29

Dear Everett,

Thank you for the kind words in your last email. We may be mere pen pals, but that pep talk made my whole day. I was nervous about the sewing class, but it was actually . . . kind of great? Better than great, even. I made a functional pillowcase and no one told me it was terrible, so I consider that a victory. My friend and I ended up buying a sewing machine and we spent last night making more pillowcases, so many that our third roommate asked what we were planning on doing with all the pillows, so I guess it’s time to learn to make something else.

I spent so long thinking that making things wasn’t for me. Sure, I know how to cook some basics, but that was always utilitarian. I make something. Then I eat it. Sewing isn’t necessary for me. It’s probably cheaper to go to Target and buy a pillowcase than it is for me to make one, but it’s fun. Even more than that, my brain shuts off when I’m doing it. It’s like sewing puts me in a meditative trance, the way that real meditation doesn’t. I’m not great at it (clearly; I’ve made a few pillowcases, not my own wardrobe), but it’s fun. It’s been so long since I did something purely because it was enjoyable.

It actually does make me feel better to know that your life hasn’t been a straight line toward success. It’s easy to look at someone like you and think, “Well, Everett St. James has always known what he wanted to do and nothing has ever thrown him off course.” I bet you’re so glad you stayed home to see your sister grow up. She’s probably a wonderful young woman now, having you as an example/big brother.

At your request, I’ve included my Shaquille O’Neal portrait. Don’t laugh. I know I can’t see you through the computer screen, but I’ll be able to feel it if you do.

Wearing thimbles on my fingers,

Theodora

Theodora might have told him not to laugh, but Everett hadn’t signed a contract. As soon as he opened the attachment, his tiny chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh attack. Shaq, if you could call him that, stared back at him with uneven eyes and a grimace that was surely meant to be a smile. He looked absolutely nothing like the famous basketball player.

“Oh, my God, I love this woman,” he muttered, wiping a tear off his face. Then, even though he was in his apartment alone, he corrected himself. “I mean, I don’t know her. The ‘love’ was hyperbolic. I think she’s wonderful and hilarious.”

He wondered, not for the first time, what Theodora looked like. With such an old-fashioned name, he imagined her with big curly hair and sunglasses that took up half her face, like a seventies singer-songwriter. But when he really tried to imagine her face, he couldn’t see anything. She was a blank, a blinking cursor in his mind. He spent so much time wondering about her, and he didn’t even know what color her eyes were.

Before he could stop himself, Everett typed out a quick email.

Theodora,

I’m going to print out this portrait of Shaq and hang it on my studio wall. I love him.

Should we meet?

Hopefully,

Everett St. James

Then he looked at the time—shit. He was supposed to be at his parents’ place ten minutes ago, and it was pasta night. Gretel was going to be pissed if the gnocchi got cold on his account.

---

—

GRETEL OPENED THE door before Everett had gotten all the way up the stairs; clearly she’d been watching out the window.

“The start time of the meal is the time we’re supposed to eat. It isn’t a suggestion,” she said, closing the door after he walked in.

“Gretel.” Everett’s mom walked into the foyer and swatted her with a dish towel. “Give Everett a break. He’s working hard.”

“So are you and Dad. So am I. And yet we manage to make it to the table on time,” Gretel said, then walked toward the kitchen.

“She’s really something else,” Everett’s mom said, holding out her cheek for a kiss.

Everett leaned in and kissed her, then gave her a hug. “She’s right, though. I shouldn’t be late. I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine,” his mother said, pulling away and looking up at him. “You gave your father a chance to have a Manhattan and tell Gretel more stories from his childhood.”

“Oh, her favorite topic,” Everett said with a smile.

“She might roll her eyes, but I think she secretly loves it.”

He walked into the kitchen and his dad, as always, roared, “Everett!” as if Everett were returning from war, not coming over at least once a week like he always did.

“Hi, Dad,” Everett said, sitting down at his usual seat. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Not a problem,” his dad said, waving him off. “It gave me more time to talk to my favorite daughter.”

Gretel turned to Everett. “Did you know that Dad once met Keith Richards at a gas station? Or at least a man who looked like Keith Richards?”

Everett arranged his facial features into an expression of shock. “No! I had no idea! He certainly hasn’t told us about this one billion times!”

“Okay, okay.” Their dad groaned. “Let an old man remember the good times.”

“Like when you saw a random dude in a leather jacket buying a six-pack at a gas station. Golden memories,” Everett said, accepting the bowl his mom passed to him.

“Oh, your mother helped out with dinner tonight!” their dad said, then gave them a stern look that clearly communicated so be nice about it, even if it’s inedible.

“Garlic knots!” Everett’s mother said proudly. “But I think there was something wrong with the yeast. The dough was supposed to double and, well . . . it didn’t.”

Everett took one from the towel-lined basket, and it fell onto his plate with a clatter. “I’m sure they’re great.”

Gretel took one gingerly. “Can’t wait to try it, Mom.”

“So, Everett,” his dad said, taking five garlic knots and passing the basket back to his wife, “how’s work?”

Everett felt his eyes light up. “Big news, actually. Do you guys know the Imagination Network?”

“You mean the company you’ve been obsessed with forever?” Gretel asked. “Yeah. We’ve heard of them.”

“What do you know about forever? You’re twelve,” Everett said, then continued. “Anyway, we had a meeting with them this week. They came here from New York, and they’re . . . well, they’re interested in the show.”

“Of course they are!” his mom said, beaming.

“They’d be lucky to have your show,” his dad said.

Gretel, though, stared at him. Everett stared back. “What?” he asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Does that mean you’d have to move to New York?” she asked, her voice sounding more like a typical child than a twelve-year-old-going-on-forty.

“Well, yeah, I guess,” Everett said. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but that’s where their studios are, so . . . yeah, I’d move to New York.”

“Hmm,” Gretel said, concentrating on her food. “The gnocchi is great.” And then, quickly, “Oh, and so are the garlic knots.”

Everett picked one up and took a bite. Well, attempted to take a bite. The toughness of the knots required a bit of gnawing.

“Delicious,” Everett’s dad said with a full mouth.

His mom sighed, then smiled. “You’re all a bunch of liars.”

They sat in silence, chewing heavily.

“Terrible liars,” she said. “These things are garbage.”

His dad started to laugh, and Everett started to laugh, and then even Gretel started to laugh.

“Mom, they’re terrible,” Everett said. “But we love you.”

“Thank you for being honest,” she said, and then she started laughing, too.

After dinner, Everett helped his dad clean up and then said goodbye to his mom, who was reading in her favorite armchair by the fireplace. It was, like everything else in their home, slightly rumpled and almost obscenely cozy. She had a tattered quilt that used to be her mother’s slung over her lap, and Sassafras sat on her feet, licking a paw.

“Where did Gretel go? I haven’t told her bye,” Everett said.

His mom slipped a bookmark into her book. “Hmm . . . not sure. She said something about doing her homework, but you know that usually takes her about five minutes.”

“Right. I’ll go find her. Love you.” He leaned forward to kiss his mom on her cheek and walked into the foyer. He was about to go upstairs when he heard a strange sound. He stood still for a moment and listened. Was it . . . sniffling?

Quietly, he walked toward the half bath and pushed open the door. Gretel was on the floor. “Go away,” she said brusquely through her tears.

“Gretel!” Everett said. “What’s wrong? Did you . . . hurt yourself?”

He tried to think of a time he’d seen Gretel cry. When she was a baby, of course. She had cried constantly because she resented not being in charge of her own life. She was basically born wanting to drive a car and open a bank account.

“Did you . . . read a sad book?” he asked gently.

“No!” she yelled, and then more quietly asked, “You’re not really going to leave, are you?”

“Well, yeah, I have to get home—”

“No, for your job. Are you really going to move to New York?” She looked up at him, eyes wet.

“Oh!” he said, then squatted down and hugged her. “Gretel, nothing will change if I move.”

“Except that everything will change,” she grumbled. “Can you come over once a week if you’re in another state?”

“Well, no . . .”

“Will you be able to come to my band concerts? I’m going to start playing the French horn next year.”

“Maybe Mom can hold up the phone and I can watch through FaceTime,” Everett suggested.

“FaceTime isn’t the same!” Gretel wailed, burying her face in his shoulder.

Everett exhaled. He hadn’t expected this. Obviously he knew that he and Gretel spent a lot of time together, had always spent a lot of time together since the day she was born, all pink and wrinkled and angry-looking. But he didn’t know she liked it. Most of the time, she acted annoyed with him, and he didn’t mind because being annoying was part of the older-brother contract.

But this . . . well, this was a surprise. Gretel wanted him around.

“Hey,” he said, “nothing’s decided yet. We’ve had one meeting, and I still have to go there and check out their offices. Let’s not worry about it, because it might not happen.”

Gretel wiped her eyes. “It’ll happen. Your show’s great, and everyone loves you.”

“Hold on,” Everett said, handing her a tissue. “Can you say that again? I want to record it.”

Gretel punched him in the arm. “I hate you.”

“Not what I heard,” Everett said, and they both stood up. “I promise you’ll be the first person I tell if I get any news about the show, and even if I do move—which isn’t guaranteed—we’ll work something out, okay? I’m not going to disappear.”

Gretel sighed, then shook herself off. “Pretend you never saw this.”

Everett smiled. “I’m never gonna forget. Come here. Hug.”

“Nooooo,” Gretel whined as Everett wrapped her in his huge arms. She was still so little—sometimes he forgot that. She was just a kid who wanted her family, like so many of the kids who wrote to him.

He knew he needed something more, something different, and moving the show to NYC and making it bigger and better would certainly be that. But could he leave all this? The coziness of his family’s house, the weekly dinner with his aging parents, and his little sister?

Right now, as he hugged Gretel and she tried not to start crying again, he didn’t really want to think about it.