BAD REP(106)

My dad looked at Jordan's hand, outstretched in front of him.  Then he looked up at my boyfriend.  I saw my father taking in the eyebrow ring and the buzzed head.  The leather jacket and motorcycle helmet and realizing his daughter was dating every single thing he hated.

But manners won out and my father shook Jordan's hand.  Jordan turned his attention to my mother, who was still reeling from the shock that this was her Maysie's boyfriend.  Jordan gave me a troubled look before sliding into the booth beside me.

He rested his hand on my thigh and gave me a comforting squeeze.  It was all going to be okay.  Jordan was here.

Things were awkward.  We put in our orders with the waitress and got our drinks.  I waited on pins and needles, wondering when my dad would start grilling Jordan.  I could tell Jordan was uncomfortable but he was trying really hard to carry a conversation with my parents.  And I loved him for his efforts.

“So, Jordan.  What are you studying in school?” my dad asked, taking a long drink of his water while watching him over the rim of his glass.  The rest of us were just starting to dig into the food that had just arrived.  I was poised to take a bite of my chicken Caesar salad, but immediately lost my appetite when I realized the interrogation had commenced.

Jordan took a bite of his burger and wiped his mouth.  “Accounting, sir,” he replied.  His answer seemed to shock the hell out of my dad.  His eyes widened marginally.

“Accounting.  Really?  That's a respectable career path,” my father acknowledged grudgingly.

Ha, take that Dad! I wanted to shout.  That's what you get for making your hateful assumptions.  I tried not to smirk.  “Yeah, my dad has his own accounting firm up near the city and he'd really like me to come on as a partner after I graduate.”  My dad was even more impressed by this.  But I could hear the mostly concealed wistfulness in Jordan's voice.

“That sounds wonderful, doesn't it Dan?  It's nice to see Maysie spending time with someone who has such wonderful life goals,” my mother piped in, seeming relieved that this tatted up bad boy was actually a worthwhile human being.  As though becoming an accountant made you a productive member of society or something.

I started to relax, thinking this wouldn't be so bad when Jordan spoke again.  “But what I'd really like to do is play music,” he said.  My dad, who was actually looking...not happy, but something less than brutally disappointed, frowned.

“Play music?  Whatever for?” he scoffed as though that were the most ridiculous notion he had ever heard.  My mom gave a nervous giggle.  Jordan stiffened a bit and I gripped his hand under the table, trying to tell him through my fingers to give it up.  This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with my dad.  Not when things were actually going kind of well.

“I play drums in a band and I love it.  I think it would be fantastic to do that for a living.  To devote my time to something I'm passionate about, not just crunching numbers to help rich people get richer,” Jordan said.

And there it was again.  My dad's disapproval.  Oh how I missed you.

“Well, the likelihood of making any sort of living as a musician is highly unlikely.  And what kind of life does that build for you and your future family?  What kind of person willingly brings their children into contact with drugs and sex?” my father spat out.  God, he sounded like an idiot.  An ignorant idiot at that.

Jordan started dragging his tongue ring across his bottom teeth.  He was pissed but trying really hard to rein it in.  I closed my eyes, wishing I was somewhere else.  “You know, Jordan's mom runs her own chocolate shop.  Mom, you love chocolate.  Isn't that cool?” I broke in desperately.  My dad and Jordan were engaged in some weird macho stare off and I had to stop this before it got really bad.

My mom was equally as nervous so she made a show of being impressed with Mrs. Levitt's shop.  She asked Jordan a million questions about the types of chocolates his mother imported.  Jordan answered every question patiently and respectfully.

“What time do we have to be at that sorority of yours?” my father asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.  God, would he ever stop?

“Uh, 6:00, I think,” I told him.  My father clicked his tongue.

“I'm not sure why you bother with all of that sorority nonsense.  The Greek system is a ridiculous waste of time, wouldn't you agree, Jordan?”  My father directed his question at my silent boyfriend.  This was a test.  And from his set jaw, I knew Jordan was about to fail miserably.