“Ten tomorrow, right?” he’d said.
Apparently, the Kingdom School kids had planned to meet up at Fall Fest. The group would find each other on the riverbank. Colin would bring a picnic blanket and some instruments because everyone seemed pretty excited about learning some chords, and he’d heard there was an epic burrito stand.
“You know that Fall Fest will be crowded?” Jen asked Abe. “Crowds and gross porta-potties and children who sing loudly and off-key?”
“It’ll be fun, Mom.” Abe patted her arm as though she were the persnickety one. “Colin, do you like rotisserie chicken? We were just about to eat dinner.”
“Abe, it’s late,” Jen said. “Colin might have already eaten.”
“He’s always starving.” Abe snorted. “He eats my leftovers at school every day. Don’t get mad, Mom.”
“Why would I get mad?”
“You got upset when Isabella would eat my lunch.”
“That was different.” Jen felt a low throbbing in her sinuses at the memory. “Isabella was taking advantage.” Colin grimaced as if he’d had a bag or two of chips stolen by Isabella, too.
“If you truly have enough food,” he said, “I’d love to join you guys.”
Jen opened the front door as wide as it went. “Come on in.”
The Paganos did not excel at putting things away. The surfaces in their home were crammed with piles of books and cords for electronics and hastily discarded layers of clothing. Jen always told herself that it wasn’t dirty, just overstuffed, but seeing it now, through the eyes of a guest, she had to admit that it wasn’t exactly clean either.
Someone needed to do a deep clean before Jen hosted book club next week. Melissa Stoller, who had lived here before, had been a regular member of book club, and the entire group appeared to be creepily invested in Jen’s house.
Your countertops aren’t granite, Janine had once corrected Jen, they’re soapstone. Melissa selected them to be maintenance free.
Thank goodness, because now, those soapstone counters were littered with half-empty glasses （or half-full depending on the day）， dinner takeout from Breadman’s, and opened boxes of cookies, because sometimes the cookies were the only thing getting Jen through the day, and there was nothing wrong with that, thank you very much.
“We’re always a little less formal when Paul is traveling,” Jen said by way of apology. She left out that Paul was always traveling.
“You have a beautiful home,” Colin said with earnest politeness. His affect was Boy Scoutish beneath all the grunge: floppy plaid shirt, faded jeans, the chin-length hair, the cool black nail polish on both pinkies. Again, the kohl line under his eyes.
“Is Mr. Pagano somewhere exciting?”
“California,” Abe said with a frown. “I told you that yesterday when we were sitting under the tree outside.”
“You did?” Colin said. “You can’t blame the rest of us mortals for not having a photographic memory.”
“Abe, will you set the table?” Jen heard her voice, a little higher, a touch tentative, and wondered if Colin had noticed.
She wasn’t scared of Abe, she wasn’t, but after thirteen years of treating him with kid gloves, she felt sheepish suddenly demanding he do chores.
“How many points will I earn?” Abe watched Jen with a hawk’s sharpness.
“Um. The usual.”
If their exchange had been awkward, Colin didn’t appear to have noticed. He had drifted over to their banquette to examine the painting above it, which was an abstract triptych, also selected by Melissa Stoller.
The Kingdom School had not yet asked for any medical records or diagnostic history, and Jen had not yet volunteered Abe’s diagnosis. Every week, after Abe’s therapy session, Dr. Shapiro asked whether she should be in touch with Nan, to provide guidance on Abe’s incentives or challenges.
Nope, Jen lied. Nan’s on board. She gets it.
Jen would schlep Abe all over town for whatever counseling Dr. Shapiro recommended. She would break down his chores in charts and point values, but still—something was stopping her from sharing the diagnosis.
Dr. Shapiro was smart and kind and wise, but she’d spent maybe five hours with Abe before slapping a label on him. Maybe it was accurate, maybe not, but either way, telling Nan was pointless.
The woman spoke in psalms, and any conversation about conduct disorder would turn into one about lambs or loaves or turning the other cheek or how we were all God’s children.