The Watermelon Project

Chapter Nine

That night, I fall asleep dreaming about middle school. Which is normally not something people enjoy dreaming about. But I, miraculously, had a wonderful middle school experience. Probably because I was so focused on school work and my friendship with Ryan (and my crush on Charlie Parker) that I avoided all of the drama. In my dream, I'm sitting at my desk in Mr. Q's sixth grade history classroom. We just learned about castles and trebuchets. We've been assigned groups of four students and an article to read together. Charlie Parker is in my group. My group pushes our desks together. Charlie sits across from me. I smile when we make eye contact. Our group begins skimming the article and talking about its contents, which are blurry and random in my dream world. Charlie and I start talking quickly back and forth, getting excited about the topic. The kid sitting next to me suddenly says, "okay love birds, we get you're into this topic, but what are we going to present to the class?" Both our faces turn red. Charlie asks, "love birds?" and looks at me, kind of shocked. And then I wake up.

I laugh into the darkness of my room. I'd forgotten that had happened. That was the one, and the only, moment throughout our school years that I let myself believe Charlie actually liked me back. Eleven years old and already a hopeless romantic. I readjust my pillows and close my eyes, sighing. Maybe I should have a little more hope. What happened to that version of September?

The next day at school is the Republican Club's "Lettuce Taco-bout it Tuesday." They set up a taco station, and if you have a conversation with them for five minutes, you get a free taco. I hate to admit it, but it's kind of a clever scheme. And I am a sucker for food puns. But I don't enjoy tacos enough to subject myself to a "conversation." I'm not really in the mood for being chastised. Today they're talking about the role of Hollywood in perpetuating "extremist left ideology." I take a deep breath as I walk past, trying to stop my blood from boiling. I normally don't let them get to me, but when they're attacking the movie industry — which is, basically, my life...I feel like I might Hulk out. But turning into a giant green superhero in the middle of the student center would not be ideal. I spot Ryan waiting by the dining hall and try to push my anger away. I don't think the "I'm always angry" method will work for me. Sorry, Bruce Banner.

On Tuesdays, Ryan gets a longer lunch. I always have extra dining dollars (even though I live at home, my mom insisted I get the cheapest meal plan so I don't have to use my credit card at school to get food), so I buy her lunch and we sit in Hodgin's student center atrium. It's one of the prettiest buildings on campus, with tall glass windows and lots of plants.

"Woah," Ryan says as I approach. "You look like you're about to jump into a boxing ring."

I laugh, shaking out my anger. "Sorry, the Republican Club just really pissed me off today. They're bashing Hollywood, and you know how I feel about Hollywood, and—"

"My dad's been sleeping with another woman," Ryan says, out of nowhere.

"Uh is that a new safe word you're trying out? Watermelon to PG for you?" I say, shocked, not sure what's happening. And then Ryan starts crying. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry — you know I get sarcastic when things get intense."

"Yeah," Ryan says, wiping at her eyes. "You need to work on that." We both chuckle.

"Okay," I say, grabbing her hand. "Let's go buy some really unhealthy campus food and then you can tell me everything. Or we can just sit and eat. Whatever you need."

Ryan smiles and squeezes my hand. "Okay," she says. "As long as you don't watermelon me."

"I would never. Watermelon is saved for trivial, unimportant complaining...like the Republican Club."

Ryan and I each get black bean burgers, and we drown them in ketchup, mustard, pickles, onions, tomatoes, and lettuce. We get a giant pile of fries to share, chocolate chip cookies, and apples (in an attempt to help our stomachs handle the fried food). I fill two cups up with Dr. Pepper. We go sit in our favorite spot — a table hidden behind a giant hanging plant. So far, it appears no one else has discovered it.

"Okay," I say when I sit down. Ryan takes a sip of her soda. I wait for her to swallow. It somehow takes forever.

"Okay," she finally says.

"So...you wanna talk about it?" I push the fries towards her and take a giant bite of my burger.

"Yes." She pops a fry into her mouth, but not before she's completely coated it in barbeque sauce. The one thing we disagree on. I'm a ketchup and fries kinda gal.

"Okay," I say again, feeling like I've forgotten how to have a conversation. Maybe I should have practiced with the Republican Club. "So um...your dad is sleeping with another woman?"

Ryan shoves a whole cookie in her mouth, nodding. I watch her chew, a glimmer of panic in her eyes. She swallows, shaking her head.

"You know how I had to leave early from breakfast-for-dinner to go pick up my mom?" I nod. She takes a sip of soda and swirls it around her mouth. I can tell that she is fighting with herself — she wants to have this conversation and she doesn't at the same time. Each bite, each sip, is a pause, a moment to debate if she wants to keep going.

"Well," she says after swallowing the soda. "That's not the first time my dad has flaked on picking her up recently. So my mom decided to turn on location sharing on the maps app on their phones. So she could see where he was, or if he was running late, or whatever."

"And when she looked, he wasn't at work?"

"Nope." She picks up her burger, a look of defeat in her eyes.

"I don't really know what to say," I admit.

"It's okay. I don't either. He's moving in with her."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

I take another bite of my burger. When my parents got divorced, there wasn't any scandal or big blow up or anything. It was just a bunch of little things that built up over time. They just decided that they'd be happier separated. I was in eighth grade when it happened. I'm pretty much over it. I like my life. TV with Mom, visiting Dad in New York for holidays. Their divorce wasn't bad at all, really.

"You know what the worst part is?" Ryan says, snapping me out of my divorce-reminiscing. "When I found out he was always out late because he was having an affair, I was relieved. I don't know..." she breaks a fry in half and swirls it in the barbeque sauce. "I thought he was gambling or something. Or drinking again. So when I found out he was sober and sleeping around..."

"That completely makes sense to me," I say. "If you feel bad about that, you shouldn't. You shouldn't feel bad about any of this. It's cliche, I know, but it isn't your fault."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks." She chuckles, wiping at her eyes. "We forgot napkins."

"Oh, as per usual. I'll go grab some." As I walk away, an idea pops into my mind. "Hey," I say when I return. "Are you doing anything next weekend? It's fall break."

"Besides eating tubs of icecream and binge watching rom-coms with my mom? Nope."

"Why don't you come to New York with me to visit my dad? We can go explore the city, eat lots of food..." I stop and read her face. "I mean, of course, if, like, going to see my divorced dad would be weird for you right now, I mean...sorry I didn't think about that."

"No, no. That sounds great, actually. I haven't been to the city in ages."

I smile. "Great. Maybe we can even sneak into a super fancy penthouse open house and take pictures."

"Will there be marble showers?"

"There better be."