Will Bardo taught Language Arts.
Will Bardo hailed from Indiana.
Will Bardo owned farm animals.
Will Bardo played Ultimate Frisbee.
Will Bardo was married.
Will Bardo’s wife was a knockout.
This last fact was brought to Milo’s attention by Noah, who had apparently looked up Gwen Bardo’s bio page on the Eden Prairie Cooperative Learning Center website and then sent this text: Check out WBs wife.
Milo tapped the link, and suddenly there was Gwen Bardo, holding a surfboard and wearing a wet suit. Her hair was slicked back and hung nearly to her waist. Her legs were long and tan. She was laughing.
There was only one word to text back: Whoa.
Ikr? Noah texted.
And Abby texted, Where does one surf in Minnesota?
And Hollis texted, One doesn’t.
And Noah texted, Missing the point.
And Abby texted, & the point is …
She looks like a supermodel, Milo texted.
And Hollis texted, Hello. She also has a brain.
It was true. According to Gwen Bardo’s bio, she had double-majored in earth sciences and chemistry at Dartmouth. She held a master’s in science from Trinity College in Dublin. Her field of interest was biodiversity and conservation.
Thank u, Hollis, Abby texted.
And Hollis texted, It’s not like looks and brains r mutually exclusive.
And Noah texted, WB hit the jackpot.
And Milo texted, Srsly.
If a man with Milo’s mushroom hair and crazy eyebrows could get a woman like that to marry him, there had to be hope. Gwen Bardo gave Milo hope.
When Will Bardo writes back, Milo thought, I will ask him how it happened.
* * *
When Will Bardo writes back.
It had been seven days and, so far, nothing. No letter. No email. Nada.
“Did the mail come yet?” Suzanne asked Milo on Friday afternoon.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“Anything interesting?” Frankie asked. Casually, as though she were wondering if the new National Geographic had arrived.
Milo shook his head.
* * *
Any word? Noah texted on Saturday afternoon.
Nope, Milo texted back.
Maybe he’s trapped under something heavy, Abby texted.
And Hollis texted, Maybe he’s too busy noodling on his sax to write back.
And Noah texted, Maybe a Nigerian dwarf goat ate his letter.
And Milo texted, Maybe he sent his letter by carrier pigeon.
Or by chicken.
Maybe his house caught fire and the letter burned.
Maybe he was abducted by aliens.
Maybe he’s in a witness protection program and has a whole new identity.
Maybe he doesn’t actually exist.
Maybe he’s a figment of our imagination.
Maybe none of us exist.
Maybe the moon is made of green cheese.
It all degenerated from there.
* * *
On Sunday night, JJ and his parents came for dinner. Milo didn’t know why Suzanne and Frankie had felt the need to invite them, but they had.
Roz and Abe Rabinowitz arrived at seven thirty sharp—she in tight leather pants and teetering heels, carrying a houseplant, he in a black T-shirt and jeans, carrying a bottle. JJ shuffled behind them, wearing a plaid shirt and a pained expression. He had to be a foot taller than both his parents. And about twenty shades blonder.
“Welcome, welcome,” Suzanne said. She was wearing a multicolored tunic that made her look like a tropical fish.
“Come in, come in,” Frankie said.
Why his moms were saying everything twice Milo couldn’t comprehend. Nor could he fathom why Frankie was wearing a gay pride sweatshirt—as though the fact that she and Suzanne were lesbians wasn’t obvious.
“We brought you a bamboo palm,” JJ’s mother said, holding out the plant. Her nails were long and painted purple.
“How lovely!” Suzanne exclaimed.
“And a Glenmorangie single malt,” JJ’s father said, holding out the bottle. He was completely bald. His scalp shone in the overhead light.
“You shouldn’t have,” Frankie said.
“It’s our pleasure.”
Could this be any more awkward? Milo wondered, as the six of them gathered around the coffee table for allergy-friendly, gluten-free appetizers. Cilantro chicken satay. Vietnamese salad rolls. Ham-wrapped asparagus.
“So,” Frankie said, helping herself to a satay. “I hear you both work in film. That must be exciting.”
Milo groaned inwardly, but JJ’s dad nodded and dipped a salad roll in soy-free duck sauce. “It is indeed.”
“Tell us what you’re working on,” Suzanne said, placing a bowl of olives on the table.
“Well.” Abe Rabinowitz cleared his throat. “About a year ago, a gem of a script fell into my lap…”
JJ’s dad talked about his gem of a script. Suzanne poured wine and ginger ale. They drank. They munched. Well, most of them munched. Roz Rabinowitz—screen name “Roz Rabin”—took one bite of asparagus before putting it down. The camera adds twenty pounds! Milo kept eating. He could use twenty pounds. JJ kept checking his watch. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Everyone moved to the butcher-block table. More movie talk. More drinks. More hypo-allergenic cuisine. Suzanne and Frankie had gone all out for this dinner. It felt good to be eating new things; it felt amazing. Letter? No letter? What did it matter? These stuffed peppers were the bomb. Milo could eat all night. Will Bardo could take his sweet time. The parents could talk about film noir and production budgets and digital cinematography until the cows came home. Milo was going to eat six of these bad boys.
“You know who would be a natural on screen?” Abe Rabinowitz boomed, hoisting his glass in the air. “Jonah. If he would ever listen to his father and give acting a shot.”
Milo looked over at JJ, who was looking blankly at his dad, as though to say, In your dreams. JJ’s mom squeezed JJ’s arm and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Look at this face. Can you believe this face?”
“Mom,” JJ whispered. “I’m eating.”
“He’s eating.” Roz Rabin smiled. Her teeth were a little purple from the wine. “Always eating, this one.”
“This one, too,” Frankie said, jutting her chin at Milo. “Bottomless pit.”
“When my brother and I were teenagers,” JJ’s dad said, “we used to eat a whole loaf of bread for breakfast. And a whole jar of peanut butter. Our mother would come downstairs and say, ‘Where’s all the food? I just went to the market.’”
The parents shared a chuckle. They were hitting it off.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” JJ said later.
The two of them were in Milo’s room while Abe and Roz and Frankie and Suzanne were having “digestifs” by the fire.
“What for?” Milo said.
“My parents.”
“What about them?”
JJ frowned. Happy JJ, golden-retriever JJ—frowning. “They’re so … I don’t know.”
“I thought they were pretty cool.”
JJ shook his head. “They just … don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Anything. Life outside the movie set. Me. We’re just … nothing alike.”
“And what—?” Milo said. “You think your biological parents would be different? You think they’d ‘get’ you more because they’re six-foot Swedes instead of five-foot Jews?”
“Maybe. Yeah.”
This sentiment wasn’t lost on Milo. He’d had similar thoughts for a long time, although his were less about genes and more about gender. Suzanne and Frankie don’t get me. My father would get me because he’s a guy. But how much could Will Bardo get him if he couldn’t even be bothered to write back? How much did Noah’s father get Noah? How much did Leigh get Hollis?
“None of them get us, dude,” Milo said to JJ. “They’re parents.”