Zoe parked her car in her parents' garage. Her three keys hit each other like some less pleasant version of wind chimes with discordant sounds and dully colored irregular shapes instead of the cheery colors that come with a light breeze.
"I'm home!" Zoe called, closing the door after that sentence to make the point.
"How was practice?" Larry called from the living room.
"Nice. The guitar solos are supposed to be improvisational, but I've decided to plan mine out ahead of time, and I've pretty much got them down. I've got a different one for each performance," she replied. Larry gave a nod of approval as she walked past him with a smile.
"That's a good idea, Zoe, but improvisation is just as much of an important skill as planning," he thought aloud.
Zoe smiled again, turning the cheesiness dial up to eleven. "Of course. I know that. I'd just like to practice improv somewhere with a little less pressure. It's my second to last high school jazz band concert. I have the spring one, and then It's over, dad. I really want to get it right,"
"You wouldn't get the full "high school jazz band experience™ if you didn't improv," Larry pointed out.
"Good point, again, but I've been doing mostly improv in practice, so nobody knows," Zoe complied.
"I'm not saying you have a bad idea, Zoe," Larry clarified, "I'm just giving you things to think about. Age wise, you're only sixteen, but education wise, you're going to be an adult next year. You've got to be able to see these things."
Zoe started, "I get it. I'm your kid, so you worry. But I'll be fine. I've been told by several people that I'm more mature than they expect me to be, and—"
"You are," Larry interjected.
"I'll be fine. That's all I want to say," Zoe cut off her statement.
"I know," Larry said. It didn't sound defensive, for once. It sounded almost fond like he believed in her.
"Welcome home, girl," Cynthia called from the kitchen./
I've only been gone for three hours or so. Chill."
Zoe couldn't feel the fiber-like smell of chicken cooking physically, but it had always had that texture in her mind's eye for as long as she could remember. She saw it as biscotti colored fibers filling up her head. It smelled like an ordinary night; coming home from school, an easy dinner, two hours of solitude, comfortable pajamas, and bed. Grilled chicken was her favorite version of this smell.
"Well, I missed you!" Cynthia teased, winking in her daughter's direction, "How'd it go?"
"Practice was fine. Can I help you cook?" Zoe responded, deflecting the question. As a mother, Cynthia could get nosey. She'll back off (for a while) if Zoe asked her to, or if she knew Zoe was uncomfortable, but she always came back to the topic later until you spilled all she wanted to know.
"Sure! If you want to, you can make some baked potatoes. Put four of them in the microwave after you've washed and stabbed the lights out of 'em," Cynthia instructed in a way that had both of them laughing.
"Who were you hanging out with this afternoon? You didn't take too long," Cynthia inquired. So this must have been the real purpose of the conversation.
"Evan. He's a guy in our year. No, we're not interested in each other. Don't even ask. I just needed to... thank him for something. Then Jared came along and, well, I could have been home sooner, honestly, but he—"
"Kleinman's a dick. Did he do anything to you? And why were you talking to Evan fucking Hansen?" Connor yelled from the dining room.
"None of your business, Connor" Zoe yelled. She started counting to prevent herself from saying anything else.
"Who is this Evan?" Cynthia asked. She kept cutting vegetables while saying this.
Zoe explained, "He's in my English class. He usually hangs out around the jazz band room after practice on regular days, probably waiting for Jared. He—"/
"Is an idiot who has no sense of healthy decision making and because of him, every day since August thirteenth has been hell for me, for you, and the rest of this group of people who happen to share DNA and nothing else," Connor finished for her.
"You owe him a lot, Connor," Zoe retorted.
"I owe him nothing. He makes stupid decisions, can't get out a full sentence without stuttering or wiping his hands on his pants, and hangs out with Jared Kleinman. Jared Fucking Kleinman!" Connor said.
"Don't listen to him, mom," Zoe said, "Evan is sweet and considerate, and the one time he did something impulsive in his life he saved somebody else's. Connor is lucky to know him, even if he doesn't realize it now."
"I see," was Cynthia's answer.
"He likes you, you know," was Connor's last-ditch attempt to make Zoe change her mind.
"He does not," Zoe replied, cool and collected, "Jared Kleinman said the same thing, for your information. Since Evan said he only likes me as a friend, I'm going to make it stay that way."
"He's a pathological liar," Connor stated.
"Who's being pretentious now?" Zoe asked, effectively getting the last word of their fight earlier.
Just knowing the word pretentious is pretentious," Zoe mumbled while stabbing some potatoes with a fork. She noticed that Cynthia wasn't asking any more questions, and Zoe was fine with keeping it that way.
Zoe put the baked potatoes in the microwave, not lingering in the kitchen any longer than necessary. It was November, after all, and Zoe had a Christmas dance to help plan.
