something!”

As she watches me, clinging to every positive word I say like a life raft, I desperately try to come up with a home run. She is a big fan of inspirational quotes, saying “morning affirmations” in the mirror and all that stuff. To my dismay, as I’m grasping for something, her face begins to squinch up again. There’s gotta be some beautiful, enlightening parable that’ll make her feel better.

I blurt, “Did you see on the news the other day, that lady in Cincinnati who found a chicken fetus in her McNugget?”

“What?” Dawn recoils. “Sweetie, ew.”

“Yeah, so, um, she ordered a six-piece McNugget, and she bit into one, and it made a weird noise, so she spit it out and saw that it was, like . . . a little unhatched chicken fetus. With, you know, breading or whatever.”

Dawn is incredibly grossed out. I’d better cut to the chase.

“So, like—maybe that lady got a defective McNugget that one time. Or maybe even, like, a few other times. Probably not, because, I mean, it’s unlikely, statistically speaking! But still so!”

I’m actually starting to work myself up with the disgusting pep talk at this point, but she still doesn’t look like she’s buying it. I soldier on.

“If that person really, really loved McNuggets, should a couple of chicken fetuses stop her from staying positive and getting right back into a McDonald’s and taking a chance on more McNuggets?” I ask passionately.

“It probably . . . um, should . . .” she says faintly.

“No! It should NOT!” I’m totally into this now.

Dawn looks perplexed. “I mean, do they keep going to the same McDonald’s? Because it seems like there are some major health violati—”

“Okay, I know, it’s not a perfect metaphor. My point is, a couple of chicken fetuses shouldn’t stop you from living your life! You see what I’m saying here?”

We both sit there sort of nodding encouragingly at each other for a couple of minutes like dashboard bobbleheads.

“I guess so.” She gains traction, her face brightening. “Yeah. I guess. I mean, right?”

“Totally!”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

“I mean, McYolo, you know?”

“Absolutely. No, you’re right. I just need to be positive.”

Satisfied that I’ve diffused the worst of this crisis, I snatch a Twizzler.

“What’s the guy’s name?” I ask, gnawing on it.

She smiles tentatively. “Brian.”

“What’s he do?”

“Accountant.”

“Has he called you yet?”

I have asked these questions so many times that I’ve developed a crisp and efficient delivery, like Mariska Hargitay on Law & Order SVU always asking the kid to point on the doll where the creepy uncle touched her.

“Yes. But I let it go to voice mail. I have to stay smart about it! I don’t want to seem like I like him too much,” Dawn says sagely. She is really into all those dating mind-game books: The Rules and Why Men Love Bitches and If You Do Something You Want to Do, You’ll Literally Ruin Everything.

I roll my eyes, like I usually do when she starts spewing this nonsense, and flick a Twizzler at her.

“Come on, who actually cares about that crap? That stupid ‘Who cares less?!’ death spiral is such a waste of time.”

Dawn shakes her head.

“Nope. I didn’t design it this way, but like I always tell you, the party with the least interest—”

“Has the most power,” I finish along with her. “God, you’ve only been saying that since I was a zygote. Whatever. Disagree.”

“I know it seems retro to you, but you’ll see the light real soon,” Dawn says confidently.

“I hope not,” I groan. “It’s so depressing.”

She unmutes Bridget Jones’s Diary right as Hugh Grant and his smirking face emerge from the elevator just as “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” starts playing.

Begrudgingly, I’m like, “Okay, that’s a really legit sound cue. Good job, movie.”

She smiles. Today’s emotional crisis is out of the red zone.

“But please, please promise me you’ll mute Colin Firth’s ‘just as you are’ speech.”

“I promise,” Dawn lies.

I finally escape to my room.



Dawn’s always been like this. Back in seventh grade, Avery had a slumber party. She, I, and a few other misfits from school that we had nothing else in common with got into sleeping bags in the Parkers’ freezing-cold basement and watched Mean Girls. When Regina George’s velour-tracksuited “not like a regular mom, I’m a cool mom” started handing out virgin daiquiris, I felt all six pairs of eyes swivel toward me, starting with Had Her Period on White Pants and Nobody Told Her Leslie and ending with Legitimately Mentally Slow Jenna.