Fangirl

pitched.… ‘Do you secretly want to eat dog food? Does the smell of it make your mouth water?’”
    Cath joined in, in her best announcer’s voice: “Is the only thing keeping you from eating dog food the fear that your neighbors will notice all the cans—and realize that you don’t have a dog?”
    “Graaavioli,” her dad said, rounding out every vowel sound. “It’s dog food. For people. ”
    “You didn’t get the business,” Cath said. “I’m sorry.”
    He shook his head for a little too long. “We did get it. Sometimes getting it is infinitely worse than not getting it. It was a shoot-out—six agencies. They picked us, then they rejected every good idea we had. And then, out of desperation, Kelly says in a client meeting. ‘Maybe there’s a bear who comes out of hibernation really hungry, and all it can say is Grrr . And then the bear gets a big bowl of delicious Grrr avioli, and it turns into a human being.… ‘And the client just loved the idea, just fucking flipped, started shouting, ‘That’s it!’ ”
    Cath glanced back to see if Courtney was listening. Their dad only cursed when he was talking about work. (And sometimes when he was manic.) He said that ad agencies were worse than submarines, all cussing and claustrophobia.
    “So now we’re doing cartoon bears and Grrr avioli,” he said.
    “That sounds terrible.”
    “It’s torture. We’re doing four TV spots. Four different bears turn into four different people— four, so we can cover our races. And then fucking Kelly asks if we should make the Asian guy a panda bear. And he was serious. Not only is that racist, panda bears don’t hibernate. ”
    Cath giggled.
    “That’s what I have to say to my boss—‘It’s an interesting idea, Kelly, but panda bears don’t hibernate.’ And do you know what he says?”
    Cath laughed. “Uh-uh. Tell me.”
    “Don’t be so literal, Arthur.”
    “No!”
    “Yes!” Her dad laughed, shaking his head again, too fast, too long. “Working on this client is like making my brain dig its own grave.”
    “Its own grrr ave-ioli,” Cath said.
    He laughed again. “It’s all right,” he said, tapping the steering wheel. “It’s money. Just money.”
    She knew that wasn’t true. It was never about the money with him—it was about the work. It was about coming up with the perfect idea, the most elegant solution. Her dad didn’t really care what he was selling. Tampons or tractors or dog food for people. He just wanted to find the perfect puzzle-piece idea that would be beautiful and right.
    But when he found that idea, it almost always got killed. Either the client rejected it, or his boss rejected it. Or changed it. And then it was like someone had tapped straight into her dad’s heart and was draining the sap from his soul.
    After they dropped Courtney off in West O, Wren slid forward in her seat and turned down the radio.
    “Seat belt,” their dad said.
    She sat back and buckled up again. “Is Grandma coming over tomorrow?”
    “No,” he said. “She went to stay in Chicago with Aunt Lynn for a month. She wants to spend the holidays with the kids.”
    “We’re kids,” Wren said.
    “Not anymore. You’re sophisticated young women. Nobody wants to watch you unwrap gift cards. Hey, what time is your mom coming to get you?”
    Cath turned sharply to look at her sister.
    Wren was already watching Cath. “Noon,” she said guardedly. “They’re having lunch at one.”
    “So we’ll eat at six? Seven? Will you save some room?”
    “She’s coming to get you?” Cath asked. “She’s coming to our house?”
    Their dad looked strangely at Cath—then into the mirror at Wren. “I thought you guys were gonna talk about this.”
    Wren rolled her eyes and looked out the window. “I knew she’d just freak out—”
    “I’m not freaking out,” Cath said, feeling her eyes start to sting. “And if I am freaking out, it’s because you’re not telling me things.”
    “It’s not a big deal,” Wren said. “I’ve talked to Mom a few times on the phone, and I’m going to hang out with her for a couple hours tomorrow.”
    “You talk to her for the first time in ten years, and that’s not a big deal? And you call her Mom ?”
    “What am I supposed to call her?”
    “You’re not.” Cath turned almost completely to face the backseat, straining against the seat belt. “You’re not supposed to call her.”
    She felt her dad’s hand on her knee. “Cath—”
    “No,”