Chapter 1 #2
After showering and finding an actual dress in my closet, I went to the kitchen, where Cody was meticulously measuring freshly ground coffee and adding it to his Chemex—which he traveled with, along with his scale and burr grinder.
Coffee wasn’t just coffee to Cody—it was science.
And a chance to prove he had superior taste to everyone.
I took a mug from the cabinet and served myself from my parents’ old-school drip coffeemaker.
Cody choked a little. When he recovered, he asked, “Why?”
“Because it’s ready. And I want coffee.”
“But this will be ready in three minutes.” He gestured to his Chemex. “This is a single-origin light roast.”
“Mmph,” I said as I drank my parents’ second-wave blend. “Don’t you have to wait for the bloom or something?”
“It bloomed.” Cody finished brewing his magical coffee and poured me a cup. “Here.”
“Wouldn’t that be wasteful? Since I already have this cup?”
“Just try it.”
I took a sip. “It’s okay.”
“ Okay ?! It’s Ethiopian Yirgacheffe longberry. One of the highest-quality beans you can get.”
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
Cody’s head was about to explode. “Try it again. What do you taste?”
I sipped it. “Coffee.”
“No.” He shook his head. “What flavors? What undertones?”
“... Dirt?”
He shook his head again, then tasted it himself. “Wildberry and lemongrass.”
“What even is a wildberry?”
“It’s a wildberry, Dee.” He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t know.
“Did you just read that on the bag?”
“No!”
I took the bag and read the tasting notes.
“‘Wildberry and lemongrass.’ Wow, you were remarkably accurate for someone who hasn’t read this.
” He set his jaw. I perused the rest of the bag.
“Huh. No type of fair trade certification. No Rainforest Alliance either. Even my parents’ coffee is USDA organic. ”
“There are so many different fair trade organizations now, how do you know which ones are legit? This is directly traded. The roaster guarantees a living wage. And it’s shade-grown.”
“That all sounds great. But direct trade is a marketing term. There’s no enforcement. So who verifies that it’s true?”
He busied himself with cleaning the Chemex to avoid answering.
“The company itself?” I asked. “Seems weird to just take their word for it.”
He took my mug of Yirgacheffe back and handed me my drip. “Enjoy your second-wave mediocrity.”
I took my mediocre coffee and grabbed a second cup for my dad. It’s not that I didn’t like coffee—I loved it. It’s that I didn’t like pretense. If I was making it myself? French Press. Dark roast. Organic. And fair trade.
My dad was in his study. He was simultaneously watching a basketball game, scrolling on his desktop, and listening to music. And they say my generation has no attention span. I handed him the coffee.
“Thanks, Dee. You turn in your international relations paper before you came here?”
“Still working on it.”
“You can’t afford a B. Without scholarships, you’re not going to law school.”
Hmm. Maybe that was the way out of it. Just... stop studying. Don’t get a scholarship.
“How are your applications going?” he asked. “You know you’ve already missed early decision.”
“You’re right. I do know.” I couldn’t have this conversation again. I needed a diversion. “So, just curious. Why do you have the TV, your computer, and music on at the same time?”
My dad muted the TV. Rhythm and blues wafted from his smart speakers. “Because I enjoy burning fossil fuels.”
“Seriously, Dad. Don’t you think this is a little wasteful?”
“Saving the world is your battle, Dee. Paying the mortgage is mine.”
I stood there for a moment. I hated how life had changed him.
But mostly, I hated how life had changed us.
We used to be on the same team. On his desk was a picture of six-year-old me taking a swing at a T-ball.
My pigtail braids were falling out of my blue batting helmet and onto my striped jersey.
My dad had been standing right behind me, coaching my swing.
He taught me to play baseball in the backyard when I was still a toddler, with a big red plastic bat and white foam ball.
“C’mon Slugger. We have half an hour before dark.”
“Mom said dinner.”
“Dinner can wait.”
“I have to finish some work before everyone arrives,” he said. “Why don’t you go talk to the dog about her carbon footprint? She’s been eating a lot of beef lately.” He unmuted the TV and turned to his computer. Conversation over.
I went to check on my mom in the kitchen. I could see by the stray hair in her face that she was in a state of chaos that needed to be handled with extreme care.
“The turkey isn’t even close to done and the house is a mess!” she wailed. “I’m never going to finish in time.”
I put my hands on her shoulders. “You’re a wonderful hostess, Mom.”
“You really think that?”
“I do. You’ve got this.”
She gave me a tiny smile.
“Now hand me that absolutely fabulous cheese platter.”
I headed to the living room with the cheese platter, which must’ve weighed ten pounds.
Through the window, I could see my Aunt Sarah and Uncle Stephen getting out of their new Porsche with their teenage daughter, Nicole.
They had parked in our driveway, blocking in my dad’s used Corolla.
I don’t think they realized it was his main (and only) car; they thought of it more as a golf cart.
We weren’t exactly in the same economic bracket as the rest of our family.
I went to the front door to wait for them.
Nicole was staring at the front of our house, confused.
My mom had hung wreaths even though we were Jewish.
(“Relax, Dee. Christmas is pretty .” “But it’s the birthday of Christ , Mom.
” “Who made you so literal? Your father?”) There were also white ‘ornamental’ lights on the eaves of our house.
They were Christmas lights, and everyone knew it, especially all our Christian neighbors who brought us nativity scenes to put in our front yard, just in case.
(“Just in case what , Mom? In case we decide we don’t want to go to hell? ” “Can you just relax , Dee?”)
“Dee, you look like you’ve gained weight!” said Sarah, coming through the front door in her leather fashion sneakers.
“I’m just a little bloated.”
“Your skin is so red. Have you thought of giving up gluten? That will help with the bloat.”
“I’ve actually been increasing my gluten consumption. Am I doing this wrong?”
“When you’re in LA for a longer period,” said Stephen, “you should see Cousin Ally. She does this whole stool analysis that identifies your food intolerances.”
“Can’t wait.”
Stephen handed me a tofu ham. “Are you going to be in LA next fall for law school? Maybe at USC?”
That was purely rhetorical. He knew my parents could never afford USC. Nicole snorted as she pushed past me into the house. “I hear DeVry has openings,” she said.
“What will you and Cody do if you get into different schools?” asked Sarah.
“Guess we’ll figure it out then,” I said, as brightly as possible.
I dropped the “ham” off in the kitchen and went straight to the empty living room; I needed a respite from all the questions.
I settled on the couch and poured myself a glass of sherry from the decanter resting on the table and wondered where Cody was.
Probably making an “UnThanksgiving” TikTok in my room.
Uncle Ben, an actuary with overzealous facial hair, entered the room.
He pushed past the pillows and sat in the middle of the couch.
“So, Dee, I hear you’re getting a sociology degree.
” He pronounced sociology like dog shit .
“What are you going to do for work? You know protesting isn’t a real job, right? ”
“It is, though.”
“Be serious,” he laughed. “What are you really going to do?”
I felt trapped. My family would never understand me.
I would never be able to convince them that what I was passionate about mattered.
Suddenly, a better path than arguing occurred to me: double down.
If they were going to give me a hard time about my future, I could give them a more exciting reason. It didn’t even have to be true!
“I’m going to join the Peace Corps in Kiribati.”
“What?” He glowered. “Never heard of it. Is that a real country?”
“Sure is.” I gulped the sherry. Family functions were more bearable when you were plastered.
“To do what?”
“To save... endangered sea turtles.” Were sea turtles endangered in Kiribati? Surely some of them must be, the world was basically on fire now.
Gossipy Aunt Jackie, wife of Doctor Ralph, sat down on the couch next to me. “Hi, sweetie! How’s school?”
“Never better.”
“What are you doing after graduation?”
“She’s going to join the Peace Corps.” Ben’s voice boomed with disapproval. “In Kubati. Kosovo. Keurig?”
“ Kiribati .”
“Really?” asked Jackie, excited by the promise of drama. “Where is that? It sounds far.”
“Oh, it is,” I said.
“If you’re going to do the Peace Corps, why don’t you go to Monaco or something?” she asked.
Ben sneered at Jackie. “Monaco is a rich country. They don’t have the Peace Corps.”
I hemmed. “Actually, they do.”
“ Why ?” asked Ben.
“No one knows.”
“Wow, I would go to Monaco, maybe you could meet a rich husband,” said Jackie. She snuggled up to me, all confidential-like. “What about Uncle Aaron’s firm? You’re not going to work there? No law school?”
“Nope.”
“Do your parents know?”
“Food’s ready!” said my mom from the hallway, rescuing me from Jackie and Ben. Gratefully, I headed into the dining room. I had no intention of my Peace Corps fantasy going past the hors d’oeuvres. I may have been unhappy, but I wasn’t stupid.
I sat next to Cody and unfolded my napkin. Dad was in the kitchen grabbing a beer, and my little improv act might have gone unnoticed if not for chatterbox Jackie.
“I think it’s great you’re supporting Dee’s plan to go to Corgi,” said Jackie to my mother, while they were getting seated around the dining room table.