Ask the Passengers (31 page)

“I’ve heard it said, too,” another person says.

“I don’t think it’s Unity Valley. I don’t think it ever ends—this feeling of having to be perfect. Look at our culture. Look at the computer-enhanced people we compare ourselves to. Look at the expensive cars and trinkets we’re all supposed to have. Look at how many people are wrapped up in that! Imagine how much money and worry we’d save ourselves if we stopped caring what kind of car we drove! And why do we care?
Perfection.
But there is no such thing, is there? And if there is, then everyone is perfect in their own way, right?”

“I agree,” she says. “Not a popular view, but logical.”

“My toga is also not a popular garment,” I say, “but it’s very comfortable.”

I consider this statement a big score for my humanities grade. I see Ms. Steck scribble something in her notes.

We eat lunch at a special table in the cafeteria, and when we’re done eating, we are allowed to roam the caf and talk about our paradoxes.

I go straight to Ellis’s table and say, “Hello, fine people of Unity Valley. I’m taking the day to talk about perfection. Do you have an opinion one way or another?”

Aimee Hall says, “Some people are better than others.” She looks at Ellis and then at me. Something isn’t right here. Ellis looks more than her usual color of emo blue. It’s like she swallowed a wheelbarrow of drowned adorable kittens.

“Is there a way you can tell who those better people are?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Aimee says. “First place you look is their wallet.”

This makes a few others at the table laugh.

“You know I’m Socrates, and I’m a poor man, yes? So by your definition, I am less perfect than you because of how much our wallets hold?”

“And other things. And news flash, you’re not Socrates.”

“How interesting. So would all of you be willing to show me your wallets?”

They stare at me. Aimee Hall digs into her purse and then realizes she’s the only one doing it once she opens it and dumps a bunch of cash onto the table.

“How much is that?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Probably about eighty bucks,” Aimee says. “And don’t forget these.” She tosses out two credit cards.

“So this eighty dollars makes you more perfect than everyone else at the table, then?”

“Yeah. In some ways,” she says. “Can you just go away now?”

Her friends look at her like they feel sorry for her. Ellis gets up to put her trash in the trash can.

“Hold on,” one of the other girls says. I stop walking away as she pulls her own wallet from her purse. She pulls out two hundred-dollar bills. “I think this makes me more perfect. Right?”

As I walk away, I hear Aimee Hall ask the other girl how much her credit limit is, and I look around for Frank so he can see how proud I am that I may have just poked a hole in Unity Valley’s perfection myth, but he’s nowhere.

By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. Frank S. must have been one hearty guy to argue on the streets of Athens all day the way he did. Our humanities class enjoys a bunch of snacks and a Socrates Project party in the humanities room, where we all debate one another’s paradoxes and are reminded by Ms. Steck to question everything and continue to challenge others with our open minds long after we remove our togas.

The stack of lit mag submissions is huge since the first-quarter poetry and short-story classes have finished. Ms. Steck is still cleaning up from the Socrates Project party, and I refuse to take off my toga.

“It makes me feel smart,” I say.

Justin laughs. “It makes you look dumb, though.” He
snaps a few pictures, and for fun I pose for him in the hall with my sign, pretending to argue with invisible passersby.

“Also, it doesn’t flatter your ass. Just sayin’,” Kristina adds.

“Don’t care. I like it,” I say.

I pick up the stack of submissions and put it into my bag, and I say good-bye to Ms. Steck.

“Good job today, Astrid. Socrates would have been proud.”

I nod. It’s true. I think Frank would have loved to see that he is legend and that he didn’t drink hemlock for nothing. I try to make him show up again, but he won’t. So I’m guessing he thinks I don’t need him anymore. He’s probably right.

Before we leave, Justin’s phone buzzes, and he gets that look again—that Chad look—and he shoves his reading pile into his bag and moves to the hall. Kristina and I walk home with him and make sure he doesn’t trip over stuff while he texts without looking up once.

Three people beep because of my toga. I show them my sign, which I still have tucked under my arm.
NOBODY’S PERFECT.

THE TURKEY GOES IN
at ten thirty—covered in butter and salt and pepper and celery and carrots and onions. Mom is in penny loafers, not high heels. They’re new.

We have omelets for brunch and a bowl of fresh fruit. Ellis doesn’t say much except, “Skip the cheese for me, please,” and “Orange juice, thanks.” Still no eye contact. I guess that’s her problem for now. I can’t try with her until she’s ready to try.

Mom insists that we all have a piece of her freshly baked courgette bread, which makes me want to scream,
They’re called zucchinis, okay? Zucchinis!
I don’t scream anything, though. If she wants to use obscure European words for
everything to feel better about living here, then she can. We all have our own ways of coping.

I go out the back door toward my table, and then I walk around the side of the house and stand on the sidewalk. I put my hands in my pockets and look down Main Street. I see a few people out walking their dogs or talking to neighbors, and even one guy starting to put up his Christmas decorations. I listen to the air. I don’t hear a thing. Not one thing.

They say:

They say:

Ellis still won’t talk to me, and I’m really not sure why.

She walks past the living room while I sit here writing in my Socrates Project journal. She doesn’t stop and say hi, even though she slowed a bit as if she was going to come in and watch TV. Makes me feel like I should go to the quiet room instead because this is the only TV room we have, but then I figure if she wants to watch TV, she can come in and watch it. I forget about it and go back to writing.

“Where’s you father?” Mom asks.

She starts to move toward the back door, and I say, “I think he’s clearing off the bench so we can make a new birdhouse.”

“That one in the maple is about to turn to dust. It could use a replacement.” She stands and drums her fingers on her thigh and then walks away.

I watch her walk away, and I realize that maybe I have more in common with Claire than I think. Maybe deep down, she doesn’t want to be here, either. Deep down, I do think I’m smarter than those twelve NO votes in humanities class last week. I did use Jeff Garnet as a disposable person—and while it was Kristina’s idea, I still went along with it, using his annoying leg-jiggling as an excuse. And really, who cares if the kid jiggles his leg?

Dinner is at three, and as tradition dictates, we all go upstairs and dress up a little. Dad puts on his cubicle blazer and a dress shirt with his jeans. Very Dude. I’m pretty sure he’s not stoned, too, which is great.

Mom puts on a work suit. With heels. Of course.

I wear a cool miniskirt I got last Christmas and my favorite turtleneck and a pair of black dress boots I never wear because they’re a little too small for me and they hurt my feet if I have to walk in them. I’m pretty sure the last time I wore them was last Thanksgiving.

While Mom carves the turkey, Dad dishes the carrots and corn and mashed potatoes and gravy into their respective bowls, and I fill the water glasses with ice cubes and water.

Then Ellis arrives at the table in sweats. I’m pretty sure they’re dirty sweats. She smells a bit like a hamper. She doesn’t offer to help, and just sits in her seat while the rest of us do stuff.

When the turkey is on the hot plate and covered in sufficient gravy, we sit in our chairs, and Mom starts the toast with her wineglass raised.

“To family,” she says. She tears up on the second syllable of
family
. Sniff. “To all the things we have to be thankful for.”

Dad clears his throat and raises his glass. “To a new start.” He nods to me.

I raise my water glass. “To love,” I say.

We all look to Ellis. Her hand isn’t anywhere near her glass. She’s just staring into space until it’s time to eat.

Mom says, “Ellis.”

She acts deaf.

Dad says, “Ellis.”

She sighs and raises her glass. “Here’s to bullshit,” she says.

And I can’t help it—I laugh so hard that I make her laugh, too. And that makes Dad and Mom laugh, too—in that order.

“To bullshit!” I repeat, and take a gulp of water.

“To bullshit!”

“To bullshit!”

“You smell,” I tell Ellis while we’re doing dishes.

“I tried,” she says.

“Dude, we have a lot of Thanksgivings in front of us. Why don’t we agree to make them atypical and cool instead of bullshit?”

“Are you going to wear those boots every year?”

“Probably. Why? Do they bug you?”

“You bug me.”

“Damn. You’re pissy.”

“I was kidding.”

“You need to warn a girl before you turn on her like that,” I say.

“I was kidding,” she says again while I’m passing her a really hot rinsed dish so she can dry it.

“No, you weren’t,” I say. She fumbles the dish and blows on her fingers.

We wash and dry in relative quiet for a while. I finally get to the soakers—the rack from the turkey and the bottom of the roaster—and I fill them with scalding-hot water and leave them to sit in the sink while I wipe down the kitchen table and the countertops.

“I’m gonna go get dressed,” Ellis says.

“Good.”

She starts toward the stairs.

“You know, you bug me, too. I’m just nice enough not to mention it,” I say.

“You just mentioned it.”

“So we’re even, then.”

I wipe down the stove top and replace the covers on the rings and then rinse my dishcloth and drape it over the drying rack.

Mom and Dad are bloating on the couch. I choose not to interrupt, and go to the quiet room and close the door. I dial Dee’s number.