After-school detention is in the life science room. I’ve never been in here before today. There are five different stations, and each has a sink and a stove and counter space jutting out to the side. I slide out one of the barstools at the counter closest to the back where there are three computers. Apparently everything I need to know about how to serve my punishment is on a poster in the front of the room.
Welcome to DETENTION
• Sign in.
• No talking.
• You may not go to the bathroom.
• Don’t get detention again.
Today it’s just me and some kid I’ve never seen. He writes the whole time and doesn’t acknowledge me or the teacher at all. Overall, detention is boring but not too bad.
Jesse hangs out in the library to wait for me after school. “How was it?” he asks with wide eyes.
I side-eye him while we’re walking. “Fine.”
“You okay?”
“Jesse. It was detention, not torture.”
When we get to my house, I’m the one to ask if Jesse wants to play video games. There’s something about the possibility of being grounded from electronics that makes them feel new again.
We’re playing Xbox when Dad gets home.
“Hey, Pops,” Jesse says, without looking away from the TV screen.
Dad answers by robot-dancing badly. His button-down shirt untucks on one side.
I shake my head. “Please, stop.”
He responds by switching to the Macarena—but his version is more like him slapping his own shoulders and wiggling.
“Dad. That’s not how it goes. At all.”
Jesse laughs, so Dad keeps going.
“Pops, can I ask you some questions?” Jesse asks. “It’s for school.”
“Of course.” Dad stops. “Let me change, and then you can ask away.”
Jesse makes it to the last seven players before somebody snipes him from behind.
I start a new game.
“What do you want to ask my dad?” My player gets out in the first thirty seconds.
Jesse takes the controller from me. “I’m writing about him for the narrative.”
“What? You can’t do that.”
Jesse shrugs. “Mrs. Shafer said I could.”
“But he’s not your dad.”
“I know. I already wrote about him.”
“But I’m writing about my dad.” This could be true. I haven’t decided. “We can’t have the same paper.”
“It’ll be fine,” Jesse says.
Of course it will be fine for him now that he’s the golden child.
“I took the liberty of conducting a quick Guinness search,” Dad says as he walks back into the room in jeans and a T-shirt. “We can do a boring interview or there’s a couple of records we could go for. To break the existing world record, we’d only have to talk for over thirty hours, one minute, and forty-five seconds.”
“I need to interview you too,” I say.
“Great! Do you have”—Dad looks down at his phone—“forty-two more friends that want to come as well? Because the record for the most interviews in twelve hours is currently forty-three. We could definitely break that one.”
“Nah,” I say. Two is too many already.
“Okay.” Dad sits in one of the swivel chairs next to the couch. “I’m all yours.”
Jesse turns off the game. He doesn’t even offer to let me take over.
“Hold on.” Jesse gets up and rifles through his backpack next to the front door. He slides out a sheet of paper covered in his handwriting. “I wrote down some questions I wanted to ask.” He puts the paper on the side table and leans over to consult it. “So where did you grow up?”
“Let’s start from the beginning,” Dad says. “I was born in the middle of a snowstorm. In the mountains. On the side of the road.”
I roll my eyes. “You were born in Texas in July.”
“Do you want this to be true or interesting?”
Jesse laughs at Dad’s dumb joke.
“We’re actually not supposed to work on this together.” I stand up. “I’ll do my interview later.”
“You sure?” Jesse asks.
“Yup.”
I go to the kitchen and sit at the table to brainstorm my own list of questions. I can only think of stuff to ask that is either boring or that I already know.
I jot them down anyway: Where were you born? Where did you grow up? Where did you go to college?
I include the answers.
I’m pouring a glass of orange juice when I hear Mom in the living room too. She’s talking about the giant cake pan.
This is bad.
This means they are talking about world records. Like the record I lied to Jesse about.
I abandon the juice and rush into the living room.
“Hey, honey,” Mom says to me as I sit down on the couch.
I force a smile. “Why are you talking about the cake thing again? We all already know this story.”
“We were reminiscing about how we started the record breaking,” Dad says. “You’ve got to give the fans what they want. Now, where was I?” He looks up at the ceiling and scratches his chin.
Mom takes over. “So we were getting ready for your mom’s wedding, Jesse. And, when I was researching, I found a post about the largest wedding cake ever. Fifteen thousand thirty two pounds.”
“She talked about that record for weeks,” Dad says. “So I surprised her, and I spent the entire day in the garage making a huge poorly welded cake pan. When I gave it to Nina, she bought all the cake mix within a thirty-mile radius.”
Mom nods. “We mixed it all together—one bowl at a time and poured the batters into the giant pan. And then we realized there was no hope of getting it in the oven. It wouldn’t even fit through the door of the house. So we tried cooking it over a fire.”
“And, boys, do you know what we learned from that experience?” Dad pauses and then delivers the punchline. “That giant cakes in poorly welded pans do not cook well over a fire.”
“Do you think my parents would have used it if it worked?” Jesse asks. “The cake?” He puts his pencil tip to his paper like he’s going to write down an answer.
“Oh goodness, no. Allie used to be a bit high-strung before—” Mom shakes her head. “Well, before she realized there were more important things. She wanted everything perfect for the wedding.” She smiles softly. “And it was.”
“And the rest is history!” I add. “We all know what happens after that. Allie gets married. You try for more records.”
“Any more questions?” Dad asks.
“I think we’re done,” I say.
Jesse narrows his eyes. “Yeah. I guess I’m done.”
“Then I have a question for y’all.” Dad leans forward with a serious expression. “Did you know… if your feet smell and your nose runs, then you’re built upside down?”
“Dad. Your jokes. Please, stop.”
“I think they’re funny,” Jesse says.
Of course he does.