Don't Eat the Lemons

“The lemons are decorative,” Linda says, plucking one out of the bowl and wiping it with a linen napkin. “Do not eat the lemons.”

“No one’s eating lemons, Mom,” Ava says, balancing on a chair to string fairy lights between two rented olive trees. “They’re like, fifteen dollars a thought.”

“Don’t be glib,” Mark says, straightening the monogrammed napkins so the H faces the same direction. “Tonight is important. The Joneses will be here.”

“They’re always here,” Dylan mutters from the island, where he has been told not to sit because his jeans have rips the factory put there. “Are we inviting their second Peloton, too?”

“Don’t be jealous,” Linda says. “Jealousy makes pores larger.”

Ava climbs down. “What exactly is this party for again? The sign says ‘Taste of Tuscany,’ but the paper invite says ‘STEM Booster Gala,’ and the group chat says ‘casual.’”

“It’s for community,” Linda says. “And for reminding people we care.”

Mark pats his blazer. “And for connections. Mr. Jones knows the provost at Lenox. You are not going to make your essay about farmers’ markets and feelings.”

“I wasn’t,” Ava says. “I was going to write about not knowing what I want and how that’s okay.”

“That’s not okay,” Linda says. “Certainty photographs better.”

The doorbell rings. The Joneses arrive as a coordinated color palette: Cora in a cream sweater, Bryce in a blazer that fits like a miracle, their son Leo in a hoodie too new to be rebellious.

“Harper house looks fabulous,” Cora trills, air-kissing Linda. “Is that real travertine or the one that pretends?”

“It’s sustainable composite,” Linda says. “We care about the planet.”

“So do we,” Bryce says. “That’s why we replaced the SUV with a different large car that uses electricity.”

Leo tugs his hoodie. “Hi, Ava.”

“Hi,” Ava says.

“Our Leo is taking six APs,” Cora says to no one. “It’s so important to be challenged.”

“Pressure builds diamonds,” Bryce says, and claps Leo’s shoulder like he’s fastening a jewel into place.

“I’m not a gemstone,” Leo mutters.

Other neighbors trickle in. The HOA president arrives with a tape measure to ensure the rental olive trees are six feet from the property line. Someone asks if the piano is tuned. Someone else asks if the dogs are hypoallergenic. Linda smiles so hard it looks like exercise.

In the kitchen, the caterer’s assistant knocks over a tower of macaron kisses. They scatter like pastel coins.

“Careful,” Mark says, in the voice that makes waiters apologize to salt. “Those were imported.”

“From what, Instagram?” Ava says.

He shoots her a look. “Not tonight.”

Coachings and corrections curl around the room like ribbon.

“Don’t put tap in the carafes.”

“Not that playlist; the explicit one is for the lake.”

“Hide the grocery brand; the Joneses shop at the good place.”

Dylan puts his elbows on the counter again, because gravity works. Linda hisses, “We have stools. We do not lean.”

“Even the furniture is exhausted,” Dylan says, but he slides onto a stool.

By the time the fundraising speech starts, the backyard smells like rosemary and wealth. Mark taps a glass.

“We’re all here because we want the best,” he says. “For the school, for our kids, for our town.”

“Cheers to best,” Cora says, raising her glass. “I can’t tolerate mediocrity.”

“Intolerance is on brand,” Bryce says, chuckling at his own joke.

Ava catches Leo’s eye. “You okay?”

“I’m supposed to announce my dream school,” he says. “Like an athlete but with more sweaters.”

“What’s your dream?”

“Not to be a brand,” he says.

Linda glides over. “Ava, sweetheart, why don’t you tell the Joneses about your robotics thing.”

“It’s not my thing,” Ava says. “It’s a team. And it’s not a thing you can put on a charcuterie board.”

“Everything can be plated,” Linda says, and squeezes her shoulder.

Mr. Patel from two doors down describes the new tennis courts as if they cure scurvy. Bryce mentions their philanthropic partnership which is, as it turns out, their last name on a brick. The caterer’s assistant hovers on the patio, where it’s warmer than the kitchen full of opinions.

Mark points his glass. “Leo has news.”

All eyes turn. Leo swallows.

“I—” he says.

“You’ll do great, bud,” Bryce says, teeth bright.

“I’m not applying early anywhere,” Leo blurts. “I want a gap year. Maybe two. I want to work. Travel. Figure out who I am before I put it on a sweatshirt.”

A hush falls so completely you can hear the HOA president measuring the silence. Cora’s smile calcifies.

“That is not what we discussed,” she says, voice sweet as the lemons are not.

“We didn’t discuss it,” Leo says. “You announced it.”

“Gap years are fine,” someone says brightly, “as long as the Instagram content is robust.”

“Like the French do,” someone else says. “They loaf with intention.”

Bryce laughs without humor. “We didn’t raise a barista.”

“What’s wrong with baristas?” the caterer’s assistant says, before he can stop his mouth. He’s flushed, holding a tray of deviled eggs like a shield. “I’m saving to start a food truck.”

Bryce looks at him as if he’d announced plans to chew gravel. “Ambition is not a sandwich.”

“It actually can be,” the assistant says. “I make a killer banh mi.”

Ava steps forward. “He catered the robotics banquet for free when the school ‘lost’ the check.”

Linda’s hand tightens on her glass. “We don’t need to make this about—”

“People?” Ava says.

Cora’s voice sharpens. “Leo, what will people think?”

Leo’s eyes are wet and furious. “That I’m human?”

“We don’t have to be dramatic,” Bryce says. “It’s not about you, Leo. It’s about the example.”

“Exhibit A,” Dylan says under his breath.

Mr. Patel clears his throat. “Maybe we can all—”

Linda cuts him off with a hostess laugh. “Let’s reset. Ava, how about a toast? Something inspiring.”

Ava looks at the lemons, the lights, the rented trees pretending to have roots. She looks at the caterer’s assistant and his red ears. She looks at Leo, jaw set.

“To intolerance,” she says, and the laughter is automatic, dutiful. “No, really.”

“Ava,” Mark warns.

“To the way it hides in compliments,” she continues. “How it chooses schools and clothes and friends and futures. How it doesn’t tolerate people who can’t keep up, or won’t, because keeping up means forgetting who you are. To all of that. May it slide off us like oil. May we be impossible to plate.”

“Ava,” Linda says again, cheeks tight.

“May we stop measuring our lives in countertops and coach’s contacts and college bumper stickers,” Ava says. “May we tolerate—no, love—kids who take time to think. Parents who change their minds. Jobs that don’t come with logos. Neighbors with rental olive trees.” She smiles at Linda. “And a caterer who makes a killer banh mi.”

There is a brief, delicious silence in which nothing is on brand. Then June—the caterer’s assistant whose name no one asked—lets out a small, astonished laugh. Mr. Patel claps. It’s a brave, lonely sound until Leo joins in. Then Dylan. Then a few others, like people remembering how to use their hands.

Bryce’s smile is a locked door. “What a speech,” he says, and drains his glass. “We should talk about consequences.”

“Of applause?” Ava says.

“Of choices,” Cora says, eyes on Leo. “Our family has standards.”

“Maybe change them,” Leo says. His voice doesn’t shake. “I’m not a standard. I’m your son.”

Cora flinches. Mark stares at Ava like she’s just said a curse word at church. Linda inhales, exhale, hostess smile back in place.

“Dessert?” she chirps. “Who wants lemon tart?”

June raises the tray. “This one’s on the house,” she says, and winks at Ava.

Out on the patio, the fairy lights hum. Someone’s child slips a lemon into his pocket like a souvenir. The HOA president writes something down that won’t matter.

Ava finds Leo by the side gate.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Wherever I can breathe,” he says.

“Do you want company?”

He nods. They step into the night, into the imperfect, into the actual air. Behind them, the party continues to congratulate itself in a dozen small, precise ways.

On the front lawn, Dylan lies on the grass, looking at nothing on purpose.

“You two ran away,” he says.

“We’re taking a gap hour,” Ava says. “You in?”

He pops up. “I’m intolerant of parties.”

They sit on the curb, eating lemon tarts with their fingers. June comes out and joins them, handing over extra napkins that say Harper House in gold. The letters smudge.

“You really make a killer banh mi?” Ava asks.

June grins. “You have no idea.”

They laugh, relief loud in their throats, like people who just decided their lives will be theirs. Across the street, the Joneses’ house glows like a catalog. Inside, the furniture is likely very, very tired.

“Do you think they heard you?” Dylan asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ava says, and leans back on the cool pavement. “I did.”

Thank you for reading my work. I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Peru and heading to Chile in a few days and from there, who knows? I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.

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