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Dad rolls his eyes. He says, “Great, more female drama!” Then he asks, “Where’s your mother?” I think about telling him about how I found Mom and Ned sucking face, and how we were all having fun until he arrived, but instead, I say, “Inside somewhere.” Dad nods, then he walks over to Brook. Even from where I am standing, I can hear her yell, “Presenting… Dad!”

  Once all of the guests have been seated, Brook and I wander over to the little kitchen the caterers have set out in the back, behind the chapel. A bunch of the servers are grabbing quick bites to eat before they have to feed everybody else. They’re all dressed in traditional Eighteen- Twenty-Eight-Spanish-style pants and shirts, or dresses. There are big platters of chicken and rice and everybody is eating and laughing or making last minute costume changes. Brook and I get in line behind a woman cooling herself with a large, paper fan. When she sees us, she asks, “Esta personas son idiotas, ¿sí?”

  I say, “Si!”

  Brook says, “I’m starving.”

  I say, “Me too,” but when we get to the front of the line, a big, plump lady tells us to shoo. “You’re not allowed here,” she says.

  Brook sighs real deep. At the same time, Brook and I say, “Our Mom is, like, the Executive Director here.”

  The caterer still won’t feed us, but then Ned shows up and says, “They’re with me,” so Brook and I are allowed a couple of chicken legs each. After Brook receives her chicken, she gives Ned a nasty look, then she walks over towards the outer defense wall and sits, chomping and glaring. Ned asks, “What’s up with her?”

  I shrug. From the outer defense wall, Brook yells, “You’ve ruined our family!” Then she stomps back to where Ned and I are, grabs my arm, and pulls me back inside the chapel. Brook drags me over to where Mom and Dad are sitting. She barks at Mom to make room for us. Then she asks, “Can we act like a proper family for once? Please? God!”

  With all the candles lit and everybody dressed so fancy, the chapel looks sort of ethereal. I tell this to Mom, who says, “I don’t think you’re using that word correctly.” On the balcony, an artist sits, painting at an easel. Mom gestures around the room, then says, “We hired him to paint the scene.”

  Brook says, “That’s, like, genius.”

  Dad says, “You can’t even see what he is painting. Seems like a waste of money to me.” Mom ignores Dad. She says, “There’s going to be A Capella: The Harvard

  Krokodiloes…” then she looks at Dad and asks, “You’re not eating?”

  Like a real prick, Dad says, “You know I don’t like Mexican food.”

  I say, “It’s not Mexican, it’s Spanish.” Then Dad rolls his eyes and says something about how there is no difference, not really.

  After dinner, the choir boys file to the front of the chapel. When Mom sees them, she squeals, “Oooh, here they are! Aren’t they cute?”

  Dad asks, “You mean this thing isn’t over yet?”

  I say, “Mom already told you there would be a choir!”

  Brook says, “They’re, like, really cute.” Then Dad sneers at her, and she turns bright red. Mom gets up to make a quick speech about how grateful she is for the turnout tonight,

  and how she is excited for the future of El Presidio Santa Barbara. Then she thanks about fifty people, but she doesn’t say anything about how I probably got skin cancer from working in the sun all day, or about how my shoulders are so sore from lighting candles that I can hardly bring my cup to my mouth without crying out in pain. She doesn’t mention Brook or Dad either, but she does end with, “And none of this would be possible without the help of our facilities manager, Ned!” But even that doesn’t matter because Ned isn’t in the room anymore. Then Mom says, “Presenting… The Harvard Krokodiloes!” and everybody claps as the boys begin to sing.

  All of the choir boys are all beaming like this is the happiest day of their lives. It’s a little unsettling. Dad seems to be thinking the same thing as me because he asks, “And how much are they getting paid?”

  The Harvard Krokodiloes sing Sweet Caroline, and everybody bops around in their seats until they’ve finished. Then one of the boys from the choir says, “For this next one, we’re going to need a very special volunteer.” He comes down to where Brook and I are sitting, and pulls me up by the hand. Mom claps and says something like, “Delightful!” Everybody is watching us, laughing like they’re in on some joke. The boy has still got my hand, and when he gets me to the front of the stage, he asks for my name. I give it to him, then he asks, “And Figgi, are you single?”

  I feel sick to my stomach. My hand is so sweaty; I don’t know how the boy can stand to keep holding it. I throw my free hand in the air and move my head around until the boy says, “Good, that’s good.” Then, still holding my hand, he starts to sing, “Baby, I need your lovin’, got to have all your–” A chair appears from nowhere and the boy sits, pulling me down on his lap and jiggling me around some. While everybody else sings the chorus, the boy tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and whispers, “Smile, act happy.” I try to smile, but I think it comes out as a grimace. The boys’ knees are incredibly pointy, and I’m worried that I’m crushing him.

  I look over to the table where Mom, Dad and Brook are. Mom gives me a little wave, but Dad is frowning and shaking his head. He’s looking at me like I’m a disgusting slug or something. Then I see him say something to Mom, who shrugs. The boy whose lap I am sitting on, keeps swinging our hands around. He asks the audience, “Do you think she’ll give up her lovin’?” and everybody laughs, except Dad, who stands up. I wave at him to tell him that I’m ok. When we make eye contact, he glares at me. Then he marches out the back, slamming the door behind him. Mom sees, and follows him out. Then Ned and Brook walk out too, and I’m left alone in a room full of strangers, sitting on some boy’s pointy knees, while everybody laughs and coos at me. I want to cry.

  As soon as the song is over, I run out the side door, so I can find Mom and yell at her for not warning me about this embarrassing stunt. But she isn’t in the quad, and neither is Brook or Dad. A second later, Brook comes around the corner, and says, “Figgi, you better follow me.” Behind the chapel, Mom, Ned and Dad are all yelling at each other. Dad is shouting about how Mom is shit at taking care of Brook and me, and Mom’s hands are in the air as if she is preparing to defend herself. Ned tells Dad to calm down, that he shouldn’t be so hard on Mom, that she works hard. Dad looks at Ned, considering him. Then he rushes towards Ned and punches him in the stomach. Dad screams, “And that’s for sleeping with my wife!”

  Brook starts yelling about violence and how Dad needs to learn how to use his words, he’s a grown man, for fuck’s sake. But Dad isn’t looking at anybody but Mom, who is crouching beside Ned, asking him where it hurts. Then Dad tells Mom he is taking me and Brook home. He tells her he doesn’t give a fuck what she does, but that he never wants to see us here again.

  I say, “I have to come back! Mom’s training me to be the next Executive Director.”

  Dad laughs and says, “That will happen over my dead body.” Then he grabs Brook’s hand and mine, and when I pull away from him, he says, “If either you or Brook ever come here again, I’m divorcing your mother and you girls and I are moving far, far away.”

  I look over at Mom and ask, “You told me that you were grooming me. What happened to that?”

  Then Ned, who’s picked himself up off the ground, turns to Mom and asks, “Mica, are you just going to let him take them away like that?”

  The chapel door opens, and somebody beckons to Mom, who says, “I have to give a speech. I have to accept an award.” Then she looks at Dad, but not at me. She says, “The girls won’t come back here. Please take them home.” Dad’s still got our hands, and as he marches us down the park’s front steps, I watch Mom and Ned walk into the chapel where they are greeted by loud cheers and a round of applause that lasts until Dad makes Brook and me get into the car. Then he drives us all away.

  ***

  Th
ere are two ways my parents could have spent their thirtieth wedding anniversary, 1) in a divorce court, fighting for custody of me and Dahlia, or 2) in NYC renewing their vows at Strawberry Fields in Central Park. They chose option two, simply due to the fact that this vacation was less expensive than a divorce.

  As we board our plane, Mom assures me that Dahlia and I will have our own room, adjacent to the room she and Dad will share. When I suggest an Airbnb, my parents scoff at the idea of living in somebody else’s home. Mom says, “Think of the germs!” and Dad asks, “What’s to prevent these people from having us arrested for home invasion?”

  On the flight, Dahlia sleeps and I watch I Dream of Jeannie.

  At the hotel, we find out there was some misunderstanding, and Mom, Dahlia, Dad and I are sharing one room, two beds, and a shower. So here we are, our knees touching as we sit on the sides of our respective beds. Dads says, “I thought the beds would be queen, at least. We’re paying two-hundred a night for this?” Dahlia says, “Dad, like, you’re being incredibly rude right now.” Then she turns to Mom and says, “I think this room is cute!” I say, “Who cares! Let’s get the fuck out of here and see some NYC culture!”

  After I pay Mom five dollars for saying the word “fuck” Dad tells us to get dressed. “And don’t forget a sweater,” he says. “If you get cold, you’re not borrowing mine.”

  I salute Dad, who winks at me. Dahlia says, “Jesus, Dad, aren’t you going to give us some privacy?” Dad says sure, then rushes out of the room. Once Dad is gone, Dahlia starts texting. I ask her who she is talking to, but she ignores me. Then she asks, “Do you think I would look good in an I Love NYC beanie?”

  “We don’t feel cold, we don’t feel pain, we’re the children of two insane!” On Fifth Avenue, Dahlia and I chant our mantra as we elbow our way through crowds of frowning New Yorkers. Dad is racing to the Statue of Liberty tour he booked with the concierge early this morning. He walks faster than most of the New Yorkers themselves, but Mom walks at the pace of a snail. At every corner we have to wait a couple of minutes for her to catch up.

  Dahlia and I were taught to stay close to Dad at a very early age. One of my earliest memories is of getting separated from him at the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market. I had stopped to get a sample of this or that, and in those couple seconds, Dad had hidden from me. I remember being frozen, trying my best not to look like the kind of girl somebody could kidnap and sell into the child sex trade. Five minutes later, Dad had reappeared with a lesson that began, “This is why you always need to stay close to me in crowds!” and ended, “You were never in any real danger.”

  Mom’s eating peanuts out of her pocket and when I see her, I say, “Give me some!” She refuses even though none of us has had anything to eat in ages. I groan and Mom says, “We’ll get breakfast soon.” I want to ask how soon, but Dad is speeding around the next corner. I tell Dahlia to hurry Mom along, and then I run to catch up to Dad. About three blocks later, Dad finally agrees to let us stop at a little cart that sells pastries and coffee. There is an ad for Mama Mia on the side of the cart, and when Mom sees it, she says, “Oh, everyone says that show is wonderful!” Even though Dahlia is only thirteen, she orders black coffee, no sugar, no milk. She says that’s the way New Yorkers drink their coffee.

  Since Dahlia and I are getting along for once, I stop myself from calling bullshit. So she didn’t add milk? Big deal! I order coffee with lots of milk and sugar. At least I’m not a poser like Dahlia. Dad starts walking again. He calls, “I’m leaving you!” over his shoulder, but I know I have at least ten seconds before he turns the corner.

  It has taken me a dozen blocks, but suddenly I realize that Dad is trying to walk to the Statue of Liberty! When I point out that we can’t possibly walk there, Dad calls me a sissy. He says, “Come on! I didn’t raise two sissies, did I?” I say, “Yes you did. We want to take a taxi.”

  On about the twentieth block we’ve walked, Mom demands that we take a break to sit on this awful bench that is covered in newspaper and bird poop. She’s pressing on her chest like she is trying to pump air inside of it. I don’t sit. Instead, Dad lets me poke around some of the shops. I’m looking for something real unique to bring back to Lauren G. and Missy A. Before I leave Mom, I ask her what she thinks I should buy for the girls and she tells me not to spend too much money on them. She asks, “Did Missy bring you something back from London?” I say yes, even though she didn’t.

  I end up buying cowboy hats that have the letters NYC stitched into the straw. Mom says they’re tacky, but I think they’re sort of unique, like a real New York artist would have. Dahlia buys a map. I tell her this is a waste of time. Dahlia couldn’t read a map to save her life. Then Mom asks us if we shouldn’t all get our hair done for Saturday’s renewal. Dahlia says, “I thought the vow renewal was Sunday,” and Mom gets all huffy and says, “Do you really think you know the date better than me?” It turns out that the renewal really is Sunday, so in the end Mom has to apologize to Dahlia, who gets more pompous than ever.

  Dad tries to get Mom to move again, but she says, “I would rather die on this bench than walk another step!” So Dad tells Dahlia and me to hail a taxi. We both run to the curb and stick our arms out like we’ve seen in the movies. The cab comes to me first. Dahlia and I hurry into the back. Dad asks the driver if he can sit in the front, but the driver says, “Back, please,” then Dad says he’ll tip him ten bucks if he can sit in the front, so the driver says, “Oh, what the hell.” I climb in first, then Dahlia slides in so close to me, she is practically sitting in my lap. I tell her to watch her stupid elbows, but then Mom says, “Please girls,” real long and exaggerated so Dahlia and I shake hands and agree not to kill each other until we’re away from Mom. In the front of the cab, Dad rolls down his window and pumps his fist in the air, yelling, “Take me to the Statue of Liberty!”

  On the way downtown Dad makes our cab driver tell him all of his favorite restaurants in the city. He asks, “And what’s your favorite place to get Indian?” and when Mom finally tells Dad that we aren’t paying our driver to be a guide, he says, “Oh, he doesn’t mind!” Then he turns to our driver and asks, “You’re really earning your tip today, huh buddy?”

  Dahlia and I look at each other. I mime hanging myself. Then Dahlia whispers, “Kill me,” to Mom, who laughs and says, “Only a couple more blocks. Bill, leave him alone.” Dad turns around and whispers, “Honey, please!”

  Sometimes I think that Mom and I might be telepathic. I think Let’s ditch Dad. Let’s have fun. But it doesn’t work.

  Our driver stops right in front of this giant domed building called The Liberty Science Center. He says, “This is the closest I can get you.” Mom pays and Dad starts walking towards the entrance of the science center. Mom follows, but asks, “I thought we were going to see the Statue of Liberty?” Then Dad asks, “What’s to see? It’s right there!” He says he’s going inside and we can come or not.

  Dahlia turns to me and throws her hands in the air, which means What the fuck? But also,

  We better hurry up and follow Dad.

  Hanging in the middle of the science center is this huge structure that looks like a brain, and all of these kids are climbing around in it, having the time of their lives. I say, “I want to climb that thing!” so Mom pays for all of us while Dad goes to the bathroom. When Dad comes back, we all put on our wrist bands and start walking around this massive playground. Mom asks, “Isn’t this fun?” and Dad says, “It looks like this thing is just for kids!” I say, “We are kids!” and then I run up a slide-tunnel that is actually just one nostril of a giant nose. From inside the nasal cavity, I hear Dad ask Mom how much she paid to get in and when she tells him, he says, “Oh, honey!” like he forgot this whole thing was his idea in the first place.

  From somewhere above me, Dahlia whispers my name. Then she says, “Climb into the trachea with me!” so I follow my tunnel into the nasal cavity, through the throat, and into the voice box where
she meets me. Dahlia says, “I don’t want to leave.” And I say, “Me neither.” Then the two of us make a run for the lungs and hide beneath this black, fuzzy blanket that is supposed to represent tar from cigarettes. I get bored pretty quick, so I start heading back towards the throat, but then Dad finds me through a hole in the trachea and tells me we only have ten minutes left so I better get to enjoying that twenty bucks worth of fun.

  I watch Dad weave his way back to Mom. He says something short, then he walks back towards the entrance of the museum. It’s funny, but sometimes I think Dad can’t even stand to spend a moment alone with Mom. I don’t want to be inside the throat anymore. I’m afraid that it has already been ten minutes. I find Dahlia. We exit through the ear canal and just for a second I feel like I am a very, very small person inside the skull of somebody who is normal-sized. If I was very, very small like that, I could stay here as long as I wanted.

  I didn’t notice how hungry I was while we were having fun, but now we are back to marching around the streets and I feel as though I might die of starvation. Dad says we can get a hot dog at this cute little stand. I watch the hot dog guy pile relish and onions on my dog. I practically drool on myself. Dahlia says, “Ew, look at all that grease!” but I don’t care. Then the hot dog vendor hands me the dog, and asks for ten dollars in return.

  “What is this, highway robbery?” asks Dad. I should have just shoved the thing into my mouth right then, but before I can do anything, Dad grabs the hot dog from me and hands it back to the vendor. “We’re not paying twelve dollars for a hot dog!” he says. I offer to pay for five dollars of the hot dog, and Dahlia offers to pay two dollars, but Dad says it’s the principle of the matter.