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I shrug, oddly detached. “The program didn’t turn out exactly how I expected.”
An understatement if I’ve ever made one. When I moved home, I applied for a job at a Berkeley-based nonprofit whose goal is to bring free, innovative programs to disadvantaged and low-income kids. Having double majored in graphic arts (Mom told me to chase my dreams) and finance (Dad told me to be practical), I proposed building free afternoon programs in downtown Berkeley where kids could learn graphic art and design. In a perfect world, I’d teach the classes, and the kids would build their résumés and earn money for college by offering low-cost graphic design services to local businesses.
“Your boss didn’t go for your plan?” he asks, and uses his thumb to carefully swipe away a line of loose snow.
“Oh, she loved the idea,” I tell him. “We spent over a year mapping out how it could work, determining what funds would need to be raised and how to raise them, working out the licensing, and debating how to staff the site.”
“Right, okay, I remember that bit.”
“And she did. Staff the site, that is. This past summer she hired a friend of hers to teach the course.”
He lets out a low, sympathetic groan. “Wait, so after all that setup, you’re not even running it?”
I shake my head. “Neda—my boss—figured with my accounting degree, it would be better for ‘the team’ if I managed the books.”
“You’re doing the accounting?”
“I do some of the website stuff, too, but yeah. The accounting takes up most of my time.” I crouch near Thea’s legs and pack in a bit more snow at her haunches. “I’ve never even met one of the students, because the way we—or I should say I—carefully worded the licensing, we protect the kids by not having adults in the classroom who aren’t part of the curriculum. I love what we do, I just don’t love my part in it.”
“This may be overstepping, but what if you quit? The great thing about being at home is you have a safety net if you need it.”
He isn’t the first person to suggest it. My closest friend from college, Mira, has been trying to convince me to leave this job for months now. I’m notoriously terrible at jumping without a parachute, so I face the interminable chicken-and-egg problem: if I found another job, I could quit, but finding another job means admitting that I’m going to quit. The entire loop is paralyzing.
“Eh,” I say, eloquently.
Andrew frowns sympathetically. “That sucks, Maisie. I’m sorry.”
It does, but my attention is suddenly drawn to what’s happening elsewhere. Or, rather, to what’s not happening. Everyone is still so focused, so silent. Andrew and I are the only two people talking. I’m not seeing any of the open-mouthed laughs or hearing any of the excited screams of the snowball fight. I can tell how hard we’re all working on our projects, but we’re doing it because that’s what we do. That’s the routine. But no one—not even Ricky—is relishing it.
The snowball fight was spontaneous, it was hilarious. It made everyone laugh and feel connected. I shouldn’t have ever tried to stop it.
“This isn’t right,” I say.
Andrew looks at me, and then out at our families. “What isn’t right?”
“They’re all moving like cyborgs. What are we even doing this for?”
“Because it’s tradition,” Andrew says, like it’s obvious— and it is—but how many of us really care anymore? He follows my attention to the other groups, working with grim determination.
I stand, grinning over at him, before bending to scoop up a big ball of snow. Packing it tight in my palms, I scan my eyes across the potential victims. “The question is who deserves this.”
Without hesitation, Andrew bends, packing his own snowball. “Theo.”
“Maybe Miles.”
“Maybe your dad.”
“Definitely my dad,” I agree.
“My mom chose that horrible music even though you told her not to,” he counters.
“Kyle never gets hungover. It’s unfair,” I say.
Andrew hums. “Do you think the snowball would disappear into the black hole of Aaron’s dye job?”
“Worth testing,” I agree. “Science depends on us.”
“But then there’s Benny,” he says. “He’s been chilling on the front steps with a warm cup of coffee this whole time.”
“Because he’s smart.”
“Damn him and his good decisions.” Andrew tosses the snowball back and forth between his hands.
“Benny, then. On the count of three,” I say. “One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
We launch our snowballs directly at an unsuspecting Benny. Mine hits him in the shoulder. Andrew’s hits him squarely in the chest. At first, he looks at us with deep and immediate betrayal. But something shifts in his expression when he sees me and Andrew standing here together, bending to pack fresh snowballs. Maybe he sees the dynamite in my gaze, or maybe he can tell how much Andrew needs this change in the routine—maybe he even sees how much I need this to happen—but he picks up a clump of snow himself, packs it, and hurls it directly at Ricky.
