"Of course."
"What the fuck is the deal with the Frick?"
"Hey! Excuse me, please?" I'm sort of sorry I said it; I can see he's actually pissed. " Watch your mouth. People eat here. Not many, but there are still some."
"Sorry," I say. "I mean it."
"Not that I have the right to correct you."
"You can. Many do." Which is true; I feel like a spelling test, sometimes, with every word wrong, each part of me circled in red.
"Aren't you home a little early?" George says. He gets a text, says, "Shit," and I do what you do in these situations; I nod to him, and he turns away. The nod; Theo has pointed out that nodding, to give permission to "take this call" or "answer this text," is a key compromised modern gesture. And in this four seconds I have to myself I think that George is right; I am home early. Because I'm never not busy; I'm always working, like everyone I know, to seem more amazing and well-rounded and interesting than I actually am, or could ever be. The weird part is: no one's ever actually said that to any of us. It's more like it's on all our devices, stuffed forever into all of our Clouds; like prune paste in hamentaschen, Theo says. So I do tae kwon do, play soccer, coach soccer, and tutor homeless kids; I'm on yearbook, in the Spanish Club, and in the Bob Dylan Society. And now that Theo is president I'm the entire cabinet, and would be Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff if we had a military. And I enjoy all this stuff; some of it I even love. What I don't love is that I'm not expected to enjoy it; I'm expected to list it. Again, no one has said that, but it's in the Cloud. So when it's time to talk to guys in ties in New England about why they should let me go to their college, my secret plan is to say what I do extracurricularly is text and masturbate, and see where I get in. Wesleyan, maybe; the rumor is they value authenticity.
George is back now. "Sorry. Bernadette." He whispers the word like it's a code name for a spy.
"Bernadette? Is that good?"
"Wonderful," he says. "Even in the wrong role."
"I don't know what that means."
"You don't need to."
"Anyway, you were right," I say, "about my being home early."
"Everything okay?"
I am often asked that. "Everything's fine."
The door opens. Laughing gay guys come in, with scarves, looking like a photograph of laughing gay guys with scarves. They laugh harder when they see George, and wave to him. I can almost sense him start to whir, like one of the Japanese robots Theo's dad collects. George, when he needs to, can be Delightful Guy Robot, or Funny Guy Robot; any kind people need. He's not that way upstairs, though, with us. Up there, he's more just George.
"Hey," he says, "want to eat down here? Armando's got those pork chops you like, with the sage butter—"
"George—"
"—From that green pig farm, where the pig signs a release. And there's burrata, and those potatoes you like—"
"Theo won," I say. He looks puzzled. "The election? It was today?"
"He did?" He high-fives me, which I think he thinks I like; I'm waiting for the right time to tell him I find it vaguely annoying and he doesn't do it right, anyway. "Congratulations, Wes!"
"Me? Why?"
"You worked your ass off for him. You don't give yourself credit, you're hard on yourself—"
"Please don't say what you're going to say next, which is that you don't have a right to say that. Which maybe I don't have a right to say to you. It's just that when you do say stuff, it's okay with me, really, because it's never about finding me basically extremely disappointing. "
"Deal," George says.
"But here's the thing," I say. "I need to talk to you guys, about some stuff."
"Is it urgent?"
" Semi-urgent."
"You sure everything's okay? Should I call your mom, or dad—"
George always wants to know if he should call my mom or dad. "No. Really. I told you about the Innocence Project, right? Me and Theo are a defense team, and we got assigned these guys the Rosenbergs. I just wanted to get both your feelings about them. Did they, didn't they, America, hysteria."
"I just hope you don't want me to say smart things. Your dad's the brilliant genius, with opinions. I recite specials."
"You think he's a brilliant genius?" Everyone says this about him, along with remarks on the extent of his humanity. I'm surprised to hear George say it, though. "Does he think that about you?"
He laughs. "Come on. Would you?"
"You're so hard on yourself," I say.
"Hey," he says, "it's a living. Does your dad know about this?"
"I left voice mails, and I texted."
"I'll send dinner up," he says. "So you guys can have privacy." More laughing guys with scarves come in. George laughs, in preparation; that's a trick of his; he says people always like to think you've just heard something funny, and might share it with them. "Pray for me," he says, as he always does, just before he hits the floor.
I stop him, though. "It's not just school I need to talk about."
"Okay."
"And I need you both. If you can."
Lenny passes, his arms full of little pumpkins, looking confused. "Isn't Ruth Gordon dead?"
"Of course she is," George says.
"She's reserved for ten fifteen," says Lenny.
"You're busy," I say to George. "So—"
"Hey," he says, not letting me finish, turning his back to all the waving guys in scarves. "I'm there."
So I climb the stairs, passing 2A, where the Galligan girls live. They never got married and both have osteoporosis, which George says means if they fall they could snap, like chopsticks. For fifty-six years they've been ushers at the Majestic Theatre, around the corner, where they've never missed a show. In 3A is Henry, who writes children's musicals and is into leather. His sister committed suicide, so he's bringing up his niece, Hannah; my dad went to court to make sure it all worked out. And it did, of course; they had my dad. Hannah screams at Henry all the time; she sort of sucks at bonding, apparently.
And then there's us, on the top floor, the fourth. As I let myself in the first thing I see is that the one light that's on shines on a bowl of grapes, the kind that look dusty but are actually as nature intended. I wonder if this is a not-so-subtle reminder that I have a paper due next week on The Grapes of Wrath, which seems to obsess everyone in my orbit but me. Mr. Frechette is making us read a term's worth of books that will make us better people, as he feels the bitter, sarcastic irony that he often hears from us is something you should only come to in the autumn of your years, to use his words, when you have earned it from your swim in the harsh sea of life.
I take a grape, the kind I hate; with seeds. As I spit them out the phone rings.
"That's Dad," I tell the air, and I'm right.
"Wesley?"
"Hey, Dad."
"Wesley?" he says again; people are always saying my name again. "I got your voice mail. Is everything all right?"
He asks this every day, like he's waiting for something not to be. My mom's the same, unlike Ben and George, who assume things are good unless you bleed or throw up in front of them.
"Basically."