Free By the Numbers by Jen Lancaster

everyone may feel like they’re equal because they’re such great amigos, is this traps the kids in a state of arrested developmentthat can’t be healthy for anyone in the family unit. At some point the parents have to move on from just identifying themselves as moms and dads, and the kids have to define their roles beyond being someone’s children. If you typecast yourself into one character, then that’s the only part you’re ever going to get to play. Doesn’t strike me as healthy.
    I clear a place on the mantel for Barnaby’s urn and I’m storing the leftovers in the fridge when I hear Jessica thunder in from the backyard. She’s holding one of her little booties in her hand, a busted heel in the other. She’s white with rage. “What in the actual
fuck
, PBS? I just tripped over a stack of old typewriters out there. A. Stack. Of. Old. Typewriters. Which are next to a pile of bike tires. Are we hosting a wedding or a goddamned
swap meet
? Jesus! Why is everyone in this family such a fucking amateur, and
why do you keep letting it happen?
”
    She storms out of the room and up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door so hard that it jostles the dishes drying in the rack by the sink.
    Just like that, Godzilla appears and stomps all over my fishing boats and thatched huts, not with a massive, claw-tipped web-foot, but in a single spiked bootie. The result’s the same, though—he wipes out the whole damn village.

CHAPTER FOUR
    June 1988
    â€œC hris! I love you, buddy, and I am so stoked to be your new brother-in-law. Woot-woot! In your face, Patrick! Who’s the best man now, huh?” Foster flips Patrick the bird, and Patrick responds by placidly brushing imaginary lint off the shoulder of his suit jacket. Everyone’s laughing, save for Marjorie. She’s making the face Chris calls “cat butt” due to her three hundred and sixty degrees of quietly angry lip pucker, which only serves to make the whole scene more amusing.
    Foster pulls a crumpled index card out of his tux’s breast pocket. “Okay, I wrote this shit down because if I mess it up, Penny’s never gonna let me hear the end of it. Here we go. On paper, you two are a terrible match. The numbers don’t add up. Like, Chris is a super-fun dude, right? SO FUN! Plus a million points for you. And, Penny, you’re kinda where fun goes to die, so minus ten points. I mean, I can tell ’cause we can smell our own.” He gestures at me with his rocks glass, and the clear liquid sloshes over the side, dampening his cuff. He doesn’t notice.
    Foster is absolutely annihilated on four weak Tanqueray and tonics and half a glass of champagne. I guess neither one of us inherited Marjorie’s heroic tolerance level. (Then again, we don’t practice like she does.) One more drink and I guarantee he’ll be wearing his bow tie around his head and gatoring on the dance floor when the band plays “Shout
.
”
    The crowd howls and Chris has to cup his hands around his mouth to be heard over everyone. “This is a really terrible wedding toast, Fos! Hey, Max, maybe it’s time to close the open bar.” But he’s grinning when he says this, enjoying the scene as much as the rest of us, perhaps more. The crowd boos at this suggestion.
    â€œShhh,” Foster slurs into the microphone. “I’m not done. What I’m saying here is that on paper, you two suuuuuck balllllllllls.” Marjorie places her face in her palm while my father coughs into his hand to stifle a laugh. We’re all going to pay for this later, but seeing Marjorie squirm in front of all her chichi pals is sort of worth it.
    He says, “I always pictured her with an accountant or a banker or, like, an IRS dealie-guy. Someone who saves his receipts, you know? He’d be all, ‘I got a big deduction for you, baby,’ when he was in the mood for some lovin’! Hey,