Friend Is Not a Verb by Daniel Ehrenhaft Read Free Book Online Page A

against the stairwell banister. “Dad, are you okay?” I asked. I figured this question was better than the ones I felt like shouting at the top of my lungs, which were: Why is that all you can tell me?What have you let slide? What is the big freaking deal? She’s back, goddammit!!
    “I’m fine,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
    “I don’t know. Things are sort of weird, aren’t they?”
    “I’m not sure exactly what you mean, but I assume you’re talking about Sarah’s surprise homecoming. I guess I’d just like to see people in this household taking some responsibility for their futures. If professional bass playing isn’t your goal—”
    “It’s just a hobby, Dad,” I interrupted. “Playing an instrument is good for you.”
    “Yes, well.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and turned his attention back to his taxes. “Like I said, if you don’t intend on becoming a professional musician, I’d skip the lessons. Use your free time this summer to find a job or an internship that will help get your foot in the door of whatever you do intend to pursue as a profession.”
    I blinked. This odd little chat was fast degenerating into the realm of the creepy. Did he really expect me to have any idea what I wanted to “pursue as a profession”? Had he been dead certain that he’d wanted to be a freelance managerial consultant (I’m still not sure what that even is) when he was sixteen? Maybe he had. Whatever. If he couldn’t tell me what was really bothering him—and I doubted very much it had anything to do with my employment status—then we were done.
    “Fine, I’ll look for a job, okay?” I said, grabbing my bass and scurrying upstairs. Odd: A long time ago, this would have been exactly the kind of nonsensical conversation that Sarah wouldhave jumped right into on my behalf. I suddenly missed her more than ever, and she was right out back.
    “You don’t have to play the martyr here, Hen,” Dad called after me.
    I almost smiled, pausing on the top step. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “You sound bitter,” he said.
    “Bitter? Really? That’s funny. Because I’m totally not.”
    I waited for him to laugh. Or something. He didn’t. Which pretty much clinched what I’d already suspected: Now that Sarah was home, the lines of communication in the Birnbaum household had disintegrated completely.
    Once I was alone, it took me a minute to muster the courage to remove Gabriel’s manuscript from my bass case pouch. The plastic cover trembled slightly in my hands. It took me another minute to open it, even though I’d locked the door and hidden myself in bed half under the blanket and sheets. I was careful not to make a sound. My heart thumped loudly as I turned to the first page.
    October 10
    Recently my life has become a series of broken promises to myself.
    I’ve promised to exercise, for one thing. I’ve gained fifteen pounds in 122 days. True, I’m not fat yet. I verged on emaciated in college. But I’m definitely more unkempt.I should probably promise myself to get a haircut, too, or at least to shower more often. But it’s hard to stay motivated.
    In theory, there’s no reason to stay motivated. I’m twenty-two. I call Puerto Plata, the Dominican Republic, my home, and it’s sunny and seventy-five all year, except for the rainy season. I don’t pay taxes. I’ll never have to work. But on some level, I keep trying to tell myself that I’m also sick of excuses. I think maybe my father’s skewed values have rubbed off on me more than I would like to admit—primarily the belief that hard work, regardless of its purpose or end, is the key to a guilt-free existence.
    I smiled faintly. I could almost relate to the last part. But I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. The less I had in common with Gabriel, the better—on many, many levels. I skipped ahead a few pages.
    October 23
    Pouring a glass of whiskey at 4 P.M . every single day has become crucial to maintaining a