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“Hi, I’m Kathleen.” John’s mom extended her hand to me. “I saw you at the tennis tournament but didn’t have the opportunity to introduce myself.” Was she saying that pointedly to John or me?
“I’m Julia.”
“Nice to officially meet you.” Kathleen didn’t sound at all psyched to meet me. I suddenly felt exhausted, surrounded by a whole new set of people I would have to perform for. The room felt close and overly warm, the small space filled with tall people. There was too much going on, and it might take more concentration than I had to appear normal. It was getting easier after the past months of being on all the time, but I had to be vigilant.
“Excuse me,” I said slowly. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”
John led me down the short hall to the guest bathroom. I was irrationally pissed that he’d roped me into this dinner. He knew it too.
When we were alone outside the bathroom door—within earshot of his parents and brother—he said, “I’m sorry. No one really says no to my dad.”
“Yeah. I kind of got that.”
Realizing how mad I was, John leaned in. “I’m sorry,” he breathed in my ear, and kissed the corner of my mouth.
“John!” Out of nowhere his mother was standing where she could see us. “Let her use the bathroom.”
John moved away from me, more slowly than I would have thought he would in his mother’s presence. He had a rebellious streak, and you could see he knew how to make his mother crazy. I pivoted quickly, closing the bathroom door behind me.
I had to get the hell out of there. I knew I’d feel better if I broke or moved something in their bathroom right now, but I was too scared to try. And it seemed impolite.
I took in the small powder room. In spite of the slightly peeling wallpaper and other fraying details I’d seen, the house was decorated nicely. Sort of the best of IKEA meets ethnic art brought home from travels. I hated the snob in my head. Hated it even as I couldn’t help but look at everything through the critical lens of someone who grew up in a house that would be featured in Architectural Digest if my family would allow it. Whatever—I wasn’t judging, just observing—and I vowed to keep anything resembling judgment off my face while I was here.
John’s mom didn’t like me. I’m sure she thought I was a snobby rich girl who was pretending to be something other than that with my tattoos and dyed-black hair—which, looking in the mirror just now, I realized actually wasn’t so black or severe anymore. And here I was leading her eldest down a bad path right at the precise moment he needed to stay focused.
Funnily enough, beginning last weekend, tennis had started to go well for John. It seemed like right when he quit trying, everything turned around. He had even accused me of messing with his matches after he destroyed some top-ranked players, but I assured him he had no one to blame but himself.
I studied myself in the round mirror. Who was this person? John was right—my lips were puffy, and on top of that, my incessantly growing hair was bigger than usual from the rain. I had less makeup on than I’d worn at the beginning of the school year, and I looked more like myself from two years ago, before the Lost Kids. I looked girlish and even pretty.
I took a rubber band off my wrist and pulled my hair back into a bun, feeling a little more in control and like I was headed into a match. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it well. I could hope I had maybe developed some of Novak’s charm overnight.
Outside in the hallway I paused to look at the hanging family photos, mostly snapshots, none of them artistic like the ones on the second floor of my house. In the baby pictures the boys were adorable, looking almost like twins—one was of them in a pumpkin patch, another was of them posing in the snow with a couple I assumed were their grandparents, an older Asian woman and a Caucasian man. There was one of a very young Taro and Kathleen, standing in front of zebras on a savannah. I could picture them having met at Teach For America or the Peace Corps.
“Do you even know what a douchebag is?” John’s mother was saying to Alex. “Because I want to make sure you know if you’re going to keep saying it. Sorry, Julia,” she said when she saw I’d walked back into the kitchen.
I tried not to smile. “Why don’t you sit there,” Kathleen said, and pointed next to where John was sitting, mortified. As soon as I sat down next to him, John moved his chair closer to mine. Seriously, John? I knew he was trying to irritate his mother, and it wasn’t funny.
As soon as I was seated, Taro put down his phone and meandered over from the kitchen to the table and stood behind his wife for a second. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent to kiss her cheek. Kathleen absentmindedly looked up at him, but then caught his hand and squeezed it when he walked by. She caught me staring.
It struck me how they seemed to live so easily together. I realized I had never seen a “normal” family interact before, except on TV.
All at once Alex started talking, and began a monologue about his coach that became funny because he was so clueless about how long he’d been talking. His parents just kept nodding and nodding until they started cracking up.
“Take a breath,” John said, not unkindly.
“Don’t forget to eat, babe,” their mom urged Alex, who held a piece of pizza in front of his face for the full two minutes he was talking.