Next Door Hater (Love Under Lockdown)

The only thing that could possibly make it worse would be to have my dad there as well, showing old pictures and regaling the pair with hilarious tales from my checkered past. The time I took my collection of newspaper clippings from the local election in for show and tell, and my sparkling presentation on detachment as an escape from determinism in Camus’ The Stranger in grade 6, particular highlights. At least there was free coffee.

“So, Nate, what brings you home?”

“The colleges closed. I couldn’t think where else to go.”

“Oh, right,” Sara started.

I was used to it, my forthrightness tended to surprise people, I just couldn’t see the point in dancing around the truth, like Riverdance staged in a minefield, just to uphold a fictitious social contract.

“Do you miss basket weaving?” Elise asked.

“Oh, no, I was doing Modern Literature with a minor in Philosophy.”

The look on her face as was worth the initial discomfort. Not to mention the coffee, which was most definitely the gourmet stuff. Generally, I considered food little more than fuel, but for coffee I made an exception. It was almost as if Sara knew all my weaknesses and was trying to butter me up. If so, she was doing a pretty good job.

“Seriously?” Elise asked.

“Oh, yeah, want to see my transcript? I can get it online.”

“If you -”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sara cut in.

“What are you studying?” I asked, only half as a challenge.

“Victorian Literature.”

“You don’t say.”

“I just did.”

The silence was heavy as we eyed each across the table, like peace negotiation that had gone south. I could almost hear Peter Sellers shouting “you can’t fight in here; this is the war room!”

“Would anyone like some pie?” Sara asked, trying to cut through the ice with pastry, “I think there’s still some in the fridge.”

“I’m not hungry,” Elise said drily.

Sara clucked disapprovingly before getting up and getting the pie anyway. “She has trouble eating,” she told me conspiratorially, placing a slice of blueberry pie in front of her daughter, “it’s mostly due to stress. She seems to be doing better now. Puberty really hit her like a -”

“Mom!”

“What’s wrong honey?”

“Ixnay on the pubertay.”

“Sorry, dear, I don’t speak Spanish.”

For a brief moment, gone so fast I barely noticed it, I felt a pang of empathy for Elise. I knew what it was not to have a parent around, and for the one remaining to go way overboard.

A hurricane of conflict amassed off my coast, and I knew I had to vacate the area before disaster struck.

“I have to get back,” I said, jumping up like someone spilled ice water on my lap.

“Oh, so soon?” Sara implored.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, Dad needs me for, um, something.”

“I must insist you come for dinner tonight. You and Hank. It is so nice to have the families all together again.”

“I’ll ask him.”

I could feel Elise’s eye daggers as I beat a hasty retreat from the half duplex, breathing in deep gulps of air like I’d just outrun a bear.

Collecting my shattered equilibrium, I went back to our side of the building, doing my best not to run.

“So, how’d it go?”

“We’re invited to dinner.”

“Both of us?” Dad asked.

“Yeah, she was pretty clear, and I didn’t dare argue.”

“Did she use your full-name?”

“Yeah, from the get-go.”

“Very wise, son. Very wise.”

“We’re going, I guess.”

“Oh, absolutely. Dress nice and be polite.”

With those four little words, my fate was sealed. There was no point in objecting. Not with the full force of two parental powers behind the course of action. I might have been an adult according to the law, but there was no way I could take on that kind of strength. Walking like a condemned man led to the gallows, I went up to my room to see what I had that could be considered ‘nice.’

Chapter Seven - Elise

Fury bubbled but refused to burst. Mom had been through enough already. The last thing she needed was me going off on her. She just made me so angry sometimes. Particularly with her insistence that I try and find someone.

The usual excuse, that I was too young, was getting to be less effective all the time. In some centuries of the past, I would have been married and have had at least one child by the time I was 18. Things had changed considerably, and for the better, but it was something to consider.

She had gotten married young and was very happy, right up until the bat incident. All she really wanted was for me to be as happy as she had bee, which I appreciated. I just wasn’t ready for that kind of step, particularly not with a meathead like Nate.

He might be doing impressive classes, but that didn’t mean he was passing any of them, or that they were interests of his. He probably chose at random, which made it a bit worse than basket-weaving. Suppressing the burning ire, directed at Nate, not my mom, I finished my blueberry pie, which I actually did want, and went upstairs to regroup.