From: Angela
To: Emma
Subject: Thanksgiving!

Hey, Emma!
You know what holiday’s coming up?
That’s right...Thanksgiving!
You know where you’re going to be spending Thanksgiving?
At Mom and Dad’s house!
I know you got that email. I know you’re pretending you didn’t. I know you would much rather spend all day locked up with your D&D buddies…
But you know what Thanksgiving’s about? Family. Love. Doing things for the people you love that you normally wouldn’t do, but guess what? YOU LOVE THEM!
Come on, little sis. Time to show a little family pride. Mom’s soooo excited. She’s even making vegetarian meatloaf...just for you…
Say yes,
Angela

From: Emma
To: Angela
You know what happened on Thanksgiving, Angela?
The Pilgrims took advantage of the Indians, that’s what. And then, after the Indians had given them all that food, they SHOT THE INDIANS TO DEATH.
Answer: NO.

From: Angela
To: Emma
Emma. Don’t be like that. You won’t get shot. You’ve been watching too much History Channel, I swear. (And I’m pretty sure the correct term is “Native Americans…”)
My girls barely even know they HAVE an aunt. They call you MS. Crew! You know who else they call Ms.? Their teachers.
You shouldn’t be like a teacher to them, Em. You should be an AUNT.
Emma, Emma, Emma...
Come on…

From: Emma
To: Angela
I always liked my teachers better than my aunts. “Aunt” sounds evil. Like a villain in Harry Potter. (AUNT Petunia? AUNT Marge?)
Fact: repeating a person’s name in conversation is a form of persuasion.
You said my name four times in that email. But I’m solid. Unmovable. You won’t persuade me.
(You will notice I used caps lock. I NEVER use caps lock. Look what you’ve turned me into.)

To: Emma
From: Angela

Alright. I’ve had it.
YOU ARE COMING TO THIS FAMILY FUNCTION.
You are coming if I have to drag you there myself. You will socialize and you will like it if it’s the last thing I do.

To: Angela
From: Emma

Fine.





I know something’s wrong the second I walk through the door. There’s no turkey. No meatloaf. No food at all. The kitchen’s spotless; Mom hasn’t been cooking. There’s a crumpled piece of lined paper, torn from a legal pad, taped to the kitchen sink. In Angela’s neat cursive are the words In Mom and Dad’s room. Come on in!

Stomach knotting, I ball up the letter and cross the room. Taking a deep breath, I grasp the knob of the door and push it open. What does Angela have up her sleeve this time?

“Surprise!” chirps my sister as I step in. Everyone’s there--Mom and Aunt May on the bed, Dad looking painfully awkward on an old kitchen chair in the corner, my nieces sitting cross-legged on the glaringly orange carpet. Angela--standing right next to Dad--whips out a big white cardboard sign and sets it on the windowsill. Written on it in bubble letters is one word--intervention.

“Take a seat.” Before I can bolt for the door, Angela shuts it, quick as lightning. “I pulled up a chair just for you.”

Slow and careful, I sink into the plastic folding chair in the corner. “Angela, what’s going on? What is this?”

Angela takes a place next to Mom. “Emma, we love you--”

“I thought this was a Thanksgiving dinner--you tricked me!” The shock and confusion in my stomach are slowly replaced by a low boiling anger. Angela winces.

Mom takes over. “We’re worried about you, hon.”

“What’s there to be worried about? I’m fine. I don’t smoke. I don’t even drink.”

Angela shakes her head. “That’s not the point. Emma, you were going to spend Thanksgiving playing Dungeons and Dragons.”

“So what? That’s what I did when I was a kid.”

“You spent Christmas on that silly game--”

“Minecraft isn’t silly!”

“You’re twenty-eight years old and you still play dress-up--”

“It’s called cosplay!”

“You work at a comic book store, for God’s sake--”

“As a side job!” I can feel my cheeks heating up, and I hate it. “What’s your point?”
Angela takes a deep breath and purses her lips. “The point, Emma, is that you need to grow up. Your interests are interchangeable with an nine year old boy’s. You need to find something else, something more mature--”

“Why?” A whiny tone has somehow creeped into my voice. “I’m happy. I have friends. I socialize--”
“With forty-year-olds who still live in their parent’s basements!” She leans forward, eyes pleading. “I don’t want that to be you. I don’t want my sister to be the creep with the too-thick glasses--”
“That,” I hiss (I never thought I’d have an excuse to hiss), “is an outdated stereotype.” I stand up, pushing the chair back. “I’m leaving.”

Mom tries to stop me, but Angela grabs her hand. “Let her go. She’ll come back eventually.”

No, I won’t. Cheeks still flaming, I march into the kitchen, pulling my coat back on and throwing the door open with entirely too much force. “Have a nice Thanksgiving!”

“‘Bye-bye, lady!” my younger niece says before I slam the front door shut.
Still fuming, I stomp up the drive, boots crunching in the gravel. I fumble with my car keys for a second before opening the door to my car and slipping into the driver’s seat. My heart is still pounding in my ears as I pull out of the driveway. Who are they to judge me? What do they know?

My pulse slows down a little as I drive. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do spend too much time alone. Maybe I am a geek.
Maybe I should be more outgoing. Get a boyfriend, settle down…
An image pops into my head. It’s me, ten years older, with three kids and a mortgage, dressed in ordinary clothes with no graphics--reading books without pictures--actually doing my laundry…
I shudder and push that image back down. Never mind.