19

Dear Everett,

At this point, I’m no longer Jazzercise-curious. I’m not a casual attendee; no, I’ve been to Jazzercise two more times, and you know what? I’m a convert. If getting a cardio and strength workout while the Maroon 5 song “Moves like Jagger” plays is wrong, then . . . well, maybe I don’t want to be right. And I’m sorry for getting that certified earworm stuck in your head.

As much as I’d love to encourage your enthusiasm in the world of Jazzercise, I do think your presence would make things a bit awkward. Mostly for me. I don’t look my best while performing a chassé, and I don’t want to be judged.

Thank you for your kind words about my breakup (I know it’s odd to refer to “I hope you drop-kick your shitty ex in the face” as kind words, but in this context, I think they were). I’m sorry to hear about your breakup. How long ago was it?

And for the record, I don’t think you’re a robot or someone who doesn’t know how to love. I’ve seen your show, after all. A robot couldn’t talk to children about their feelings that way.

Well, maybe a really advanced robot could, but let’s assume the technology isn’t there yet.

An update on my project: while I may not have kicked my ex in the face (gotta get through a few more classes before I’m strong enough), I did take a big step. I told him no when he asked me for something. The truth is, as much as I wanted to believe I was in a real relationship, I might have been more of a housekeeper/personal chef/human calendar than a girlfriend. Which is likely why I’m faced with the whole “I have no idea what I’m doing with my life even though I’m almost thirty” problem. Aren’t thirty-year-olds supposed to know what they’re doing?

At this point, I’m halfway considering training to become a Jazzercise instructor. I promise in my next email I won’t talk about Jazzercise at all.

Too jazzy for my own good,

Theodora

Everett found himself whistling—whistling!—as he walked down the sidewalk toward his parents’ house. He raised a hand in greeting at an elderly woman walking her dog, smiled at an openmouthed child who clearly recognized him, dodged a group of teenagers who couldn’t have cared less that he was attempting to walk around them. Theodora was right—he wasn’t a robot! Could a robot make a show for children about their feelings? No. It could not!

All of the porches were decorated with mums, pumpkins, and the occasional skull and/or oversized spider. It was fall, and soon it would be Halloween, and Everett felt good.

He walked up the stairs of his parents’ porch, past their own mums and pumpkins. It wasn’t unusual for him to show up unannounced; their house had kind of an open-door policy.

Fortunately or unfortunately, that open-door policy also extended to their students, who occasionally came over for help with essays, answers to questions about their assignments, or a quiet place to read when the library was crowded. Everett had become so used to this as a child that it was somewhat comforting to walk into the foyer and see a random early-twentysomething sitting in a ratty armchair.

The man looked up at Everett expectantly, and Everett found himself in the position of introducing himself to a stranger in his parents’ house.

“Hi, I’m Everett,” he said, holding out a hand. “Miranda and Dave’s son.”

The man’s face broke into a huge smile and he stood up, dropping his book on the floor. “Everett! I’m Rob. Oh, our class has heard so much about you!”

“All good things, I hope,” Everett said.

“Sometimes!” Rob said brightly.

Everett frowned. “Uh, do you know where my family is?”

“Miranda’s around here somewhere. Dave’s in the kitchen—it’s pancake night! And the little one . . .” He trailed off.

Everett stifled a smile.

“She’s sort of terrifying, you know?” Rob said, sitting back down. “I think she went to her room. I tried to ask her a question about Frozen and she . . .”

“Did she fix you with a withering glare?” Everett supplied.

Rob pointed at him. “Yes. That is exactly how I would describe it.”

“Sounds like Gretel. Nice to meet you,” Everett said as he headed up the wooden stairs, lined with a faded now-beige runner.

“See you at dinner!” Rob called.

Everett hadn’t been in Gretel’s room in ages (it was the kind of place you needed an invitation to get in, and he wasn’t on the list), but he climbed the second (dark, foreboding, creaky) set of stairs up to the turret.

He knocked on the door three times, then waited for a response.

Eventually, he heard Gretel’s voice. “Yes?” she asked skeptically. How a child could sound skeptical in one word and through a door, Everett didn’t know, but Gretel managed it.

“It’s me.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

He sighed. “It’s Everett. Your brother. You know, tall, good-looking, beautiful hair—”

The door swung open and Everett looked down to see Gretel’s bored expression. “Ugh. Stop.”

“So, uh, what’s going on?” Everett asked.

“Why are you in my room?” Gretel asked, eyes narrowed.

Everett tilted his head. “Technically I’m not in your room, because you haven’t invited me in yet. Kinda rude, frankly. Maybe Mom and Dad should send you to charm school.”

Gretel rolled her eyes and stepped back, allowing Everett to walk in. He let out a childlike “Whoa” as he took in his surroundings.

It was a small room and shaped like, well, a turret, but Gretel had packed it to the gills. Bookshelves took up half the wall under the windows, and they appeared to be stacked two books deep. Twinkle lights hung from the ceiling, shining in the dusk. Glow-in-the-dark stars were stuck on the ceiling, a detail so mundane that Everett could almost pretend his sister was any other twelve-year-old. Her bed, of course, was neatly made, and he could see the indent of where she’d been sitting, right next to a stack of books.

“Wow,” he said, turning around to take everything in. “It looks . . . different than it did the last time I was in here.”

“You mean when I was a toddler?” Gretel asked dryly, sitting back down on the bed. “Yes, there’s no longer a changing table.”

Everett shook his head while looking at her. “They grow up and learn how to control their own bladders so fast.”

Gretel wrinkled her nose. “Did you come up here to talk to me about childhood incontinence?”

“No, actually,” Everett said, bending down to look at the bookshelf. Classics. Essay collections. Poetry. He could feel Gretel cringe as he pulled out a book. “I’m putting it back carefully.” He looked at her as he slid the book back onto the shelf.

“Ev!” she shrieked, jumping off the bed. “You’re not even looking at what you’re doing. These are alphabetized.”

She grabbed the book, and he put his hands in the air. “Sorry. Wow. Didn’t realize you had a system.”

“Everybody has a system,” she huffed, her arms crossed.

“Okay, well . . . have you heard of the Alice series? By, um . . .”

Everett started to pull his phone out of his pocket to look at Theodora’s email, but Gretel asked, “Phyllis Reynolds Naylor? Yes, I know it.”

Everett paused. “Really?”

“Mom gave me the whole series when I turned eight.”

Right. Of course their parents were behind Gretel reading young adult literature from the eighties and nineties.

“Why?” Gretel asked, confusion splashed across her small face. “Do you . . . want to read them?”

“Yes.” Everett nodded.

“Really?” Gretel asked, staring at him.

“Yes. An, uh . . . a friend of mine recommended them.”

Gretel narrowed her eyes. “Oooookay,” she said slowly. “The entirety of the series would be way too much for you to carry out of here, but”—she leaned over her bookshelf and pulled out a few—“here are the first six books.”

“Thanks!” Everett said, easily holding three slim, tattered paperbacks in each hand. With his head, he gestured toward the stack of books on her bed. “What are you reading?”

“Gene Luen Yang, Lynda Barry, and Jerry Craft. Graphic novel research,” she said, sitting back down on her creaky bed. At the first squeak, a black shape squeezed out from under the bed and rubbed against Everett’s leg.

“Sassafras!” Everett said, bending down to greet the cat with a pet. Sassafras purred in response, so he picked her up. Sassafras loved attention from Everett, a fact that annoyed Gretel to no end.

“You don’t even live here,” she said, pouting. “Why does she like you so much?”

Everett put Sassafras down, at which point she jumped on the bed. Gretel pet her possessively.

“Just the effect I have on the ladies, I guess.”

Gretel groaned.

“And on that note, I’m out of here.” Everett held up the books. “Thanks for these.”

“Hey!” Gretel called when he was halfway down the stairs. He turned to see her silhouetted in the doorway, still holding Sassafras.

“Yeah?” Everett asked.

“What girl are you trying to impress?”

Everett scoffed. “Who says I’m trying to impress a girl? Maybe I’m broadening my horizons.”

“Well, whoever she is,” Gretel called after him as he kept walking, “she has good taste.”

Everett smiled without looking back. As he started down the second staircase, he heard, “Not staying for dinner, man?”

He startled but thankfully stopped himself from tripping down the stairs. “Rob. Wow. I, uh . . . wasn’t expecting you to still be there.”

Rob looked back at him, not offering an explanation.

“No, I have to get home now. But thanks for the offer,” Everett said, before realizing he was thanking a stranger for inviting him to dinner at his own parents’ house.

“No problem,” Rob said with a smile. “I’ll let Miranda know you stopped by.”

Everett nodded. “Go ahead and do that.”

And then he walked onto the porch and shut the door. The night had turned cold, but in that pleasant early-fall way that people liked to describe as “crisp.” You could wear a jacket, but you didn’t need a hat. Couples walked down the street with their dogs, headed for Goodale Park, and parents trailed kids on scooters. As if to complete the picture, a single leaf twirled down from the sky and landed at Everett’s feet.

As he picked up the leaf and spun it around, a rogue feeling shocked him. Something he wasn’t sure he’d experienced ever, or at least not recently. He was struck with the sudden desire to share this moment with someone, to be one half of one of the couples walking down the street, to be holding on to both a hand and a leash, to point out his observations about this night to another human being, instead of saving them in his head with hopes of using them on some episode of the show that discussed seasons.

He shook his head and walked down the stone steps. These emails. They were doing things to him.