Page 9 of Snowballed

Rocky waves her phone. “A guy like this is going to know his way around a woman’s body.”

I shake my head. “He’s too advanced. I’m getting nervous just looking at him.” Noah Goodwin is the stuff of fantasies, and I’m a realist. Still, I steal one more look at those rippling abs. What would it be like to lick my way up that six pack?

“Senior year will be your year,” Rocky vows. She curves her forefinger and thumb in a circle. For most people, this is the okay sign, but it’s our secret signal for my quest for the big O.

3

Noah

“So, what are we doing for your last supper?” Chi asks. Last supper sounds a bit dramatic, but I’m leaving late tonight for Vermont, so she’s not wrong.

“Bachan is making dinner,” I say. Our mom’s mom lives in a carriage house on our property. When we were kids, she lived with us because she was the one who filled in as the surrogate parent while our parents worked or traveled. But when we moved to this bigger property, my dad “suggested” that Bachan needed her own place. My tiny grandmother is one of the few people who can go toe-to-toe with legendary bad-ass Gary Goodwin. Instead of arguing, her methods are polite resistance or the silent treatment. Neither of my parents can last more than 24 hours against her powers.

I wish I could take a page from my grandmother’s playbook. Since we got back from Montreal, my father has alternated between arguing with me and ignoring me. I’m not sure which treatment I prefer, and my stomach is constantly knotted. This summer has been brutal, and I can hardly wait to leave.

Ocean waves crash onto the shore outside our dining room window. Chi sets the table with chopsticks and napkins. I can hear Bachan in the kitchen talking to Stella, our housekeeper. My father is bothered by the fact that we have help, yet Bachan insists on doing the cooking. Not every night, but whenever she decides we need Japanese comfort food. Like if we get bad marks, lose a big hockey tourney, or break up with someone. And of course, Bachan is not going to stick to my father’s dietary restrictions. Once we became teenagers, my father put us all on the same lean protein, complex carbohydrates, sugar-free diet that keeps him in game shape. My grandmother argues that the Japanese diet is very healthy, and it’s important that we keep our culture. Their biggest fight was over white rice—if you can call it a fight. It was mainly my father trotting out facts and my grandmother smiling and ignoring him.

Anyway, my grandmother has excellent emotional antennae, and she’s been feeding me comfort food whenever my father’s not around. Tonight’s dinner is yakisoba, a fried noodle dish that Bachan used to make when I came home starved after hockey practice.

“I guess it’s a cheat day,” Chi mutters. She loves these dinners too, but her metabolism isn’t as fast as mine.

The three of us sit down to dinner. My mother is on a business trip, and my father has taken Adam to see a specialist in Seattle about a lingering knee strain. My dad’s doing everything to ensure that Adam can make the NHL on his first try.

The meal is delicious, and I tell my grandmother so. Thanks to her, I will always associate carbs with love. Chi and I slurp down noodles noisily as we have done ever since my late grandfather claimed that loud eating showed an appreciation for the food. For a few minutes, I feel like a carefree kid again.

My grandmother shakes her head at our antics, but she’s smiling.

“I wonder if there is good Japanese food in Burlington,” she asks.

Chi nods. “I think there’s Japanese food everywhere these days.”

“But is it prepared by Japanese chefs?” That’s my grandmother’s benchmark. From cars to appliances to restaurants, she believes that Japanese is best.

After dinner, Chi asks me what I want to do.

“I have to finish packing,” I say.

“Do you want help?” she asks.

“No.”

Chi’s help will consist of ruling on which of my clothes are out of style. She trails me to my room anyway and drapes herself over an armchair.

“I hope you ditch all the negativity when you meet your new team,” she says.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been such a grouch all summer,” she says.

“Can you blame me? I’ve been battling Dad about Moo U.”

“You’re too sensitive. It’s weird because everyone thinks you’re so tough and stoic, but you’re the softest of all of us.” Unfortunately, she’s right. Chi is a pragmatist, and Adam is oblivious to emotional tensions. I hate fighting with people I love, and it shows.

Chi continues, “Remember that time you threw up when Mom and Dad were arguing in the car?”

“Jesus. I was seven. Can we not go through my top ten humiliations right now?”

“Well, it worked. They stopped fighting.” Chi finds the bright side as usual. She scrolls through her phone, and there’s a few minutes of blessed silence. “What are you and Lauren doing now that you’re moving to Vermont?”

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