Ethan was relentlessly needling his mother about the afterparty.
He followed her from room to room, a persistent, whining drone, a masterclass in passive-aggressive annoyance.
“You’re not going,” Claire repeated for the tenth time, stirring a pot on the stove.
“Come on, it’s not that serious,” Ethan pleaded, leaning against the counter.
“It’s just a few people, some soda, maybe a board game.” He tried to make it sound as innocent as possible.
Claire turned, her spatula held like a weapon.
“You’re lucky you’re even being allowed to perform in the first place.”
Ethan tried a different tack.
“It is legal and binding.
The venue contract specifically states the people in the crowd get access to the band at the afterparty.” He even threw in some legal jargon for good measure, something he’d vaguely heard Mitchell say once.
“And is the afterparty legal and binding?” Claire challenged, unimpressed.
“Yes,” Ethan lied smoothly.
“Sure, it is,” Claire scoffed, turning back to her pot.
Just then, the doorbell rang, saving Ethan from having to concoct another elaborate fabrication.
“This is so unfair!” Ethan protested, still trying to argue his case.
“Life is unfair!” Claire retorted, marching to the door.
Claire opened the door to reveal Mitchell, looking slightly uncomfortable.
“Hey, Mitchell.
What’s up?”
“Hey, just — just in the hood,” Mitchell replied, giving a nervous glance over his shoulder before entering.
“So, do you — do you remember how Mom gave up a career to raise us?”
A voice, sharp and familiar, cut in from behind Mitchell.
“Promising career.”
Claire’s face fell.
“Oh, God.”
Dede, her mother, emerged from behind Mitchell, impeccably dressed but with a critical glint in her eyes.
“Claire?”
“Mom,” Claire said, her voice tight.
Dede tilted her head, observing her daughter.
“Why so long?”
“Mm, I know.
I know, it’s weird when we haven’t talked for a while,” Claire said, trying to diffuse the tension.
“I mean your hair,” Dede clarified, reaching out to gently, almost critically, stroke her daughter’s hair.
Ethan, hidden from view but eavesdropping intently, let out a short, suppressed laugh.
“Mm…” Claire mumbled, trying to pull away.
“Well, if I can’t tell you, who will?” Dede stated, withdrawing her hand.
Claire went to walk away, but Mitchell quickly grabbed her arm, stopping her.
“So, Mom wants you to know that she’s very sorry about the incident and — and she wants us to forgive her.”
“Oh, very nice of her to say that through you,” Claire muttered, walking towards the kitchen, clearly annoyed.
Dede, addressing Mitchell, but loud enough for Claire to hear, sniffed dramatically.
“Do you see?
The sarcasm is so hurtful — like a whip.”
Mitchell, caught in the middle, continued his awkward mediation.
“So — so, anyway, Mom really wants to smooth everything over with Dad and Gloria, so I was thinking, would it be okay if she maybe joined us for dinner tonight?”
Dede, sitting gracefully on the couch, added, with a theatrical sigh, “Because it may be the last time you ever see me.”
“Well…” Mitchell trailed off, clearly not knowing how to handle his mother’s dramatic flair.
Claire, however, was confused.
“Okay, wait.
What are you talking about?”
Dede leaned forward, her voice hushed with fake gravitas.
“Well, I’m — I’m moving to a far and dangerous place.”
Mitchell quickly clarified, “Canada, but — uh, she met a man named Chas.
Yeah.”
“He’s a logger,” Dede announced, as if this was the most exotic profession.
“Like a — like a lumberjack?” Claire asked, genuinely surprised.
Dede shook her head dismissively.
“No, he logs blood samples into a cholesterol study.
Anyway, until I’m past this whole wedding debacle, I can’t be intimate with him.”
Claire’s face registered confusion, then dawning horror.
“Oh.”
Dede continued, completely oblivious to her children’s discomfort.
“We do things to each other.
We use our hands.”
Both Claire and Mitchell quickly walked away, exchanging disgusted glances.
Haley, who had quietly entered the living room, spotted her grandmother.
“Hey, Nana.”
Dede’s face lit up, embracing Haley warmly.
“Oh, my little comet!” She then turned to Ethan, who had also decided to make an appearance, pulling him into a tight hug.
“And there’s the little heartbreaker.
Oh, look at you.
You’re all grown up.”
Hayley, seizing the opportunity, immediately complained, “Hmm, tell Mom that.
She won’t even let me go to a concert.”
Claire, overhearing, clarified, “Overnight with her boyfriend.”
Just then, Dede let out a short, knowing laugh.
Claire looked at her mother, annoyed.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Oh, karma’s a funny thing, that’s all,” Dede said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“Remember Ricky?”
Claire groaned, burying her face in her hands.
“Oh, God.”
Ethan, intrigued by the mention of a new family scandal, immediately asked, “Oh, who’s Ricky?”
“No one,” Claire mumbled, trying to shut down the conversation.
Dede, however, was not to be deterred.
“Ricky was your mother’s boyfriend, and he looked like Charles Manson.”
Ethan’s eyes widened.
“The serial killer?”
Dede nodded, enjoying the shock value.
“And one night, she didn’t come home until 4:00 in the morning.”
Hayley’s jaw dropped.
“4:00?
Wow.
Wow, Mom, what were you and Ricky doing?”
Claire, mortified, insisted, “Nothing.
We were doing nothing, and he was a very sweet boy, which you might have known if you bothered to get to know him.”
Hayley, seeing her opening, pounced.
“Dylan’s a sweet boy.”
Ethan, however, interjected, “Dylan is a turd.”
Claire, unexpectedly, agreed with Ethan.
“Exactly, Dylan is no Ricky.
Ricky — Ricky was a poet.”
Haley rolled her eyes.
“Dylan writes songs.
Awesome songs compared to what Ethan makes.”
Ethan’s head snapped up, insulted.
“No, I got some good ones!
‘Bubblegum Bitch,’ ‘Take Me Away,’ ‘Ignorance,’ ‘Emptiness Machine.'” He started listing them off proudly.
“And that is just from when I’m writing as a woman.”
Ethan, back on the couch, was now holding a worn journal, its cover emblazoned with the words “DON’T READ” in bold, childish script.
“Now, I haven’t had much success writing from a male perspective,” he admitted, tapping the journal.
“Writing music from a woman’s perspective is so much more interesting, let me tell you.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
“Men singing about women in this genre is mostly soppy, like, ‘Please, don’t leave me,’ or ‘Let me see your ankles.'”
He made a disgusted face.
“So you got to spin 180, so it’s the other way around, and then it’s…” He kissed his fingers with an exaggerated flourish.
“It bangs.”
“Listen to this.” Ethan opened the journal, his voice dropping into a dramatic, almost theatrical tone.
“Oh, ‘Dear diary,’ I met a boy.
He made my doll heart light up with joy.” He paused, looking up at the camera with a satisfied smirk.
“Oh, ‘Dear diary,’ we fell apart.
Welcome to the life of Electra Heart.” He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the lyrics.
“‘I’m Miss Sugar Pink, liquor, liquor lips.
Hit me with your sweet love.
Steal me with a kiss, I’m Miss Sugar Pink, liquor, liquor lips.
I’m gonna be your bubblegum bitch.'”
He stopped reading, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
“That is just from ‘Bubblegum Bitch.'” He flipped a few pages.
“I also got one because of Dylan.”
He cleared his throat.
“‘Don’t wanna hear your sad songs.
I don’t wanna feel your pain.
When you swear it’s all my fault.
‘Cause you know we’re not the same (no).
We’re not the same (No).
Oh, we’re not the same.'”
Ethan looked up, his expression triumphant.
“See what I’m talking about?
Writing about loving a woman is boring, writing a song about loving a man, now that is way more interesting and something I can relate to.”
He suddenly stopped, his eyes widening.
His face paled as the full implication of what he had just said hit him.
“Wait, no.” He lunged for the camera, his hand outstretched in a desperate attempt to cut the recording.
The commentary cut off abruptly.