Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(9)

“Fine.” Cathy crosses her arms tightly across her chest. “Can I be excused then?”

“No, you cannot.” Dad lowers his gaze at her. “You’re a vegetarian now, okay, fine. Potatoes, spinach, corn. Last I heard, those were all vegetables. And just a little factoid for you: there is no substantial proof that being a vegetarian prolongs a person’s life span.”

My shoulders start to shake as I try to hold back my laughter.

Cathy stares lasers at me, then angrily slings a spoonful of creamed spinach onto her plate with a wet splat.

We eat in uncomfortable silence until Mom makes a loud slurping sound with her straw as she attempts to get the last of her vanilla shake from the bottom of her glass.

“Heaven,” she says, slapping her cup down on the table. “Shakes should be illegal. Or at least there should be a hefty fine. They’re just too good. I can’t believe I’ve denied myself for so many years.” She forces a smile. “So, what’s the latest and greatest? Who wants to share? Sean?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. School starts tomorrow. Not looking forward to that.”

Mom looks at me sideways. “Anything . . . else?”

“Uh, no. Not that I can think of. Why?”

Mom’s eyes slide to the side. “No reason. I just thought, you know . . . maybe there were some other things you might want to talk about. You know. Other things.”

Oh, Christ. Here we go again with the gay thing. There’s no way I’m taking this bait. “Sorry. No other things to discuss.” I lift my utensils and resume slicing up my food.

“Okay.” Dad gestures toward Cathy. “How about you, Cath? What’s the news?”

“I just announced I’m a vegetarian. That’s not interesting enough for you?”

“All right, you two want to be stingy?” Mom shakes her head. “That’s fine. Don’t share your lives with us. We’re only your parents. The people who gave you life. Why should we know anything about anything that’s going on with you?”

Mom looks at Dad across the table.

Their eyes meet, and he gives her a little nod and a small smile. Some sort of silent answer to a psychic question she’s just asked him.

“Well, then,” Mom says, “your father and I will start the ball rolling with some news of our own.”

I put my silverware down, eyeing my roast beef suspiciously. Suddenly the food seems like a trap or a bribe.

“Something very exciting has happened,” Mom continues. “Something that’s going to have an enormous impact on all of our lives. For the rest of our lives.”





“YOU’RE WHAT?” Cathy says, blinking furiously.

“But . . . how?” My voice sounds a thousand miles away.

I realize that Mom has just told us she’s going to have a baby but my brain seems unable to fully process it. Like a computer with too little RAM and too many open programs.

And so I sit here at the table, my hands tucked under my legs, my feet resting on the warm furry body of our chocolate Lab, Bronson, and the spinning beach ball of death rotating uselessly in my mind.

“I don’t get it,” Cathy says. “I thought you were fixed.”

“I had a tubal ligation, yes,” Mom explains. “But sometimes — it’s rare — but apparently, according to Dr. Halpern, your tubes can grow back together. What can I say? All that running and vitamins and healthy eating for so many years. I guess I’m a strong healer.” She shrugs. “That’s why we only just figured it out. Your father put it together after I started having my cheesy-creamy food cravings. So, anyway, it looks like I’m around five months.” She grabs her rounding belly. “And here I was thinking I was just giving your father a bit more of me to love.”

“So, wait.” Cathy screws up her face. “Are you telling us that you guys . . . still do it?”

Mom laughs. “Uh, yes, Cathy. As difficult as that is for you to believe, your father and I have a very vigorous, active, and healthy sex life.”

“Eww,” I blurt. And just like that, my brain has been smacked back into functioning again, offering up a seriously disturbing image of my pasty parents rolling around in the nude.

“That’s totally gross.” Cathy shudders.

I rub at my eyes, trying to lock this image away in the never-to-be-thought-of-again file of my mind — right alongside Ms. Luntz on the nude beach and the foot-long snot rope Coop stretched from his nose in third grade.

Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t want to cooperate and so I need to change the subject.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” I say, the idea of a sweet little pink-or-blue-bundled baby thankfully trumping the freak show of my parents’ sweaty bedroom antics.

“Not yet,” Mom says. “But I’m scheduled for an ultrasound in a few weeks. We should know after that what color we’re going to have to paint the bedroom. Although we’re thinking of leaving it as a surprise and maybe just painting the room green or yellow.”

And with that, a terrible realization hits me.

We only have three bedrooms in our house. Mom and Dad’s. Cathy’s. And mine.

“The baby’s going to sleep in your room, right?” I say.

“Well.” Dad steeples his fingers and takes a deep breath. “That’s the other thing we need to discuss with you.”