Umbrellas

☂ soirées, blue jazz, and finger sandwiches

                                                          ☂ • ☂ • ☂ 

                     [ in which a character tries a new food for the first time ]

                                                          ☂ • ☂ • ☂ 

     HUDSON PARKS LIKES quiet soirées accompanied with mellow blue jazz and small finger sandwiches shaped into triangles.

     Sophistication.

     (And also because the finger sandwich is quite possibly the best invention since pocket umbrellas and the wheel.)

     Hudson Parks likes soirées and blue jazz and finger sandwiches, which is exactly why he does not particularly enjoy the McKinley day-before-Thanksgiving party; because the gathering does not consist of an orderly soirée, nor does it have blue jazz and finger sandwiches. Rather, the room is filled with loud conversations pierced with the occasional hyena-sharp laughter and some hipter music he can't quite name.

     "C'mon, I'll go put this in the kitchen," Aspen says about his mother's fruit kabobs, interrupting his observations. He trails behind her—something he'd never thought he would do, and immediately regrets it the moment they enter the kitchen and he hears the words, "Mom, Dad, this is Hudson," from Aspen.

     Shit.

     Shit.

     Meet the parents was not on his to-do list, but then again, neither was lying about explosive diarrhea or coming to the McKinley party at all.

     His to-do list needs some major revamping.

     Still, rearranging his to-do list will have to be done later, because about half a second after he stumbles into the room, Aspen's dad is shaking his hand vigorously with a grin a mile wide gracing his features. He doesn't have much time to process what is happening before visions of too big smiles fill his peripheral view and the chatter increases exponentially.

     "It's good to meet you!" her father booms.

     His hand is still ensared in the everlasting handshake. "You too, sir."

     "I love your shirt!" Aspen's mother compliments. There isn't anything very special about his shirt; it is just a blue and white pintripe polo, but Mrs. McKinley seems to find it fascinating.

     "Thanks?" he says as Aspen's father finally lets go of his hand. He moves his wrist in little circles, hoping to get some resemblance of feeling back into his forearm.

     She examines the aforementioned shirt carefully, not touching but close enough to slightly unnerve him. "I bought one just like it three years ago, for our nephew Henry's birthday," Mrs. McKinley mumbles. "Oh, I do wish it-"

     "No, no, wasn't it for James's birthday?" her husband interrupts.

     "What?"

     "The shirt. It was for James's birthday," he clarifies.

     "Nonsense, darling! It didn't come in his size."

     "It didn't?"

     "Oh dear, remember, James is twenty one? The shirt would've been too small."

     Aspen's father looks puzzled for a moment. "James is fifteen."

     "Oh, no, that's Jamie," she clucks like a mother hen.