You Look Different in Real Life

stop being confused by this years ago.
    On these nights, it’s easy to pretend our family is the way it used to be and my parents cared enough to fight for their marriage. It’s easy to keep eating and talking despite the side dish of bittersweet that always seems to sit at the edge of the table, untouched.
    Olivia tries to take the salad bowl from Dad, but he holds it teasingly just beyond her reach.
    “Grow up,” she snaps, and grabs it from him.
    Once we all have our food, Mom clears her throat and announces, “Jeff, we have some news.” I gave her permission to be the one to do this.
    Dad looks at her, then me, his eyes lit up mischievously.
    “Lance and Leslie Rodgers are in town. It looks like the third movie is a go.”
    “I heard a rumor about that from one of my patients,” he says simply. I won’t ask who it was, because then I’ll picture that person in a white paper gown, and sometimes that picture is not pretty. Now he turns to me. “That’ll be exciting, yes?”
    My parents’ clueless grins. Olivia’s silent scowl. My window of opportunity is open, and I can fit through.
    “Actually, no,” I say. “I don’t want to do it.”
    Now Olivia explodes into laughter and offers her hand for a high five. I gently oblige.
    “What?” asks Dad.
    Mom overlaps with, “Why not?”
    “I’ve thought about it, and I have my reasons.”
    “Is everyone else doing it?” asks Dad.
    “Are you going to tell me that if everyone else does it, I should too? Isn’t that the opposite of the standard jumping-off-the-Empire-State-Building speech?”
    “Consider what it means,” says Mom, who looks at Dadfor approval. He nods back. “Not just to Lance and Leslie but to the other kids, and the fans, and—”
    “And to you?” asks Olivia. I’m so glad it’s her and not me who says this.
    “To us ?” asks Dad. “Why, what would it mean to us?”
    “Oh, please,” says Olivia. “Like you don’t want all the attention and publicity.”
    Mom and Dad exchange a sharp glance and Mom lets out a sigh.
    “We’ve talked about this before,” says Mom. “Don’t for a second think we have our own interests at heart.”
    “We made a commitment ten years ago and I think we should stick to it,” adds Dad. “Unless you have a really good reason not to. Justine, do you have a really good reason not to?”
    I look at my parents’ faces, serious and united now.
    Olivia reaches out and touches my wrist. “Don’t let them pressure you.”
    “Justine?” Mom nudges. “Why would you say no?”
    These are my parents, and they’re always telling me I can be honest with them about anything. They tell me this so much it’s annoying and makes me want to do the opposite. But right now, maybe I should give it a try.
    “I just . . . I’m not . . . I’m not what I was hoping I would be by now.”
    My mother melts a little. “Oh, sweetie.” Which means she doesn’t get it.
    “Mom,” I say evenly and, I hope, firmly. “You can’t even get me to be in family pictures. Why do you think I’d want a camera crew on my tail?”
    It’s so much more than the way I look, but I’ve thought about this and decided my best strategy is to focus on what they already know about me.
    Dad leans back in his chair and nods; maybe I hit the mark with him. “Remember when I didn’t want to go to my twenty-fifth high school reunion because of my bald spot?”
    “No way,” says Olivia. “If you tell that story again, I’ll puke.”
    “It applies!” Dad’s raising his voice now.
    I look at my family squaring off against one another and my resolve falters. If I hold firm, the pressure would make life a living hell that would be worse than the much briefer living hell of just doing the film. Either way, I will hate them for it.
    Olivia leans in and whispers, “Don’t cave.”
    I stare at my plate. “I won’t.”
    “This makes me sad,” says my father.
    “Yes, because it’s all about you!” shouts my sister, as she pushes away from the table and huffs upstairs.
    A stunned, hear-a-pin-drop silence follows. Mom is making shapes with her potatoes, and Dad squeezes the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger like he does when he’s thinking or sad.
    I’m not sure what to say now, so I just turn to Mom and ask, “Will you call Leslie and tell her for me?”
    Mom pauses, staring into my eyes, then, mercifully, nods.
    Dad says, “Jussie, you wanna walk me out?”
    Usually I invite him to stay and watch a