“You’re sixteen,” Mom said. “You’re not going to a bar.” Only a true lawyer could’ve laid down the law like that. He supposed that was what a true lawyer would say. He couldn’t really be sure, since Mom was the only lawyer he knew.
The hotel blow dryer screeched. Mom had just stepped out of the shower. There was a natural order to things: shower, blow-dry hair, forbid teenage son from going to a bar. The woman didn’t waste actions or words.
Dad chilled in the corner armchair, reading his museum booklet. The man liked certain things: talking about numbers, reading about history, and staying alive by staying out of his wife’s way. He didn’t waste any words either.
“Maybe back home in the States,” the teenager said. His voice didn’t rise in pitch or volume. Excellent. His plan was going swimmingly: not backing down, not sounding like a whiney teenager, and not getting grounded for the rest of the summer. He did himself proud. “But we’re in Europe,” he continued. “In Hungary. The land of the free.”
At that last syllable, he spread his arms like he was going to give Mom a bear hug. He wasn’t going to give Mom a bear hug.
Mom continued blow-drying her hair. Dad continued reading the museum booklet. Neither of them looked at him.
Cool. He knew the drill. He tried not to tap his foot as he waited. They were flying back tomorrow afternoon. He had been good the entire three weeks, something he was sure very few teenagers could claim on their first trip to Europe.
He was a stranger in a strange land. Not only because he was standing in a country he had never visited before but also because he was wearing clothes he had never worn before: black loafers with matching dark socks, skinny jeans that broadcast to the world his butt could double as an ironing board, and a blue dress shirt that clung to him like Spider-Man webbing. Half an ounce of gel shaped his hair. It was half an ounce more than usual.
Zen silence wrapped around him. His arms dangled like jungle vines. He considered stabbing his fingers into his jean pockets (his entire hands wouldn’t fit), but he was afraid of looking like an Abercrombie & Fitch model, so he let them dangle away.
Any time now... any time now... Any later and the foot tapping might start.
Mom’s hair dried. Dad put away the booklet, sighed, and steepled his fingers. It made him look like a less evil version of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.
Showtime.
“Honey...” Only a true accountant could’ve said those two syllables with that kind of calculated sugar. He supposed that was how a true accountant would say it. He couldn’t really be sure, since Dad was the only accountant he knew.
“Darling...” Mom held the blow dryer like an oversized pistol. There must be a spy movie somewhere out there featuring a mom who was a lawyer who had a blow dryer that could transform into a gun.
Dad kept his fingers steepled. The Mr. Burns look didn’t really fit him, but it was all good if it helped the negotiation. “Let’s let the boy get it out of his system.”
“Let’s not let him get it into his system.”
His parents confused his friends. Wasn’t the Asian parent supposed to be the strict one?
“It’s not like he’s going to bring a girl home.”
The teenager groaned. “Gee, thanks, Dad.”
“Take it as a compliment that we took the precautionary measure of having you in the same room.” Dad winked. He wished Dad wouldn’t wink.
Mom laid the blow dryer down and walked towards him. He refused to admit it, but he was terrified of meeting her jade-colored eyes. She had friends who were judges. If she wanted to disappear him, she could make it happen.
Because his eyes were busy browsing the wall, he didn’t see her hand swooping in like an eagle. Without warning, she pinched his cheek and ruffled his hair. How did she move her hand from his face to his hair so fast?
“Mom!” Rise in pitch and volume. Not proud. He lifted his arms and defended himself with no luck. It had taken him forever to make his flat hair look like he’d just crawled out of bed but not really. Now he was going to look like he’d really just crawled out of bed.
“I didn’t make it any worse,” Mom said. Then it was her turn to sigh. Her eyes said, “You’re not a little boy anymore, but you’re still my little boy.” Her mouth said, “Have fun. But not too much fun.”
Success! The plan that had been proceeding swimmingly finally made it to shore!
“Thanks, Mom!” He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a bear hug.
Then he stepped away awkwardly, cleared his throat in an attempt so obvious to make it look not awkward that it looked awkward, and dropped his voice two octaves. “All right, so I, uh, will just get going now. Don’t wait up. I have the key.”
As soon as his parents released him, he escaped from the hotel room. But as he jogged down the stairs with a grin on his face—it was almost more like a prance than a jog—he thanked every god and ghost and saint he didn’t believe in that Mom and Dad were cool.