brett
Now I understand why kids hate divorce so much: It often replaces the illusion of a cohesive, united pair of superheroes with the reality of two clueless, disoriented anger junkies who are not any more well adjusted than—shudder—the kids themselves are. I’ll never forget the story Jared told me about when he was eight years old and his parents divorced. Apparently, they were screaming at each other at the top of their lungs in the very next room for three hours. The kids heard every heartbreaking syllable. When they finally came out, they sat Jared and his older brother down and calmly told them they were going to be separating. And that it would be “nice,” because now they’d have two houses instead of one. Jared and his brother ran and locked themselves in the bathroom, holding each other and crying for the whole night. The parents couldn’t even get the kids out of the bathroom to go to school the next day. It wasn’t until four p.m. the following afternoon that hunger got the best of them and they were coaxed out by peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches on the other side of the door. That was the last peanut-butter sandwich he ever had. To this day Jared won’t touch anything with peanut butter. A perfectly delicious food. Divorce fucks you up.
My family has taken to answering my calls like this: “Oh, it’s you, Brett.” Well, like it or not, they’re going to have to deal with me. At least occasionally. Because a key stipulation of the agreement drafted by Burt—among about five things he worked up to make the whole absurd process and resulting nonbinding agreement seem official—was a continuation of Layla’s “custody” scheme. Each of us gets the family on a designated weekend. I get them; she gets them; I get them; she gets them. This basically will keep Layla and me from running into each other accidentally, but it also has the effect of laying out ground rules for what was already becoming a grueling competition for the family’s affections.
I take this very seriously, wanting to plan a get-together or special event. But I’m kind of stuck. Layla was always better at this sort of thing. I’m racking my brain, trying to dream up something that won’t immediately be eclipsed, so I call my dad to see if I can trick him into coming up with a brilliant suggestion.
“No ideas?” he says, busting me about three minutes into the call. “Well, it’s a tough situation, I know.”
Then he says something that hits me like a fire hydrant in the crotch. I know he’s joking—I think he’s joking—but it still makes my blood boil.
“Maybe you should call Layla.”
“What does that mean?” I snort.
“Nothing, nothing. We’re just … The family has something special in our near future. When we go to the Sunday—”
“You made plans for this weekend,” I challenge, “knowing that it’s my turn?”
“For Pete’s sake, it’ll be on Layla’s weekend!” he says. “But she’s already arranged a doozy: Sunday at the spa for your mom and your sister, and Scott and I get a round of golf at LACC.”
“Good for her,” I say.
“Well, I’m just saying. If you two really are planning on buying our affections, you’re falling behind good,” he remarks with a laugh.
“LACC is private,” I mutter, hardly hearing him. “How the hell did she swing that?”
“Some couple with a membership came in for photos, and apparently they loved the way Layla caught the moment where their dog’s little tongue was just showing a bit—”
“That cheap trick?” I cut my dad off. “She gives them peanut butter, for crying out loud.”
“Brett,” my father says, suddenly serious. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal. This all just seems silly, and we don’t expect you to match Layla’s—”
“Fine. I won’t,” I toss out. And I hang up.