‘Of course! I’m sorry,’ my father said. ‘We have pop in the basement, juice, seltzer, anything you like.’
‘I will take wine.’
Abigail giggled. She was actually holding Barbra’s hand.
‘Okay, okay, we let the kids have wine. We think kids should definitely try a little wine.’
My father retreated to the pantry. That was not where we kept wine. I slowly picked my body off the wall. I felt a sweatsoaked shell on my back.
‘Do you like America’s Next Top Model?’ Abigail asked as she led Barbra down to the family room.
My spine creaked to one side. My father shot around the kitchen with a corkscrew. From the kitchen I could see the family room. I realized that my father had totally, absolutely fucked something up. Who was this woman in our house? Why was she here? The Rotary Club was a men’s charity. She was staying the whole summer. What was their mandate? God, my mother was right. This was a real problem. That was a woman, not a kid. Charity made men feel proud. This was not charity. Charity was simple. There was a ten-foottall orphan now lodged in our house.
From the kitchen I watched her unzip her puffy jacket. She crashed down, bouncing, wide-legged on the couch. She had on a peasant blouse with tassels. Sweat-stained armpits. The biggest tits I had ever seen. They were like bells behind curtains. Tremulous.
Abigail turned the TV back on. She gave the remote control to Barbra. It was judgment time. On America’s Next Top Model, Fatima was getting eliminated.
I wanted her to look at those models and feel me behind her: soaring, peering, overhead.
§
The second night, my mother drank wine with Barbra. We were having takeout Szechuan food.
‘Illegal. Stop it,’ my father said under his breath.
‘You’re eighteen, correct?’ My mother smiled as she topped up Barbra’s second glass. ‘Wine is good for your heart.’
Barbra smiled at my mother, teeth crimson. Abigail liked to use her hands to eat. My father talked non-stop about the Rotary Club, saying that at their next meeting he would be bringing up the issue of extending Barbra’s student visa, which would allow her to finish her high school diploma here and even start college while living with us.
I looked at my mother. She was glugging her wine. My dad said that Barbra would have to talk to the guys about raising funds for her tuition, but he could talk to Bill Cunningham about the details because Bill was on the board. My father made this stuff sound like a business deal.
‘Does it not depend on what Barbra wants to study here?’ my mother interjected, glaring at my dad. ‘Assuming, in fact, that she wants to stay?’ Then my mother shifted her gaze back to Barbra. ‘Tell him. Tell him what you want to study.’
‘Just a second there, Ruth…’
‘Political literature,’ Barbra said slowly, gruffly.
‘On the international stage,’ added my mother.
I was totally confused. Like, when had my mother and Barbra already had a private conversation? And what did she mean by political literature?
My mother smiled falsely at my father, as if she were proving some kind of point. ‘Israel is not known for its diversity in this department.’
I cringed. Diversity. Why would my mother say that word? But my mother and Barbra started laughing for some reason. It was weird. How was diversity in literature or political literature relevant to fucking anything right now?
‘Israel is a leader, of course, in the tech sector,’ my father said, looking back and forth between Barbra and my mom. ‘3-D animation and the like.’
I watched Abigail finish up her bowl of noodles with two fingers.
‘Drones,’ my mother said, pouring herself another glass of wine.
‘Ruth, that’s enough,’ my father snapped as my mother topped up Barbra’s glass.
Barbra hiccupped, glossy-eyed. Kafka was international political literature.
My mother stood up suddenly, holding the rest of the bottle. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ she said to Barbra. ‘You can do anything you want to.’ Then, to my father: ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’
‘You guys. This is embarrassing,’ I said.