No shit, Sherlock. Of course my mom, a mousy Taurus, is threatened by me, a genius vixen who captures her husband’s attention. I can’t believe I paid someone to tell me that.

I inhale until the smoke tickles my lungs and my muscles slacken. After washing my hands, I pull out my eye drops. My cannabis habit was always an issue when I was younger. My mom said it was destroying my brain cells. I told her it was expanding my artistic potential. She said there is no such thing as artistic potential. “Art was made up by rich people,” she’d said.

“That’s why I like it,” I said back.

I blink Visine into my eyes and reenter the dining room. I can do this; I can get my mom on my side. I decide to consider it the biggest acting job of my life.

Back at the table, the waiter is telling everyone about the special, roast turkey with all the trimmings. I already know I want the shrimp cocktail and the steak frites. Thomas and my parents listen actively, nodding like dogs being trained. Finally the waiter stops talking and we all order, and no one orders the traditional Thanksgiving meal.

While we wait, my dad asks Thomas what kinds of things he consults on.

In the car on the way over, I googled “what do consultants do?” I told Thomas to say “general strategy” and “tech implementations,” then ask my dad about his job, which is exactly what he does. My dad doesn’t seem suspicious, but my mom still does.

By the time our appetizers arrive, my dad is relaxed and seems a bit drunk. He is on his second glass of wine. My mom has hardly touched hers.

“So, Emily,” my dad asks. “Are you acting?”

I can’t believe he is asking this. He must be impressed by Thomas, or just drunk. My parents never mention my acting aspirations. My mom glares at my dad, then glares at me. I also rehearsed the answer to this question, although I am more prepared for them to ask what I am doing for money.

“Yes,” I say. I googled “hottest contemporary directors” this morning. I don’t follow “cinema” anymore, but my dad does. He reads the New Yorker. I wanted to pick someone he would recognize. I read some names I found online to Thomas, and he said I should say Nico Nadler, a hip horror director with “heavy Freudian themes.” I knew my dad would love this.

“He’s directed two major horror flicks for A24,” Thomas said in the car.

“What’s A24?” I asked.

“Jesus, Em,” he said. “It’s only the most relevant film distribution company of the last seven years. You know, I’d say your naivety could get you somewhere, but you’re probably too old for that.”

This was the smartest thing Thomas had ever said to me.