“Normal is a terrible thing to aspire to,” Patrick had said. “Aim higher.”
“What do you even mean?” Maisie was exasperated.
“Want more for yourself.”
“Talk like a regular person!”
Patrick sighed. “Normal families are boring.” It was a slip on Patrick’s part, a terrible thing to say to a girl who had lost her mother; her moodiness had brought out his own. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Maisie scuttled his launch before it got off the ground.
“You’re boring!”
“You take that back.”
“I will not!”
“I am a lot of things, many of them unflattering, but boring is not one.”
Grant put up a withering defense of his uncle before Patrick put his hand on his arm, letting the boy know he could fight his own battle. Maisie glared at her uncle before storming off and slamming the door to her room.
“Why is she so pissy?”
Grant shrugged.
On Thursday they went for brunch at Cheeky’s. Maisie didn’t say a word to their Lyft driver, a woman named Mona who had her hair tied up in a scarf like she’d answered their call from a salon halfway through her appointment. Maisie didn’t even offer a response when Mona asked her a direct question about Maisie’s level of excitement about going back to school—something Patrick knew she was looking forward to, if only as a metric to measure a return to some sort of stability.
“Our driver asked you a question, Maisie.”
Maisie just stared out the window.
“Aren’t you excited to see your friends? What about Amy Beckwith?”
“AUDRA BRACKETT!”
“She’s excited,” Patrick translated to Mona.
“I’m going to be in firtht grade,” Grant offered, cheerfully. Patrick nudged him in the shoulder, grateful for his willing cooperation.
“So grown up,” Mona said, flashing them a smile in the rearview mirror.
At the restaurant the kids had their usual, fresh-corn pancakes with a side of hot tots, which is what Cheeky’s called their potatoes. Patrick ordered the Paleo granola and a mimosa. The place was unusually hopping for the ungodly hour—it was one of the problems with Palm Springs. The blazing sun was a virus that turned everyone into morning people. Patrick thought he should break the mood with a joke. “Guncle Rule eleventy-five, special brunch edition: Bottomless mimosas are not the same thing as pantsless mimosas. Very different, in fact. Learned that the hard way.”
“You didn’t wear panth?” Grant asked.
“Grantelope, you have no idea how many restaurants I’ve been kicked out of for not wearing pants.” Patrick bopped Grant on the head with a menu.
Grant mumbled some loophole about his shorts not being pants, when Maisie interjected.
“There are too many rules!” The word rules dripped with so much disgust, Patrick was taken aback.
“I’m sorry. Do you want to try that again and watch your tone?” Patrick traced his fingers on the hair over his upper lip; he’d shaved that morning, displeased with the gray on his chin, but left behind a pleasantly dark mustache.
“I’m tired of living here! It’s a million degrees and your rules aren’t funny and I want to go home!”
“Talk about hot tots,” Patrick said under his breath, perhaps to Grant, who had become somewhat of a confidant over the last few days of his sister’s souring mood. Grant, however, was trying to untangle silverware from his napkin and didn’t pick up on the comment.
“What did you say?” Maisie narrowed her eyes; her anger was almost comical, but Patrick didn’t laugh—it was coming from someplace very real.
“I said, talk about a HOT TOT. Satisfied?”
“I’m not a tot!” This was abundantly clear; it was like she’d morphed into a teenager overnight.
“Yes, I know. You’re sixteen and you don’t need a governess.”
Grant gave his napkin a yank like a magician pulling a tablecloth. His silverware careened across the table, rescued from sailing off the edge at the last possible second by the jam caddy.
“Okay, can we all just take it down a notch? You’re both at like an eight, and I need you at a four.”
“What do those numbers even mean? A four of what?”
“Use the context, Maisie. I’m not that difficult to understand.” Patrick placed his napkin in his lap before sliding Grant’s fork back across the table in front of him. A waiter appeared over his shoulder with Patrick’s mimosa balanced on a tray with a rich-looking Bloody Mary. “I’m sorry, I hate to be a pest,” Patrick started.