One of the worst aspects of Jess' job is the parties, which are sadly kind of essential to the smooth operation of their business. Everyone wants to be schmoozed, especially artists, and especially rich people who pay for art, and writing isn't really an exception to that cultural standard as much as Jess would like to believe otherwise. Thankfully the addition of Girl Chris to their motley band of publishers (on a contentious, part-time basis, anyway) has made the entire process a lot smoother. And it's not because she's a girl - it's because she's fucking mean. (Jess doesn't know what the fuck Matt was on when he kept insisting that she was "really nice, you guys, honestly" when he'd first met her.)
"Can you pry your lips off your own ass for like two seconds and focus? Like Jesus Christ, nobody's gonna buy your book if you spend the entire time making out with it," Chris will say. Everyone else in the room will arrange their faces to look shocked and offended, and the author will bluster and stammer and then eventually wilt beneath her stare, shut up, and then, finally, start listening to Matthew's "How Not to be an Asshole" crash course lesson, and all in all, everybody has less headaches.
Since Jess himself occasionally moonlights as one of their asshole authors, he tends to have a little more sympathy for them than the Chrises, especially after the round of parties they put him through for the second book. Jess would really, really like to think that the glowing reviews on his back cover are because it's actually good, and not because of those fancy-ass gift baskets Matt sends out with the party invitations, but he can't ever be one hundred percent sure. They have like, wine and chocolate in them, for fuck's sake.
The worst part isn't the critics though, who are usually reasonably smart and sane - it's the rich people they have to invite to stay hip and relevant, of course, who are always just terrible, no matter what. Jess has never enjoyed a friendly relationship with rich people, but at least when he was a kid he could mouth off or leave the room. Now he's, like, an adult or whatever, and has to stand there and smile and listen as they tell him that they really liked his book, you know, but why didn't he write about this completely different topic instead, isn't that much more interesting? Also the ending was bad. No, they can't tell him why, they just didn't like it. They had a spiritual reaction to it. Isn't that deep?
Sometimes the worst thing you can do to a writer is get them published.
"Oh you know, I've always wondered about this," says a woman in a blue dress, whose name Jess instantly forgot, two seconds she told him what it was, "this little legal custody certificate thing? Is that an art piece?"
Most people do tend to think it's some kind of avant-garde modern art thing, which isn't all that ridiculous of an assumption, considering how much avant-garde modern art shit that Matthew has put up around the shop. "No," Jess says with a sigh. He's not allowed to lie to people about it anymore, not since he told that woman from the Times that it was Matthew's, and she wrote a column about it. "It's the custody agreement I was awarded for my daughter."
If she thinks that it's strange to have that sort of thing framed and hung on the wall of your publishing office, she doesn't show it. "Oh, you have a daughter? That's wonderful! What's her name?"
"Willa," Jess says, resigned to having this conversation now. "She's two."
"Aw," the woman goes, apparently overwhelmed by the knowledge that two-year-old children exist in the world. "My son is about that age, too! It goes by so quickly, doesn't it?"
Jess smiles, and nods.
"How many words does she have?" the woman asks.
Jess blinks at her for a second, but she just looks at him expectantly, as if that wasn't a completely nonsense question. "Uh," he says, "what do you mean?"
"Words, you know, how many words does she know?" she clarifies. "Aiden has about seventy-five right now, but he picks up new ones so quickly, and I'm not always around to hear the new ones. I know, I know," she says, pausing to laugh, "it's so neurotic to actually keep a list, but I just can't help it, you know? It's the accountant in me."
"Willa, uh, talks," Jess says, frowning, "some. She talks some. I don't, uh, keep track or anything."
"Well." She waves her hand dismissively. "Because you're not a neurotic weirdo like me, obviously! As long as she's progressing, that's fine. Everybody goes at their own pace."
"Right," Jess says.
"What preschools are you looking at?"
"Uh," says Jess.
The woman's face goes sympathetic, in a sort of condescending kind of way. "Her mother is probably is taking the lead on that, huh?"
"My cell phone is ringing," Jess says desperately, pulling it out of his pocket. "Oh, wow, super important call, so sorry. Enjoy the party."
"Good luck," she calls after him. Jess pretends not to hear her.
"Has Willa said any new words, when she's with you guys?" Jess asks.
"Huh?" says Boy Chris. Girl Chris, who is hunched over smoking a cigarette with her head outside of the window, turns to give him a weird look. "She talks to us, if that's what you mean."
"No, I mean," Jess says, and grabs a half-empty bottle of wine from an abandoned serving tray, "new words. Like is she progressing, is what I need to know."
"Are you drunk?" asks Girl Chris.
"No," Jess says, and swigs the wine.
"I'm pretty sure I heard her say 'Tolstoy' the other day," Boy Chris offers. "But it might have been 'Bed Stuy.'"
Jess flops down in a chair with his wine. "I can't remember the last time she said a new word. Not one that she doesn't already know, anyway."
"Are you freaking out again?" asks Girl Chris. "Is that what's happening, here?"
"I don't freak out."
"Dude, you freak out all the time," says Boy Chris. "Your personality is like a fifty-fifty split between Dean Moriarty and that girl from Rebecca who thinks her house is trying to kill her."
"Shut the fuck up," Jess says, "don't try to act like you actually read books."
Boy Chris makes his offended face, but since he doesn't actually read books, he can't really argue that point. "What's your damage, man?"
"I'm not damaged, I'm just trying to think of the last time Willa said a new word."
"She repeats words a lot," Girl Chris says, throwing out her cigarette. She pulls her head back inside and shuts the window, shaking the snow out of her hair. "Like if we're all sitting around talking, she's usually in the middle listening, and then she'll take a bunch of the words she heard and repeat them. I don't know if she actually understands them, though, or if she's just saying them."
"She understands them," Jess says confidently. He knows she understands most of what people say, because he sees her respond to it. Like if someone is talking about the weather, she'll glance out the window. If they're discussing something in the room, like an object or a person, she'll turn her head to look at whatever it is - that kind of thing. So, she understands. "But there's a difference between understanding language and using it, right? Like if she can listen and understand things, that's one thing. But actually communicating is like the next step, don't you think? Taking what she knows and making the logical connection into actually applying it. When she does the repeating words thing - that's not communicating. She's just saying them because she likes the sounds."
"She communicates," Boy Chris says. "She's got some rad hand gestures."
Jess sighs and drinks some more of his wine.
"Relax, Jess," Girl Chris says. She sounds brisk, and a little dismissive, but Jess knows her well enough at this point to recognize that she doesn't mean to be. "My sister didn't start talking until she was five. Not all kids are the same."
"Plus she's only two," Boy Chris says. "And she does talk." He makes an 'ehh' face, swinging his head side to side. "Maybe not as much as most kids, but that could just be her personality. It's too soon to tell."
"Sure," Jess says, and takes another drink.
Girl Chris frowns, eyeing Jess like he's a live grenade that's just been lobbed through their window. "He's freaking out."
Jess keeps chugging his wine.
"Stop freaking out," Boy Chris says sternly.
"Okay," says Jess.
"I mean it," Boy Chris continues. "She's fine. She'll be fine. She's fine."
"Is there more wine left?" Jess asks.
"Did you talk as a kid?" Liz asks. "What do you mean, did you talk? Of course you talked."
"No I mean," Jess says, already regretting this, "when did I start talking?"
"Oh, um," says Liz, "hm. Well, the normal time."
"The normal time," Jess repeats flatly.
"Yeah, you know. It was all normal. You did everything the way babies are supposed to do it."
Jess sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You didn't really babble much," Liz offers. "You know that thing babies do, where they make up their own words? You didn't do that. You made sounds, but you didn't actually, like, say any words, unless they were real ones."
"Okay," Jess says. "That's - uh. Okay."
"What's this about, hon?"
"Nothing," Jess says, just as something crashes on her side of the phone line, and she curses in his ear, sudden and loud. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, damn it, T.J. fell off the roof again," Liz says. "Listen, can I call you back in like an hour?"
"I thought T.J. wasn't allowed on roofs anymore."
"It's like trying to tell a cat not to chase mice," Liz says, sounding ridiculously affectionate. Jess grimaces. "Listen, I'll call you back and we'll talk more - "
"No, it's fine, never mind," Jess tells her. "Not a big deal."
"Are you sure?"
No. "Yeah," Jess says.
"Well, Rory was talking in full sentences by the time she was two," Luke says. Jess groans out loud. "You, on the other hand - you were a quiet kid, you know. At least when I was around."
"Maybe I just didn't like you," Jess says.
"Are you kidding? You loved me," Luke boasts. "I always brought a bunch of those chocolate egg things that you liked."
"So you bribed me."
"Well, yeah," Luke says, unapologetic. "Are you freaking out about something?"
"No," Jess says. "So when you say I was quiet, what does that mean exactly, like did I just not talk at all?"
"Just, quiet," Luke says. He sounds uncomfortable. "I only visited a couple times a year, you know. Your mom and I weren't exactly - well - "
"Whatever, Luke, that's not what this is about," Jess says impatiently. "All she told me is that I was 'normal,' whatever the fuck that means. And it's not like I'm gonna call Jimmy up and ask him."
"You are freaking out about something," Luke says.
"I am not freaking out!"
"Kids go at their own pace, Jess, I'm sure Willa is fine," Luke says.
Jess presses his head back against the couch, glaring at the ceiling. "Would you just - okay, when did I start talking? Just answer that question for me please. That is literally the only thing I need from you right now."
Luke huffs and puffs, sounding eerily similar to the animated dragon that was in the movie Jess and Willa watched last night. "Well, lemme think. Okay. You were...I guess you were about four years old. Yeah - I remember now, you were four, because that was the first time Liz threw you an actual birthday party. I came up for that, and then a few weeks later Liz called me and said you were talking."
"I didn't learn how to talk until I was four?" Jess asks. "Isn't that kind of late?"
"Well, you'd say certain words. You said 'Mama,' and 'no' - you said 'no' a lot, actually," Luke says, sounding gruffly fond. "But if you couldn't say something in three words or less, you just wouldn't say it. Until you were about four, and then out of nowhere I guess you just started, you know, talking like a normal kid."
"Yeah but like - was it typical four-year-old talking, or did I just...stall somewhere and then pick up where I left off?"
"I don't know," Luke says. "Like I said, I only saw you a couple times a year. Ask your mom."
"I did ask her, and you know what she's like. She doesn't remember details."
"Ask her again! She's your mom, Jess, I'm sure she has stories, if that's what you're after."
It isn't. "I'm not trying to take a trip down memory lane here, Luke, I just need to know what my actual development was like, and I doubt Liz is going to be any more helpful than 'oh, you were normal.'"
"You don't give her enough credit."
"She didn't even remember if she kept me up to date on vaccinations," Jess exclaims in frustration. "I had to track down my old doctor just so I could find out if I was going to give Willa the measles."
"Well, that's ridiculous, I'm sure she took care of all that kind of stuff," Luke says, but he sounds kind of hesitant, like he doesn't really believe it.
"He was retired, Luke," Jess says flatly. "I had to go to his house. Like a stalker."
"You are totally freaking out," Luke says triumphantly. "I knew you'd be like this. I knew you were turning into this kind of parent."
"Shut up," says Jess.
"You need to learn how to relax, Jess," Luke says, in an eerily-accurate impression of Jess' own voice.
Jess hangs up on him. Typical, he thinks.
"You're really worried about this, aren't you," says Girl Chris.
Jess doesn't answer, watching Willa run in lopsided circles in the grass, chasing after pigeons. He'd tried, at first, to explain to her how many diseases they carried, but then realized halfway through that he sounded like the paranoid weirdo everyone thought he was, and stopped. If she actually catches one though, all bets are off, he promises himself.
Chris blows her bangs out of her face, rolling her eyes. Underneath her coat, she's still in her work uniform, which is this garish orange apron over a black t-shirt. Jess still can't really picture her in that context - working at a kids' science museum. What the hell do they even let her do? She can't even make it through a single conversation without either cursing or insulting somebody. "You're such a freak."
Case in point. "Sue me for being worried about my kid."
Chris shakes her head, leaning her arm back against the park bench. "You're gonna drive yourself fucking crazy."
Jess gives her a dirty look. "It's not just the talking thing, okay? I know she'll be fine on the talking. I know that."
"Okay," Chris says, elongating the vowel to make it sound as condescending as possible. "Then what else is it?"
"It's," Jess says, and has to pause to try and articulate what he means. "It's - her thought process. The way she thinks about things." Chris doesn't say anything, but she tilts her chin up and looks a little less bored, which Jess takes as a good sign. "You know that little toy radio that Matthew gave her? The one that automatically plays a song when you wave your hand in front of it?"
"Yeah, she loves that thing," Chris says.
"Yeah, well," Jess says, looking back over at Willa. She's lost her hat, at some point, which is like the third time this week. At least twenty percent of Jess' income goes into keeping Willa in hats. "It broke the other day, while Hartfield was watching her. It wouldn't stop playing the song, so Hartfield took the batteries out. And Willa - she's seen me do that before, with her other toys."
"Okay," Chris says, eyebrows furrowed.
"And, Hartfield has a dog now," Jess says. "One of those annoying little ones that bark all the time. And last night, she brought the thing up with her to play with Willa, and it wouldn't stop barking. Willa got pretty annoyed with it, pretty quickly, and so she started like...I don't know, manhandling it."
"She manhandled a dog?" Chris says, mouth twitching.
Jess shakes his head, resisting the urge to smile a little himself. It had been funny. "Yeah, like, she picked the thing up and started turning it around, like looking at its stomach, behind its ears, pulling at its fur. We didn't know what the fuck she was trying to do - it was bizarre."
"She didn't hurt it, did she?"
"No, she was nice to it," Jess says. "But eventually we realized - she was looking for the dog's batteries, Chris. She wanted it to stop barking, so she tried to take its batteries out."
Chris bursts out laughing, throwing her head back in abandon.
"Yeah, okay, it's funny," Jess says indulgently. "It's cute, it's funny. But like - she knows the difference between a toy dog and a real dog. She knows, because she understands that one is alive and the other isn't. She's not mean to the dog, even when she was picking it up she was still obviously trying to be gentle. She knows it's alive. She's rough with her toys, because she knows they're not."
"Jess," Chris starts, still laughing, "that's - it's kid logic. It's not - "
"She understands what batteries are too, because she brings them to me from the kitchen sometimes, when her toys need new ones," Jess insists. "Don't - listen, don't look at me like I'm overreacting. I'm not. I know my daughter, I'm not overreacting."
"Yeah, okay, I'm listening to you, man," Chris says, holding out her hands. "Honest."
"It's not the only example," Jess says, shaking his head. "Her logic is like - it skips steps, sometimes. Like when she's solving problems - most people go from A to B to C, and it's like Willa will go from A to D, and then not even notice that B and C are there."
"She'll learn that," Chris insists. "She's so young still, Jess."
"That's just it - she's already learned it. She just, like, ignores it." Jess shakes his head, looking back at Willa. She's still running, but not after pigeons now - she's looking up at the air, watching something in the sky. Whatever she's seeing up there, it's making her smile. "So - I'm trying to get her to turn her lamp off when she leaves her room, but she always does it by just putting a blanket on top of it, even though the switch is easy enough to reach. And she knows what it is, and where it is - but she just puts her blanket over it instead to muffle the light, because she thinks that's easier, or faster. Because she takes shortcuts. Like innovative shortcuts, you know? The last time I took her to this park, there was a giant puddle on that merry go round thing, so I told her not to play on it because her shoes would get wet. So you know what she did? She took off her shoes." Jess shakes his head. "I couldn't even scold her for it because, like, she's not wrong. She solved the problem, technically."
"She's smart," Chris says. "Obviously. She's very, very bright. We can all tell."
"I'm not saying there's anything going on," Jess says. "It's not that she thinks dogs have batteries, it's like...she thinks dogs should have batteries, because that makes more sense than a dog just barking for no reason. And that's because she's smart, but I can tell that she's smart in a different kind of way than most people are smart. You know what I mean? That's why I'm worried."
Chris hums, looking over at Willa with one hand over her mouth.
"I don't want her to spend her entire life having to prove herself, over and over," Jess says. "She knows when she's right about something, but - people are gonna tell her she's wrong. I know they are."
"Well," Chris says, "there's not a whole lot that you can do about that."
Jess sighs. "Yeah," he says.
"Every smart kid goes through that, no matter what kind of smart they are. You did, I bet. I sure as fuck did."
Jess has to tamp down the urge to tell her that this is different, because it's not, really. She's right, and he knows she's right. His kid isn't anymore special than the thousands of other brilliant kids in the world, just because she's his. Jess is used to listening to his gut first, which always talks more sense than any other part of him, including his heart. But it's not like his heart is easy to ignore, either.
"She attacks problems from a different angle, maybe," Chris says, "but - that doesn't mean she won't grow out of it. She is only two, Jess. And if she doesn't, it doesn't mean that she won't learn how to turn that into a strength."
"I know all that," Jess says. "You think I'm not aware that this is neurotic? I'm not freaking out, but I never said I wasn't neurotic."
"Well, you're freaking out a little," Chris says. "But that's like, healthy or something. I think. It means you care."
Jess rolls his eyes, and keeps watching Willa, who is crouched by a bush, watching a couple of pigeons intently. She always looks a bit like her mom, when she gets that determined look on her face.
"I don't even know if I'm even gonna send her to preschool at all yet," Jess says.
"Like that fucking matters? It's glorified babysitting, man." Chris rolls her eyes. "She doesn't need one of those Montessori fucks to progress. She's progressing, Jess. Look at her."
Jess looks. Willa is still crouching, watching the pigeons. Hiding, Jess realizes, waiting for them to get close enough for her to pounce.
"Life is hard, you know?" Chris muses. "You're not gonna do her any favors by making her childhood perfect."
"People keep trying to tell me that, yeah." Jess can't really help it.
"If she has trouble with school, then it's better than the other kinds of trouble she could have," Chris reasons. "Because you're gonna be around to fight for her. You know? Yell at her teachers, get her into AP classes, defend her when she has problems. She's got you in her corner, so the school stuff - even if it sucks - is still gonna teach her a lot about the way the world works."
"I don't want her to know how the world works," Jess admits. It's hard to say, but he means it. "I don't know that I want her in the real world."
"Well, I don't blame you," Chris says. "It fucking sucks."
Jess doesn't reply right away, watching Willa, who seems to be doing...something. She's still crouching, but she's sort of...rocking back and forth on her feet, and then out of nowhere, she takes a rock that Jess didn't even know she had in her hand, and throws it straight at one of the pigeons. It hits the poor thing's leg, and sends both of them fluttering off into the air. Willa runs after them, shrieking.
Chris is laughing, leaning into Jess' side. Jess leans back, laughing a little himself. Disaster child.
"She's gonna be good at math, I think," Chris says, her face lit up and eager.
"Don't get any funny ideas, okay," Jess says. "She's not your science sidekick."
Chris elbows him sharply, making him yelp in surprised pain. "Don't discourage her dreams, Jess."
"I don't plan to," Jess says.