“Hunting a lake monster takes a lot of practice,” my dad says to every screen in the tri-state area.

I’m waiting for a call to come in at work when they appear on the local news. My dad and brother are on television, talking to a reporter beside the lake.

“That your family?” asks Kenny, from behind the counter.

We both have a clear view of the TV. It hovers in the corner opposite a row of chairs intended for those who prefer to pick up their pizzas.

“Some family or other,” I say.

He goes along with this response.

Maybe I can say my real dad and brother are elder statesmen who died at sea. I guess I’d have to look up what that means first.

Behind them, rain pelts the lake in applause.

I could give full physical descriptions of my dad and brother here, but for their sake, I won’t.

We’ve lived in this town my whole life and people are only now starting to figure out my family’s indecencies. We cultivate them. And now we’re showcasing them to the public. I could say I stay close to them in order to keep watch on them. The fact is their unrelenting affection often knocks me out for weeks at a time. Therefore my check-ins are sporadic. I can’t even begin to dedicate myself to such a task.

“What they don’t tell you about hunting a lake monster is the bounty of meat that awaits you. If we pull this off, we’ll need another chest freezer,” my dad continues while my brother poses.

The amount of embarrassment I should feel in this moment is unassessable. Kenny turning down the volume for my benefit is a tell.

We might be talking full-on banishment from society. My scholarship is out the window at the very least.

I can feel Kenny’s eyes on me, waiting for me to share their secrets.

Can’t you see I’m working here, I want to say.

Nobody sees it, but off camera there’s a disco ball dangling from the ceiling of the news van.

Finally, somebody needs a pizza delivered to their home by a professional. Best in class. I am driving circles around the competition at regular intervals, in both literal and figurative senses. As the job requires.

So I make it to a cul de sac. They’re fairly commonplace in this part of town, really. Highly sought after for reasons beyond my understanding.

This kid answers the door. She holds up the business end of an ice cream cone and looks at me like WHAT.

There’s no strategic reaction I can think of for her vague threat, but my eyes are all WHATEVER YOU SAY, MISS.

The fatal cone is pointed directly at my face while the other end drips mercilessly onto their entryway rug. She makes no effort to budge.

Little does she know that our most alluring slices are nestled in my hands. It’s left unmentioned. I shouldn’t have to say it, however, the word “scintillating” comes to mind.

I accept defeat, lowering the deluxe cardboard onto their stoop. Using dessert as a weapon––that’s going too far.

What sounds like a child’s birthday party is playing itself out in the background.

There isn’t any tip. There never was.

A note is waiting for me at home when my shift ends. It’s tucked into the handle of my front door.

The note reads: They’re going viral.

It’s probably from Seth. He likes to think of himself as the godfather of our block. His idea of keeping tabs on us is a note like this. I should have expected it. Call it godfathering if you must. Seth doing his Seth thing.

My dad and brother let me believe they were covering the pool hall today. We do that sometimes. Our visits are almost ceremonial. The costumes we don under cover of night so that nobody will recognize us seem to glow under those awful lamps. We moved the bartender to tears once. I’m at the cusp of suave in a place like that.

It’s easy to be a pool shark these days. Part of a bygone era. In the right crowd, you can hustle without any of the hustling. Don’t say anything at all, just fumble around a few shots and smile.

Might as well forget about all that. Although with the townies who frequent the pool hall, maybe our scam is still plausible.

That’s when I see them. Honking and yelling and shrieking tires. Some kind of victory lap to prove a point that’s lost on all of us. That’s how my family operates.

No one can tell me that I need to be here.

I take to the streets. Without thinking about it much I’m in our old neighborhood, back when we had money. Our house with the full swing set and sport court in the back. The lot is abandoned.

I shimmy through a window. There’s a closet at the end of the hall where we used to keep all the equipment for said sport court and various toys. It’s locked.

I kick open the door and it feels exactly how I want kicking open a door to feel. The closet is empty. Its ceiling is the inverse shape of the stairs directly above it. I crouch into the lowest part.

My knuckles crack in time with what sound like fireworks going off over the lake. For all I know, a lake monster celebration is probably occurring.

I tell myself I am the lake monster. Their imaginary enemy has become a part of me. Or something like that.

I press buttons on my phone.

This time, I wait for the pizza to come to me. I’ll wait as long as I need to. Waiting is all it takes.