By the time I get home, dinner is ready. The beginning of the meal is the clink of forks and scrape of knives on plates. My parents are clearly in the middle of a “discussion.”
Mom is the first to speak. “How was school?” she asks me as she cuts her chicken too hard. “We missed seeing Jesse today.”
“Yeah, I had to stay after to do some work. He went home.”
Dad stabs his peas with his fork.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Mom wipes her mouth too hard with her napkin. “Yup.”
Mom clears her throat. “What did you stay to work on?”
“Actually,” I say, reaching for the paper with the detail of the record attempt in my pocket.
“Are you having trouble in class? Do I need to talk with one of your teachers?” Mom is in full fix-it mode.
“How are your grades looking?” Dad asks.
I must be careful here. Lecturing is Dad’s coping mechanism. He’s probably hoping I failed a test so he can really let loose. If I haven’t though, there’s always his standby speeches on “Planning Ahead” and the “Value of Education.”
“Nope. None. No tests. I’m doing great in school.” Today’s detention pops into my head, but I ignore the thought and stuff a bite of chicken in my mouth.
Dad frowns. “You should take smaller bites. You’ll end up swallowing air and get indigestion. I read an article about it the other day.”
Yup. They are definitely fighting. And there’s only one way to end this quickly so I can talk to my parents about more important things.
I put my fork on my plate and scoot back from the table. I can’t see the box on the top of the fridge, but I know it lives there. I reach up, and my fingers find the smooth wood. I slide it off and take it back to the table, moving the dishes of food aside to make room.
“Which challenge do you choose?” I ask.
I remove the box’s lid.
“I don’t think this is necessary,” Dad says.
Mom leans forward. “Oh, I think it is.”
“You pick, Mom. Sticky notes, clothespins, or spoons?”
“I choose… clothespins. Whoever has the most clothespins on their face in three minutes wins.”
“Really? The clothespins?” Dad says. “You didn’t lose bad enough last time?”
“Ah, last time you had a beard. That gave you an unfair advantage. I want a rematch.”
I take the stopwatch out of the box. “Grab your supplies.”
Mom and Dad both slide their plates out of the way, though Dad sighs while he does it. They divide the clothespins between them. Mom reaches over to take three of Dad’s. “I’m going to need these. You won’t.”
I hover my thumb over the Start button on the timer. “As a reminder, the clothespins must be above your jawline. None of them can be clipped to your eyelids or ears. They must stay for five seconds or it doesn’t count. Ready?” I pause. Mom and Dad both lean forward and hover their hands over the table. “And… go!”
My parents snap the pins to their faces. We’ve all watched the video of Kevin Thackwell winning this challenge with 104 clothespins. Just like Kevin, Mom and Dad start across the jawline. They look like half-wooden lions. From there, they use different strategies. Mom clips hers on the ridge of her eyebrows. Dad makes a second row of a mane.
A pin pops off Dad’s face, and Mom says, “See? Not so easy without the beard to hold it, is it?”
I give my parents an extra thirty seconds. “And stop.”
They hold up their hands.
“You look ridiculous,” Mom says. When she laughs, two clothespins fall. “Those still count!”
Without moving his lips, Dad says, “I look like a winner.”
Mom beats Dad by four. Both their faces still have pinch marks.
Dad rubs his hand across his forehead like he’s trying to smooth it. “I concede defeat. But I also suspect you’ve been practicing.”
Mom winks at him. “Maybe I have, and maybe I haven’t.”
“Are y’all officially over your fight now?”
Mom waves my words away. “We weren’t fighting. We were having a spirited debate.”
“That’s right,” Dad agrees. “And, honey, what spirit would you say possessed you for the last hour?”
She glares at Dad. “Hush.”
Dad closes his eyes and holds out his arms. “Super-mean spirit, I demand you leave my wife and let her return to the reasonable lady I married.”
Mom swats at his hand.
He pulls his arms back. “Ouch. I see you’re still in there.”
The plates receive less abuse now. The goofy challenges always work. It’s hard to stay mad with clothespins or sticky notes or spoons on your face.
I picture my parents covered in sticky notes so I can be brave. “I need to talk to you both about something.”
Mom puts down her fork. Wrinkles appear between her eyebrows. “I knew something was wrong.”
“No, it’s not like that. I just… I found a record attempt. And I really, really want to do it.”
“That’s great, Milo!” Dad says. “Way to take initiative.”
“The thing is though, we’d have to leave tomorrow.”
Dad frowns. “We were supposed to go to Jesse’s cross-country race this weekend.”
“I know. And it feels like it’s rushed. It’s just—” My voice shakes. I picture the sticky notes on my face too. “I think it’s a sure thing. I need to break a record.”
“Why, Milo?” Mom puts her hand over mine.
“I just need a win. Please?” I hate the way my voice sounds. I point to the clothespins. “The attempts make everything better. You get that, right?”
“I do,” Mom says, and squeezes.
Dad sighs. “Majority wins. What and when and where?”
“St. Louis and this weekend. For Lucy the Skateboarding Cocker Spaniel. I even checked with the airports. We can fly if we don’t have time to drive.”
“I don’t know, Milo,” Dad says.
Mom and Dad look at each other from opposite sides of the table. I think they’re having a silent conversation like Jesse and I do. If I paid attention, I could probably translate, but I’m too busy crossing my fingers and waiting for an answer.
“Okay.” Dad rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “RSVP on the website and tell them we’re in. Let’s make this happen.”
Relief floods over me. “Thank you. I really do think this could be our win.”
“Silly, Milo,” Dad says. “A win is just how you define it.”