“So did we!” my dad says. “The rights sold, but nothing happened with them.”
“Knowing Hollywood, they probably would have whitewashed it anyway,” my mom says. “Turned Riley Rodriguez into Riley Johnson or something like that, and made the Hanukkah books revolve around Christmas.”
Neil shudders. “I actually brought a couple books with me, if you don’t mind…”
“Of course we don’t mind!” my dad says. I swear he already has a signing pen ready. “Is Neil E-A or E-I?”
He gives them the correct spelling, and they swoop their signatures over the title page.
Neil reads it over and over, lips forming the words. He looks like he might faint. “Could you make the other one out to my sister, Natalie?” he asks, and they oblige. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
All these years, I’ve been waging war against a Riley Rodriguez superfan. I can’t deny that it’s a little endearing.
&nb
sp; “Anytime, Neil,” my mom says. “If you want to come over later this summer, we can show you some drafts of sketches for our next picture book.”
“That would be amazing,” he says, and I swear he sits up straighter, seeming to gain more confidence. “You know what other kinds of books I love? Romance novels.”
And then he shovels more salad into his mouth, all casual.
Pardon me while I reattach the lower half of my jaw.
My mom lifts her eyebrows. “Huh,” she says in this perplexed tone. “Is that so?”
“You and Rowan have that in common,” my dad says. “I guess they’re not just for bored housewives anymore.” He places an emphasis on “bored housewives,” as though it’s not a phrase he likes, necessarily, but couldn’t come up with a better one. Dad, your misogyny is showing.
“And not just for women, either,” Neil says, after a pause that maybe indicates he was bothered by my dad’s comment too. “Though they center women’s experiences in a way little other media does.”
His voice is solid, steady. There’s no hint of sarcasm there, and I’m no longer convinced he’s teasing me. When his eyes meet mine, one edge of his mouth pulls up into a smile that’s more reassuring than conspiratorial. Almost like he’s trying to help my parents understand this thing that I love.
But that’s bananas.
“Well, I don’t know if that’s necessarily true,” my dad says, and rattles off the names of a few Netflix shows because, of course, three recent examples are incontrovertible proof that an entire art form isn’t still majorly skewed toward the male gaze.
What would they say if I told them right now? If I said when I take creative writing classes at Emerson, it’s because I want to write the kind of books they think are worthless? Would they try to change my mind, or would they learn to accept it? Part of me is hopeful they’d understand if I wanted to semi-follow in their footsteps, but I want a guarantee their reaction won’t flatten me.
My lungs are too tight, and suddenly there’s not enough air in here. In one swift movement, I get to my feet.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say before escaping into the kitchen.
* * *
I revel in my solitude for a few minutes, trying to figure out how this day went from Neil McNair winning valedictorian to defending romance novels to my parents. The laughter from the dining room is dimmed, but I can still hear it.
“Rowan?” My mom’s voice.
I turn from where I’ve been staring out the window at our backyard. My mom whips off her glasses, wipes the lenses on her sweater. Her hair is in the same kind of bun as mine, though hers looks professional-author sloppy somehow. It’s probably the pair of pencils sticking out of it.
“This can’t be the same boy you’ve been competing with for four years,” she says, motioning to the dining room. “Because he’s very nice. Very polite.”
“Same boy.” I lean against the kitchen counter. “And he is. Shockingly so.”
She gives me a warm smile and cups my shoulder. “Rowan Luisa Roth. Are you sure you’re doing okay? I know this last day must have been rough.”
Rowan Luisa. My middle name belonged to her father’s mother, a grandmother who lived and died in Mexico before I was born.
I only notice my mother’s accent on occasion, when she pronounces certain words or when she gets a paper cut or stubs a toe, mutters “Dios mío” so fast, I used to think it was all one word. When she’s reading aloud to herself—instructions, a recipe, counting—she does it in Spanish. Once I pointed it out to her, just because I thought it was interesting and I love hearing my mom speak Spanish. She wasn’t even aware of it, and I was so worried that now that she knew she was doing it, she’d stop. Fortunately, she never did.