Again, But Better

23. Thunderbolt and Lightning
Is this a nightmare? Am I asleep? I walk slack-jawed toward the door
and open it. My parents spill into the kitchen. My parents are in our
kitchen. My feet glue themselves to this spot on the floor. Mom’s in a
stylish black jacket, her hair a blaze of bronze waves around her face.
Dad’s in slacks and a button-up shirt, dark hair slicked back.
“Hi, sweetheart!” He sweeps me into a hug.
When he releases me, Mom swoops in. “Shane, surprise!”
I say nothing. Have I lost the ability to speak? Mom pulls away. I
glance about the room. My flatmates and Amy watch us, unsure of what
to do with themselves. Pilot and I make eye contact for a second, and I
watch as understanding dawns in his expression.
A nauseating panic courses through my veins. 
This is too much right
now. This is too much.
“Shane, who is everyone? Aren’t you gonna introduce us?” Dad
throws up a hand and gestures around the room.
I swallow hard, vocal cords jolting to life at his command. “I, um,
um, yeah, um, that’s um…” I glance over at the couch. “These are my
parents.” I gesture to my mom and dad.
“Hey!” my father’s voice booms.
“Nice to meet you all,” adds my mother pleasantly.
“This is Atticus, and Babe … and…” I swivel to face Pilot and his
girlfriend. 
Dear lord
. “This is Pilot and Amy…”
My flatmates chorus a round of greetings.
“Great!” my dad announces. “We’re taking you all out to dinner
right now. No exceptions. Let’s head out. Is anyone missing?”
Oh no, we can’t go to dinner. No no no no. It’s late, 7:00 p.m. It’s …
no.

---

“Ahhhut,” is all I manage to get out. I just stand. Rooted to the floor.
Gagging on protests. The flatmates remain silent.
“Shane? I asked you a question,” prods my father.
My brain switches to autopilot. “Sahra’s not here…”
“Text her and tell her to meet us— Where are we going, honey?” He
looks over at Mom.
“The Covent Garden Tube stop.”
He turns to me. “Tell her to meet us at the Covent Garden Tube
stop.” He looks pointedly around the room with raised eyebrows.
“Everyone ready?”
Pilot glances from Amy to me to my father. “Uh, well, sir, we
actually had plans to go to dinner.”
“Great, come on. My treat!” he responds.
“But we’re kind of—” Pilot starts again.
“You don’t want a free dinner? Come on!” he insists. Loudly.
I meet Pilot’s eyes with an expression of extreme desperation and/or
embarrassment. There’s no mirror in the kitchen, so I can’t be
completely sure, and I’m currently drowning in both. I drop my gaze to
the ground.
“I won’t take no for an answer. It’s gonna be fun, let’s go,” Dad
bellows again. He pivots and holds open the door. Mom looks at me
expectantly. My flatmates hold still, like somebody hit the pause button
on time.
Babe breaks the spell and hops off the couch. “Thanks, Mr.
Primaveri!”
We’re corralled out of the kitchen. I do as I’m told and text Sahra.
“So all of you been traveling every weekend, huh?” my father asks as he
drops his glass back to the table. I wince at the small 
boom
that
reverberates when it makes contact. We’re seated at a large circular
table at Delia’s, the Italian restaurant my mother led us to. Me, my
parents, four flatmates, and Pilot’s girlfriend.
“Oh my gosh, we’ve been following all your Facebook posts. The
pictures have been beautiful. It looks like you’re all having so much
fun.” Mom smiles.

---

Babe answers with over-the-top enthusiasm. “Yeah! Paris and Rome
were amazing, and I was in Ireland last week. I went by myself on a
kind of an epic journey of self-discovery!”
She’s taken up the role of me for the time being, since I’ve become
almost mute, uttering one- or two-word answers, if any, before
descending back into my cone of anxiety.
“Yeah, um, I was all over Europe last week for spring break,” Pilot
pipes in.
“How exciting! I know Shane was in Paris with you a couple weeks
back, right?” Mom looks over at me with wide eyes, trying to drag me
into conversation.
“Yeah, she told me about Paris!” Atticus answers. He starts retelling
a story I shared with him about a little crepe shop we ate at. He doesn’t
know what’s wrong, but he’s trying to help. And Babe’s trying to help.
Pilot’s trying to help. Sahra injects words every so often when she feels
they’re necessary. She wasn’t there when they walked in, and she seems
a little confused. I’m surprised she even made it. They’ve all been
struggling to engage my parents in conversation for the last half an hour,
while I sit in silence, quietly trying to master the art of teleportation.
Why’d they have to come? They never leave the country. They
barely leave New York.
“We’ve never even been to Europe! But we’re so proud of our
genius girl here.” Mom gestures to me sitting next to her. Heat floods up
my neck. “We had to come see her here in her element!” She laughs
lightheartedly. “How about we play a game and go around the table and
everyone shares where they’ve traveled since they got here and how
they liked it?” Mom suggests. “Atticus, kick us off!” She grins and
tucks a wavy chunk of hair behind her ear.
I feel like an anvil’s floating over my head, and I can’t get out from
under it. Like Wile E. Coyote. I wipe my sweaty palms over the napkin
in my lap.