Penelope in Retrograde

by Brooke Abrams

Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. —Adapted from William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet

They like their bedsheets to have hospital corners, their drinks to have coasters, and their daughters to have nice reliable jobs with health benefits. They’d also prefer their thirtysomething-year-old daughters to be married and stay married, though they’re completely fine with

the chosen spouse being male, female, or any gender in between. They’re old fashioned, not assholes.

To my parents, I’m basically a human version of an air plant. I’m alive and thriving, but they don’t really understand the science behind it.

“All right, dear. Oh, one more thing. Are you wearing something nice or just your regular sort of clothes?” “I’m actually fully nude. I studied up on how livestock auctions work and decided that it was better to let the lucky gentleman you’ve suckered into coming over tonight know exactly what he was purchasing ahead of time. I’ve even considered labeling the best parts like they do with cuts of beef.”

“It’s impossible to ignore you, Mom. You’re like one of those blow-up things with wild arms they stick out in front of car dealerships.”

“Did I mention your sister thinks Martin looks like that famous Christopher? Oh, which one did she say?” “I hope it’s Walken.” “Hemsworth!” She shouts it like she’s just gotten bingo.

“I don’t know why I worry about someone kidnapping you.” My mother groans. “They’d bring you back within an hour.

“My husband is dead, Karl.”

“Oh my god.” My receipt shakes like a leaf in his hand. “Are you serious?” “No, but what kind of person asks someone if they’re alone in an airport?” I snatch the receipt from him. “I’ll tell you what kind. Serial killers. Are you a serial killer, Karl?”

Penny: I scared a cashier who was trying to flirt with me. Jackie: Again? Chelsey: Did you make this one cry? Penny: No. I called him a serial killer though.

Chelsey: That wasn’t very Pisces of you. Jackie: Cut yourself some slack. It’s your first time home in forever. Jackie: And you’re there on business. Not pleasure.

They’re just so radically different from me that whenever we spend time together, we always end up turning into the worst versions of ourselves.

kids?” My stomach free-falls into my

They were weird and eccentric, like all the best people are,

“Where the hell are you?” Phoebe snaps. Rarely does my sister raise her voice or fly off the handle—that’s my thing—but right now I can tell she’s dangerously close to losing it.

“I’ve got a worry stone in my pocket.” I pull out the smooth amber-and-black stone. “It’s tiger’s eye.” “You want me to eat a rock?” Aidan wheezes. “No. I’m going to want this stone back, and if you eat it, that’s going to cause a problem. Tiger’s eye is good for protection.” I hold out the stone for him. “You can meditate on it. Sometimes people can get so relaxed when meditating with crystals that they fall asleep.”

Aidan moans. “I don’t think a magic rock is going to help me calm down.” “Not unless we hit him over the head with that rock repeatedly,” Smith mutters before holding up what’s left of Aidan’s torn paper bag.

Vermouth tastes as if cold medicine, window cleaner, and a stale bag of black licorice had an orgy.

My god we do a lot of shouting in this family.

Fiona Mackenzie is a goddamn legend.

“She looks gorgeous.” Sarah reaches for my hair like I’m a pony somebody dumped at a roadside petting zoo. She’s lucky I haven’t bitten anyone since I was three. “What products do you use? Your curls look amazing.” And it hits me. She looks like me. Actually, she looks like I did when I was her age, which, if I’m willing to guess, is probably in the neighborhood of twenty-two. Somehow, I liked her more when I thought she was an air fryer. “Shampoo,” I manage to say. “And conditioner.” And to think I get paid to write dialogue for a living. “Good tip.” She smiles as she releases my hair, and I take a small step back for good measure. “It’s working for you.”

“Because that’s what books are made for. They’re made to connect you to people, real or fictional, even when you feel like you’re completely alone.”

Your main character has no depth, she told me. You’ve made her so perfect, she’s boring. People don’t read books about perfect people. Perfection doesn’t speak to the soul. Perfection is the antithesis of soul. If you’re going to write, you must write fearlessly. You have to let yourself go. Be willing to be ugly and unfinished. Lay your soul naked and bare. Anything less is a waste of time.

Old men and action heroes bald, Penelope, he’d always say. My hair is simply adjusting to its current market conditions.