Parallel

before. It doesn’t really suit him.
    “Hi!” I chirp, attempting to mitigate the grumbling by going as far to the opposite extreme as possible. “I’m Abby!” The chirpy voice also keeps me from fixating on the fact that I had a dream about Josh’s brother last night, a dream in which Josh’s brother gave me a pumpkin pie. How is that possible? I’ve never seen him before today.
    “Sorry for my brother’s rudeness,” he replies, extending his hand. “I’m Michael.”
    An intense sense of déjà vu stalls my next thought. I just stand there, staring at him—trying to place him in a moment—any real moment. But I can’t.
    “You gonna leave me hangin’?” he teases, nodding toward his outstretched hand.
    “Oh! Sorry!” I put my hand in his. The moment we touch, recognition ripples through me. I want to ask him whether we’ve met before, but I know there’s no way we could have.
    “Are you all planning to spend the day on the front porch?” comes their mom’s voice from inside.
    “How are you with a fire extinguisher?” Josh asks me. “I told my dad I’d help him fry the turkey.”
    Michael steps back to let us inside. “Yeah, you’d better go help your dad ,” he says pointedly. Without a word, Josh walks past Michael into the house. Michael keeps his eyes on me.
    I meet his gaze. The sense of recognition, of unplaced memory, is overpowering. Those green eyes. The shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar on his cheek. I blink rapidly, trying to snap out of it.
    “Do you have something in your eye?” Michael asks, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
    I quickly look away. “No, I . . . I should find Josh.” Eyes glued to the ground, I brush past him and step inside the house.
    Two hours and one almost-fire later, the five of us sit down to eat. After the scene I witnessed on the porch, I assumed Josh and Michael would be at each other’s throats all afternoon, but they appear to be making an effort to stay civil for my benefit. This, apparently, requires that neither of them speak. The only sounds at the table are the clinks of silver hitting porcelain china.
    “So, Michael,” Martin says, breaking the silence, “what classes are you taking this semester? Anything in the physics department?” It’s almost December and they don’t know what classes he’s taking?
    Michael responds with a patronizing smile. “Unfortunately not, Marty.”
    Martin doesn’t react to the diminutive. But he doesn’t say anything else, either.
    “So what colleges are you applying to?” Michael asks. I assume he’s asking Josh until I realize that everyone at the table is looking at me.
    “Oh, um . . .” My mind is suddenly blank. “Journalism schools,” I say after a few awkward seconds. “Northwestern, Indiana. A few other places.”
    “Why not Yale?” Michael asks, popping a piece of fried turkey skin into his mouth.
    I shoot Josh an annoyed look. “I didn’t tell him,” Josh says quickly. “He goes there, that’s why he’s asking.”
    Michael looks at Josh, then back at me. “Didn’t tell me what?”
    “Nothing,” I reply. “I thought about applying there, but decided not to.” Suddenly, my mother-daughter drama seems so childish.
    “Why?”
    “I want to go somewhere with a journalism program.”
    “A girl who knows what she wants,” Michael says, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m impressed, bro.” Beside me, Josh bristles. I want to look away—I should look away—but I can’t. Michael’s gaze is magnetic. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a look pass between Josh’s mom and stepdad.
    “Mrs. Wagner, these biscuits are delicious,” I say, changing the subject.
    “Oh, good!” she replies, sounding pleased. “It was my attempt at Southern cuisine.” She picks up the one on her plate, examining it. “I was expecting them to be fluffier.”
    “I think they’re perfect,” I tell her.
    “Yeah, Mom. Nice work.” Michael leans over and pecks her on the cheek. She lights up.
    Michael immediately turns back to me.
    “So why do you want to be a journalist?”
    The question catches me off guard. Nobody ever asks why . “What do you mean?”
    “I’m just wondering what prompted the decision. You seem pretty certain about it.”
    “Oh, I uh . . .” I look down at my plate, embarrassed that I don’t have an answer. Because my friend’s mom was a journalist, and I liked the way she dressed. Is that really my reason? “I like to write,” I say