Seyoon and Dean, Unscripted

Chapter 1

HOW MY COMPLETE LACK OF A BACKBONE LANDED ME ON NATIONAL TV: A TRAGEDY IN TWO PARTS

DEAN

Most people have better things to do on a Friday night than rescue their sister from a first date at Applebee’s. I am not most people.

Meredith briefed me on the situation via panicked, typo-riddled texts begging me to bail her out.

Apparently, her date spent fifteen minutes complaining about their ex, only to be interrupted by a ping on their phone—which was a text from said ex.

So, like the kind twin brother I am, I agreed to brave the horrors of America’s most nauseating chain restaurant to save her.

In true white-suburban-town fashion, Applebee’s is the crown jewel of Auburn, Massachusetts.

Nearly half the population is packed into the maroon booths when I walk in, but it’s still easy to spot Meredith’s blond curls from across the restaurant.

I awkwardly sidle past the hostess, holding my breath so the greasy fumes don’t make me queasy.

I got food poisoning here a few years ago and haven’t been back since.

I can still see where I vomited, the stain apparently forever memorialized in the low-pile carpet.

I step over it and head to where Meredith’s seated in the middle of the restaurant.

Her date, a girl with freckles and short brown hair, stops talking when she notices me approaching. Meredith twists over her shoulder, relief visibly flitting across her hazel eyes. She feigns surprise.

“Dean!” she exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

I cringe as the nearby tables look over to see what the commotion is. I should’ve changed out of my sweatpants and ratty white shirt. To be fair, Meredith said it was an emergency. Heat singes my ears as a waitress peers over, curious.

“Er,” I say. I had come up with an elaborate excuse on the drive over, but with everyone’s attention on me, my brain short-circuits. So what I get out is “It’s Mom. She’s… dead.”

She’s not. Well, I don’t know. She hasn’t been in our lives for over a decade. A woman at the next booth gasps. Meredith’s eye twitches.

“Oh my God,” says her date, reaching across the table to lay her hand over Mare’s. “I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

“Yeah. That is awful.” Meredith glares at me. I wince.

She throws a few bills on the table, apologizes to her date, and then we hightail it out of there. I keep my eyes trained on the carpet—both to avoid stepping on suspicious stains and so I don’t have to see everyone staring at us. Being perceived is one of my least favorite pastimes.

Once in the car, Meredith punches me in the arm.

“Ow!” I swerve into a curb on our way out of the parking lot. We may have similar builds, but she’s the only one who got Dad’s strength. My strengths are more mental than physical. Except for tonight, when I demonstrated neither. “What was that for?”

“For saying our mom’s dead in front of a bunch of middle-aged ladies drinking Dollaritas.”

“The state of our mother’s well-being won’t ruin their dollar margaritas, I promise. I got you out of there, didn’t I?”

“My hero,” Meredith drawls. She slumps back in her seat with a groan. “That was, like, my fourth bad date in a row. Totally not worth sneaking out for. Maybe I should give up and start setting you up on dates instead.”

“You don’t even know what my type is.”

“Let me guess. Someone sweet and bubbly, with a pretty smile, and oh—bigger muscles than you?”

I glare at the road, saying nothing. Damnit. She does know my type.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Meredith hums.

“You better be. I’m missing Forest Feud reruns for this.”

She snorts. Either at my long-standing obsession with reality TV, or at the confirmation that I did, in fact, have nothing better to do than interrupt her date.

I peek over at her as she unfolds the sun visor and wipes something off her pale cheek.

On the outside, we’re nearly identical: same sharp features, matching dimples, even our laughs sound alike.

Somewhere along the way, though, Meredith blossomed into a social butterfly adored by everyone, while I grew into a quiet, nerdy book lover in the shape of her shadow.

But I don’t mind that she absorbed all the likability in the womb; I’d hate to have the kind of attention on me that she effortlessly attracts.

She’s still my best friend at the end of the day.

“Speaking of Forest Feud,” she says, making me perk up. “There was a commercial for it playing on the restaurant’s TV. Did you know that they’re rebooting the show? The new host is an old contestant. The guy who beat Dad, actually.”

My grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Um,” I say. “Yeah. I heard something about that.”

“I almost feel bad for Dad. Like, man, the guy who betrayed him twenty years ago is gonna host his favorite show of all time. That’s gotta hurt.” She clicks her tongue. “But that’s karma for grounding me for no reason.”

“I don’t think that karmic scale is very equivalent. Besides, didn’t he ground you for sneaking out? Again?”

“No, he grounded me because I said I’m moving to Oregon with you after graduation. The universe is punishing him justly for treating me like a flight risk.”

If he weren’t my dad, too, I’d think she was exaggerating, but she’s not.

Dad worries about her. And everything. All the time.

A trait I unfortunately inherited from him.

To say his parenting style is smothering would be phrasing it mildly.

It’s more like he’s simultaneously putting us in a stranglehold and suffocating us with a pillow… but with love.

“You shouldn’t push his buttons so much,” I murmur. “It’s what gets you in trouble.”

“Easy for you to say. He treats us totally different. Always has. I mean, Dad didn’t give you nearly as hard of a time when you said you were moving across the country next year.”

I want to argue that it’s because we’re moving for different reasons.

I’m still a junior, but I got an early scholarship to Reed College, so of course I have to go to Portland.

Meredith, however, wants to move to the big city for the comforts our small town lacks (i.e.

, a queer-friendly community and a hangout spot other than Applebee’s).

I want to tell her that’s why Dad is giving me more slack than her, but I can’t.

We both know that’s not really the truth.

Meredith sighs and goes on. “I know he breathes down your neck too. Which is why you should stand up to him. He’d listen to you.”

I’d rather pluck out my own eyeballs and learn to juggle with them.

I hum, noncommittal. The rest of the drive home is silent, but I can feel Meredith’s frustration roll off her in waves.

We park in our driveway, lit only by the brassy glow of a nearby streetlamp.

I remove the keys from the ignition, turning them over and over in my hand without getting out yet.

“It won’t be like this forever,” I say when I eventually find the words. “You won’t always have to sneak out of the house. Be stuck in this town. Dad will come around eventually and let you go, too.”

Meredith’s quiet makes me uneasy. It’s a wall in the space between our seats.

“No, he won’t,” she says.

“He will. He always—”

“No,” she interrupts harshly. I look at her. “Dad said he won’t help me. If I can’t pay for the move myself, I can’t go to Portland.”

My jaw falls. “What?”

Our family’s fortunate enough that we’ve never had to worry about the roof over our heads or if there’d be food on the table. My scholarship covers my expenses, but if they didn’t, I know Dad would help in a heartbeat. He’s good like that. So for him to not help Meredith—his favorite child?

Guilt churns my stomach. I was the one who wanted to leave Massachusetts first. Well, after Mom, that is.

I remember telling Dad about the scholarship, about Reed’s amazing literature program—and then breaking the news that it’s all the way in Portland.

His silence lingered a little too long before he said in a gentle, almost sad tone, “You really are like your mother.”

I have to take his word for it. Everything I know about her is filtered through him. Sometimes, when he tells me I remind him of her, I hear in his voice how much he misses her. I hear what he really means to say: “I’m going to miss you too.”

It’s clear Dad’s not angry at her for leaving. Just confused. I think he didn’t always understand her. Maybe it’s why she left. Maybe it’s why I want to leave too.

My throat tightens. It’s not my fault Dad treats me and Meredith differently, but I do feel guilty for leaving her no choice but to be the one who stays for him.

“Mare…” I start.

“Hey, what can you do?” She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Let’s go inside.”

We avoid the front door. Dad’s probably asleep in the living room, and I don’t want him to realize we’ve been gone, so I guide us around back where there’s a sliding-glass door that leads directly to my room. I slide the door open carefully.

Sitting there, on my bed, is Dad. My heart drops. Meredith and I lock terrified eyes with each other.

“I can explain,” I blurt.

“You better,” Dad says.

He stands, crosses the space between us—and then wraps me in a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

Through my confusion, I notice two things: One, he’s wearing his old, three-sizes-too-small Forest Feud camp shirt. And two, my laptop is open on the bed, with the life-changing email I received this morning still on the screen. My blood runs cold.

“What’s going on?” Meredith asks, looking between the two of us.

“Dean’s going to be on TV!” he exclaims, too giddy to remember she’s supposed to be grounded.

“You went through my email?” I wheeze.

Dad smiles sheepishly behind his thick, dark goatee. “I wasn’t trying to snoop again, I promise. I came to check on you because I thought it was strange you skipped out on TV night, and your laptop was open so…”