The Better Half(50)
Though he can rub me wrong, I give Jared’s arm a motherly pat. I do like the on-point style of this young joker, even when I suspect he ain’t playin’ it straight.
Dad and I are seated in front of cups of tea at the kitchen table, staring at a letter that arrived today from Pemberley. Xandra’s in her room, I assume lost in a haze of YouTube videos, blissfully unaware that her elders have gathered to read her fate. Dad’s sitting on his hands fighting his instinct to rip the Band-Aid and expose whatever wound lies in that letter so he can go right to fixing it. And me? The official-looking post sends a shiver through my body. I imagine what’s inside is akin to a parenting report card, and I know I’ve failed the last pop quiz.
“Dad, you want extra hot water?” I ask, more as a stalling tactic than an offering.
“I’ll take some more hot water,” Dad agrees, holding up his cup, “but jeezum pees, Nina, I could be six feet under before you get to reading that letter.” Fitzroy reaches to the middle of the table to nab the envelope while I’m filling his mug.
“Hey! It’s a federal offense to open someone else’s mail,” I remind, grabbing Dad’s wrist. “I should read it first.”
“Read it out loud, then,” Dad insists, impatient with me.
Here goes everything . . .
Dear Parents of Xandra Clarke,
Xandra is a student of great talent in the classroom and a treasured member of the Pemberley community, but so far in the drama production of Wonderful Town, she has been noticeably dissatisfied with the role she earned as an underclassman. She consistently shows up late to rehearsals and is struggling to memorize her lines and stage direction in preparation for opening night. In the end, I hope her performance will be of high quality, but the journey to get there has been a difficult one for the entire cast, me included.
If Xandra would like to continue in future Pemberley theater productions, this letter will need to be signed by Xandra and parents and returned to me before the start of winter term. I hope this break will provide much-needed reflection time for Xandra.
Thank you.
Dave Petrov
Theater Department Chair
Pemberley School
Neither Dad nor I speak. In this day, a written letter is sent only in dire circumstances. I rarely have to communicate beyond an email or phone call. I’m contemplating heading back to grab Xandra from her tech coma and dragging her butt out here to deal with this and explain it to her grandfather. Luckily, greater parental sense prevails.
“Sounds like Xandra’s drama teacher may be Russian. And formal. Perhaps with his accent he’s difficult to understand and there were some misunderstood communications with Xandra,” I offer out loud, grasping for a solid excuse for my daughter though I know there isn’t one.
“His name’s Dave, so I’m guessing his English is just fine. And I understand Dave Petrov loud and clear. Xandra has shown her teacher all kinds of disrespect, and she has crossed his line.” As an immigrant and a dedicated Christian, Fitzroy has very clear parameters on how one lives life. In Dad’s mind, following the principles established by both personas was essential in his adopted country to ensure people wouldn’t whisper about your comings and goings and attention wouldn’t be called your way. Behave and blend in or be sorry was how we were raised.
“That’s not the granddaughter I know. And I also know you didn’t teach her any of those ill manners. Lord knows your mother and I never taught them to you.” Dad’s viewpoint on his and Celia’s impeccable parenting is surfacing.
“So, Nina, what’re you gonna do about this?” Dad asks, looking right at me, jaw set. Oh, this is rich. When Xandra is fit for public consumption—well dressed, well behaved, and well turned out—Fitzroy’s there to lap up the credit and the compliments. But as the second generation of our immigrant family begins to stray from the prescribed code of conduct, it’s all my fault and my job to get her back in line. A straight line, and quick.
“I can’t believe I’m going to have to repeat myself,” Dad continues. I can tell he’s getting revved up and about to take this family gathering from gentle to gloves off. “Nina, I told you to move Xandra out of that living situation with Dash at the first sign of trouble this fall, and you didn’t do it. So here we are sippin’ on tea, fretting over Xandra and her future. A girl like Xandra doesn’t turn without some wayward influence. Don’t I know it, I saw it play out time and time again on our block. Those that know better don’t always do better.”
It’s easy for Dad to lay blame on Dash, but deep down I know that I’m the one who lit Xandra’s rebellious flame. I suspect Xandra’s behavior has little to do with her roommate being militant or her drama teacher being racist and everything to do with her mother being with a man who’s the opposite of her father. And now that man is taking her mother and creating a brand-new family that she’s not sure has a place for her.
“You know what, Xandra thinks she’s grown. It’s time to bring her into the kitchen, let her read the letter, and explain herself.” And, I think to myself, force her to share her true feelings about me and Leo.
“I’ll go get her,” Dad offers, and I accept, giving myself an extra minute to refine my opening line.
“What’s up? I’m FaceTiming with Dash. Yesterday she was helping her mom’s friend host a neighborhood watch meeting in Cabrini-Green, and right now she’s on her way to a protest. Apparently, the new African savanna installation at the Field Museum was designed by an Asian architect. My life’s so boring!”