CHAPTER 12

SCOTT SAT IN a puffy chair in his mom’s basement trying to look through a View-Master. He tried his good eye on the left side, but no action. Then he tried the right. It wasn’t working for him. He threw the View-Master on the floor, where it bounced and rolled next to a broken Nintendo Virtual Boy and a book of Magic Eye pictures. To occupy his time, he pulled out his phone and started scrolling, scrolling, scrolling like good ol’ Freddy Durst. He landed on a social media post from none other than Jonathan Poole announcing his and Chris’s rehearsal dinner the next night. Scott eyed the post and started to think, think, think like an evil Winnie the Pooh.

Yes, it was annoying that Yellow County Community College had bested Brown State in that particular swim meet, but his distaste for Jonathan went deeper. He blamed Jonathan for the incident. He had enjoyed attending the Yellow County Community Swim and Racquet Club growing up, but after the incident he could no longer go. Instead of blaming his mother, who had dictated that rule, or himself, for doing what he did, he blamed Jonathan. He was going to get Jonathan and Jonathan’s loved ones back. He smiled a sickly smirk.

A cloud covered the moon, a cat screeched, and somewhere, in the blackness of the night, a frog farted.

• • •

Jonathan and Chris had rented out Ben’s, the popular chili-dog joint downtown, for their rehearsal dinner. A sign out front read, Poole & Partee Rehearsal Dinner1. The 1 should have been an !. Guests began to arrive around the appointed hour. Of course, Roheed was there, Jonathan’s mom Tammy, Chris’s two dads Bill and Ted, local estate lawyer Kenneth Strangleman, Matt Hedge, and a few other swimmers on the YCCC swim team. Judas had arrived early and was already drunk and hitting on a waitress.

Charlie and Jill walked in together. Jill’s thumb and pointer finger loosely held onto Charlie’s pinky as they sort of held hands—but not really.

“Thanks for bringing me as your date,” Jill said, looking down at the floor.

“You think this is a date?”

Jill looked up questioningly but saw Charlie’s sly smile. She smiled back. Across the room, Roheed’s phone started buzzing. His phone was on vibrate, the only respectable way for a phone to be at such a function. It was Florence trying to FaceTime with him. He ran outside into the Washington, DC, dusk to take it.

“Florence!” he huffed. But when the image appeared on the screen it was just the inside of Florence’s pocket. Apparently she had butt-FaceTimed Roheed by accident. Roheed ended the connection and tried to FaceTime her back. No answer. He tried to call her again—no answer. But Florence’s voicemail message played. Her disembodied voice sang a close version of the Seinfeld song, “Believe it or not, Florence isn’t at home, please leave a message at the beep. I must be out, or I’d pick up the phone. Where could I be? Believe it or not, I’m not home.”

Roheed left a message. “Florence, hello, Florence? Are you there? You just butt-FaceTimed me.” He waited for her to pick up, to realize her mistake, so they could have a laugh about the miscommunication. No answer. No pardon from the governor.

Roheed was about to hang up, which wouldn’t feel nearly as satisfying as if he had an old-school phone with a receiver and a cord and everything so he could slam the earpiece down forcefully, but instead he saw red.

“You know what?” he fumed. “How appropriate that you butt-FaceTimed me because you’re being a big-time buttface. You should be here at Jonathan’s rehearsal dinner—with me. Not out gallivanting with a goofus like Alabaster Sixx. You should tell that goofus to hoof it and gallivant with a gallant like me. I’ll be here in Yellow County with my best friends. There will be other deejay gigs, but this is important. And furthermore . . .”

The voicemail lady cut in like an unwanted dance partner at a middle-school Sadie Hawkins. “If you are satisfied with your message, press one. If you would like to rerecord your message, press two.” Although satisfied was most certainly not the way that Roheed felt about his message, he pressed 1 and walked back into the restaurant.

The party guests sat at several long tables that had been pushed together to create the Voltron of tables (or Megazord, depending on your giant robot of choice). Drink cups and paper plates in red baskets and crumpled up napkins festooned the crinkled tablecloths. Jonathan and Chris sat at the head of the table, beaming; they were in their own little world together. Their party that evening was low-key, simple, easy. It felt like them to them. The night was almost over and it had gone off without a hitch and Jonathan was thinking about standing to say a few words and probably bid adieu to the folk gathered, when the sound of a metal spoon tinging against a glass quieted the roar of the guests’ conversations.

Tammy stood. Her eye makeup had been inexpertly done for the occasion. She looked a little unsteady, like she had been drinking, or maybe she was just that nervous. All the eyes in the room drifted to her faster than a neon-lit Nissan on the streets of Tokyo. Jonathan’s reflex was to stand and stop whatever was about to happen, but Chris put a firm hand on his thigh and squeezed. Jonathan relented and remained seated. He felt like Hayden Christensen in that movie where terrible things were happening all around him but he couldn’t move or speak properly—you know, Star Wars: II.

“Hello, I’m Tammy, Jonathan’s mother,” she began. Dead silence filled the room. “They say to start your speech with a joke, so here it goes—my ability to be a mother.” She smiled with her mouth but her eyes were full of sadness. Tyra Banks would call it the opposite of a “smize”—maybe a “frize” or a “frad.” Jonathan’s jaw dropped. Chris looked around nervously.

“Get it?” Tammy said to no one and everyone. “I was a joke of a mother to Jonathan. I make Mama June look like Gwyneth Paltrow. I make Dina Lohan look like Martha Stewart. If there were an Olympic event for being a bad mother, they wouldn’t even let me compete, because I’ve already given up my amateur status.”

A few awkward chuckles rippled through the crowd.

Tammy wasn’t done. “And now I just show up for his wedding? I must have some nerve, right?” She paused. “Wrong. I’m a coward. That’s why I didn’t even reach out for the past couple of decades. That’s why it took Jonathan’s soon-to-be-wife tracking me down and convincing me to come, because I know what I did is unforgiveable. And as much as I wish that I had a hot tub time machine like in that movie—I forget what it’s called at the moment—I don’t have a hot tub time machine. Or even a regular time machine. Or even a regular hot tub. But, for what it’s worth . . .” She looked full on at Jonathan, who tried to avoid eye contact but couldn’t, “. . . I’m proud of the young man that you’ve become, son. You didn’t need me; in fact, you’ve done better without me. And the woman you’re going to marry tomorrow is a keeper.”

She turned her sad smile toward Chris for a moment, and then looked back to Jonathan. “And your dad would be proud.”

She sat. There was silence. Jonathan was dumbfounded.

Then a slow clap began, or what some thought was a slow clap at first. It was actually Roheed clapping Kenneth Strangleman on the back because he was choking on his chili-dog.