“What do you think they were laughing about?” I ask.
“I really don’t know,” Mason says. “You’ve heard as much about what he’s actually being charged with as I have. He never really goes into specifics with that kind of stuff because he knows I’ll lecture him. It’s a strange world when I’m the responsible one in the family.”
“Seriously,” I tease.
“Chris has actually pulled some funny stuff over the years, if I’m honest,” Mason says, chuckling. “Like, when I was just about to turn eighteen, he decided I needed something to burn the day into my mind. So, he called up a local radio station and told them I had this rare genetic disease that made everything taste like a roast beef sandwich.”
“What?” I laugh.
“It was actually pretty great there for a little bit,” Mason says. “The radio station said something about it on the air, and before I knew it, people were sending me gift certificates to restaurants and coupons for free sauce and that kind of thing. I was a little pissed he’d given my address to the DJ, who apparently then blabbed it on the air, but I ate really well for a couple of months. So yeah, he made the call on my eighteenth birthday and just told me that my present was in the mail. I guess people thought if I just had the right kind of food, I’d be able to taste something else—I don’t know, it sounds pretty weird saying it out loud, but he’s always loved making a con look like a stupid prank.”
I try to imagine the way that conversation between Chris and the DJ must have gone down, but I can’t get past how biz
arre the story was to begin with. People do get what’s called dysgeusia, which is where a person’s sense of taste is altered, but I’ve never heard of anyone only ever tasting roast beef sandwiches.
Mason’s laughter, once boisterous is now quiet, reserved. It’s possible I’m focusing on the wrong part of the story.
“That’s funny,” I cover. “Did you get any coupons for places that serve roast beef sandwiches?” I ask.
“Almost exclusively,” Mason chuckles. “How did you know?”
“It seems like the only kind of restaurant that wouldn’t be hurt by doing that sort of thing,” I answer. “The worst thing you could say about a roast beef sandwich with such a peculiar form of dysgeusia is that it tastes like a roast beef sandwich. But say you got a coupon to an Italian restaurant and ordered cavatappi with marinara sauce and a red wine reduction and you say that tastes like roast beef, people would probably stop eating there.”
He’s laughing as we get to the car. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I forget just how much smarter than me you are.”
“I’m happy to remind you,” I tell him and smile, putting the key in the ignition. “What do you want to do now?” I ask.
“I’m still pretty beat from the gym,” he says. “Would you mind if we just relaxed with a movie or something?”
“Okay,” I tell him. “If you want, we can go to my place. Jana’s at work for the next little bit and my only class for the day got out before I came and got you. It doesn’t really matter to me, but it’s an option.”
“That sounds good to me,” he says. “I’m kind of glad to get out of the house for a while.”
We chat a little bit and the tensions of the last while are finally starting to ease. It’s hard to say what caused the change, but we’re talking and laughing in a way we really haven’t since Chris’s arrest.
We continue to enjoy each other’s company right until the moment we’re at my apartment and I’m opening the door to find two people I didn’t expect to see sitting on the couch.
I immediately close the door, but the jig is up.
“Darling?” that grating, affected voice comes wafting through the air just like that expensive perfume she may as well bathe in, and Mason’s looking at me not having any idea what’s about to happen.
“There are some things I need to talk to you about,” I tell him quietly as I hold the door closed just a few more seconds. “First, I’ve got to deal with this.”
“Who is that?” Mason asks in a whisper.
“That’s my mom,” I answer. “Excuse me,” I correct, “that is my mother. I promise I will explain everything, but for right now, I just need you to go to my room and wait for me for a little bit. I know this is weird, but—”
“We should probably open the door now,” Mason interrupts as someone, undoubtedly Jana, tries the knob and then knocks on the other side of the door.
“I’ll explain everything, okay?” I ask, hoping for some sort of reassurance. Maybe I can use it as armor against whatever humiliating position my parents have gotten themselves into this time.
Probably not.
“Okay,” he says easily... too easily. I may have overstated my enthusiasm about explaining whatever’s about to be explained to me.
I let go of the doorknob and the door comes open with Jana holding the other side of the knob.
“What was that about?” Jana asks.