Bewilderment

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ROBIN WAS THOUGHTFUL but cautious. Do they want me, or do they really want Jay?

“They definitely want you.”

Cool. But what do I have to do?

“You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to say yes if you don’t want to.”

They want me to talk about the training and Mom’s brain and stuff?

“Dr. Currier would describe all that, before you went on.”

So what am I supposed to do?

“Just be yourself.” The words turned meaningless in my mouth.

His eyes got that faraway look. My timid boy, who spent years avoiding contact with strangers, was calculating how much fun it might be to spill the secret of life to the general public from the lip of a large stage.

A week before the event, I started to decompensate. I regretted letting him agree to anything. If he bombed, it could scar him for life. If he crushed it, he’d climb up the ladder of COG regions and be loved by ten times more people than loved him now. Both possibilities made me ill.

The evening before the event, after Robin finished the day’s last math packet, he came to me in my study, where I sat behind a stack of ungraded undergrad exams, vigorously doing nothing. He walked around behind my chair and put his hands on my trapezius. Then he called out the commands I used to get him to relax, back in the day. Jelly up!

I let my body go limp.

Jam tight!

I tensed again. We did a few rounds before he came around to sit sidesaddle on the arm of the chair. Dad. Chill! It’s all good. I mean, it’s not like I have to make a speech or anything.

The moment he went to bed, I called the local COG organizer—a Trotsky-looking guy Martin and I dealt with. “I have one more stipulation. After you film the talk, if I’m not happy, you don’t post it.”

“That’s up to Dr. Currier.”

“Well, I need veto rights.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Then I don’t think my son is going onstage tomorrow.”

Funny how you can always win negotiations you’re not crazy about winning.