June 2085: adult supervision, part 1

Ingrid and Ian Thompson are 22, Laney is 26, Heather and Adam are 52.


"Maybe this sounds weird," Ian said, sloshing his fourth beer sideways with his hand and then righting it before the entire bottle spilled. "But I kind of feel like we never left. Like maybe we might have gone to sleep after high school graduation, dreamed up the whole four years we were in college, finding Connie, dating Connie, getting dumped by Connie, then we woke up, and here we are. Everything's exactly the same. This street, this restaurant, this exact beer that's always a little too warm to be enjoyable. And I'm alone again. What's changed?"

"We got degrees," Ingrid said, shrugging lightly.

"Yeah, I guess we did."

"You got that stupid tattoo on your belly. Undeniable proof that the last four years happened." Ingrid laughed. "Go on, look. See if it's still there."

Ian lifted his shirt. The tattoo was still there. "You thought it was a good idea at the time."

"I was nineteen," she said. "I thought a lot of stupid shit was a good idea that year."

Beer number five and six went down the hatch. A manager came outside to ask them to leave. Which might have been fine until he looked Ingrid up and down with a sneer and said, "You sure got a mouth on you, baby doll. You might find yourself a boyfriend who isn't your brother if you put on some lipstick and calm down a little."

Ingrid's eyebrows shot up her forehead. If Ian was another brother and Ingrid was another sister, he might have tried to stick up for her. But they weren't, and Ingrid fought her own battles. To be honest, she fought them better than he would have anyway.

"I'm not too fucking loud," Ingrid shouted. She pointed a finger at him. A sharp one. "Fuck you if you think I need to be dainty and quiet and know my place. Here's what I think of my place." She grabbed her crotch at him. "Suck my metaphorical dick."


They walked—in a nearly running sort of way—out of the restaurant and three blocks down to another bar where people were being equally as loud, and which had beer that was actually cold.

"Here's the way I see it..." Ingrid started again. "God, you're so smart, Ian. You're the smartest guy I know. You could be like, president or something. Nobel-fucking-prize-winning president of like... I don’t know, I just, I love you, man. You know. Fuck that bitch. Fuck her and her dickhead wanna-be lawyer or whatever he was, conformist prick. He’s got nothing on you. And she’s just gonna be another cookie-cutter female who thinks that marrying some prick lawyer is going to make her happy. Well, you know what? It won’t."


"And you’re better off without her. I'm telling you. You're a winner, bro. You're the best guy I know. You're like, fucking ace."

"Thanks, Iggy," Ian said.


Ingrid hugged her brother and they slid their backs down the wall watching the rain start, because it was soothing, but mostly because they didn't have any more beer money to spend.

"Fuck the patriarchy," Ingrid said. "I don't care if I don't ever find a husband. I mean, do you care, if you never end up married? Does it even matter?"

"I kind of care," Ian said softly.


"Ugh, vomit," Ingrid said.

"What? That's not cool, Ingrid. There's nothing wrong with wanting to be with someone."

"No, that's not what I meant. I'm gonna vomit. I need a toilet, find me a toilet."

"There's a sewer."

"That'll do."

Ingrid lunged forward onto her hands and knees, but she didn't make it to the sewer. At least she felt a little better.

"Come on, Iggy. Let's get home."


The sun was rising by the time they stumbled home at about five in the morning. Ingrid collapsed in front of the open front door, watching rain hit the driveway. "Ian, the rain, do you see it? It's like plink, plink, plink. It's like, so magnificent. And the sunrise on the tallest buildings over the city. It's like gold, it's like... a poem."

"I'm gonna puke," Ian said.

"Just do it, you'll feel better."

But there was no time for puking. Their parents came down the stairs. Ingrid tried to wipe up the puddles they'd left at the door, but it was too late. "Sit down," their mother boomed.


Heather stood before her grown children, and somehow, even though Ingrid was exactly as tall as her mother now, this always made her feel small.

"First," Heather said. "This is not a frat house. Second, you're not in college anymore. Third, neither of you two have jobs."

"I have a job," Ingrid said.

"No, not a real one. Fourth, it's the tenth time you two have stumbled home drunk at some ungodly hour and you've only been home two weeks..."


"Mom, it's twenty-eighty-five. Did you know that modern human beings are only accustomed to the sleep-wake pattern we have because we've adopted electric lighting? Did you know that humans used to sleep for part of the night and then—"

"No," Heather said. "Stop. I'm tired. I have to work in two hours and I don't care what humans used to do five-hundred years ago. I'm tired now and I need to be at work in two hours."

"Well, what, are you gonna give us a curfew? We’re grown-ups," Ingrid whined.

"Then act like a grown-up," Heather said.

"I have to work too," Laney said, coming down the stairs. "What's all the noise?"

"You're all moving out," Heather said.


"All of us?" Laney made a cry face, but restrained herself from actually crying. "But if they're the ones being loud, why do I have to leave?"

"Laney, sweetheart," Adam said. "You're twenty-six years old. You have a terrific job, and I know you've got lots of money saved. Don't you think it's time you tried to find a place of your own?"

"When were you going to tell me this?"

"We've been thinking about it for a while," Heather said. "It's time."

"But take the summer to find a place, of course," Adam added. "There's no need to rush."

Heather closed her eyes and shook her head.

"How are we gonna get a place?" Ingrid said. "We don't have jobs... Not real ones."

"You have the summer to work that out for yourself," Heather said. "For now, I want absolute silence from you two. I'm going back to bed."


"Shit," Ingrid whispered.

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