When Ava Fodor returns to New York from Paris, she leaves behind her budding romance with Pierre and turns her attention to another man: Zsolt Fodor, her father. He's a penniless Hungarian poet transplanted to New York in the wake of the failed 195...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The next day we went ice skating in Central Park. It was the beginning of February, but a mild winter. The sky was gloriously blue and the temperature low enough to rouge our cheeks but not so biting as to chill our fun.
"Are you free tonight?" Pierre asked.
"I could be," I said, gliding beside him, feeling like a fourteen-year-old except when he looked at me. Then I felt older. "Why?"
"They're having a super boat party at the place where I'm staying."
"What's a super boat party?"
"I don't know. I thought I'd ask you."
I thought. There were banners all over Times Square, decorating every sports bar saying "Go Giants." I was an American sports luddite, but even I knew that America's biggest football game was due to take place that evening.
"Do you mean a football game on TV sort of party?"
"Yes. I think that's it!" His eyes twinkled.
I groaned. No one hated football more than me. Except Sanja. Idly, I wondered what she had been up to that weekend.
"It's the Super Bowl," I corrected with a sigh.
"The Super Bowl? What's that?"
"It's like the European Cup—for Americans."
"Génial!" Pierre sang out. The word in French meant "great" or "awesome."
Finally, I'd found a character flaw in Pierre. It was reassuring. I guessed I could suffer through an evening of football with him and his math colleagues. But would they be all men?
"Will there be any women?"
"What do you mean? You're coming, right?"
"Yes, but any others?"
"The head of the department is bringing his wife."
I imagined someone in her fifties, perhaps from the Midwest.
"Are there any female math professors or students at the house?"
"None that I've met, but some of the boys will bring their girlfriends or wives. They said they'll make chili!" he rang out, enthusiastically.
"Wow, that's thrilling. And drink beer, I'll bet."
"Yes. Beer! They told me to get some. And chips. What are chips?'
Beer was my least favorite beverage of all times, except on a hot summer day. I couldn't think of too many activities less appealing than drinking beverages that produced bad breath and burps, and eating junk food while watching enormous men on TV try to hurt each other.
