Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

— Monty Python’s Flying Circus (1969–1974)

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I had no headache. I didn’t feel hungover, but I was confused as to why I woke up in my childhood bedroom. And then it all came back to me.

The queue of Guy(s) at the bar.

Desmond appearing out of thin air.

Hemorrhoid cream and smelly rashes.

And then the conversation that followed, including but not limited to me spitting facts about how I’d never had sex and I wanted him to be my first.

But the worst part? The VERY WORST PART! I’d told him I had feelings for him. I could’ve handled the throwing myself at him. I’d been drunk, and I knew he wanted me in that way too. But admitting to feelings? Ugh. Why was I this way? Why?!

Once the sum total of mortifying details tallied in my brain, I turned my face into my pillow and I screamed. Then I kicked my feet and punched the bed and I screamed and I screamed. When I thought perhaps I’d finished, I screamed one more time.

That’s when a knock sounded on my door.

“Ava? Are you awake?” My mom’s voice was gentle. That was good. I needed gentle. I felt too brittle. I might break if a strong wind hit me just right. “I have hot water with honey. Are you feeling okay?”

Flopping onto my back, I covered my face with my hands, unsurprised to find tears of frustration gathering at the corners of my eyes. “I actually feel fine, Mom. No headache. Nothing at all. No discomfort whatsoever!”

I would never drink again. I would join a nunnery and devote myself to hand-washing the floors of vast cathedrals. A vow of silence was what I needed. That was my true calling.

“Then do you mind if I come in?”

I sighed loudly and sat up. “Go ahead.”

Using my fingers to flick away the tears, I sniffled. I wasn’t crying. This moisture was pure frustration, and there was a difference. Being frustrated made my eyes water like I was chopping an onion. Crying meant tears flowed like Niagara Falls.

My mother opened the door, a mug of steaming honey water in her grip. She crossed over to me, set it on the nightstand, and placed two pain relief pills next to it.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” She sat on the edge of my mattress, her hand coming to my leg. That’s when I realized I was still wearing the same clothes as last night when I’d thrown myself at Des.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“No headache?”

“I followed the cardinal rule Dad always told us, stick to one kind of liquor.”

“How much did you have to drink?” She looked truly worried.

“Honestly, I think it was maybe three drinks.” I thought back to the previous night and a flash of memory returned. Me going inside with my dad while Des remained outside with my mom. I rushed to add, “And it wasn’t Des’s fault. I’d already had two by the time he arrived. In fact, I don’t think I finished the third glass.”

“Over what period of time?”

“Like, an hour.” That barely legal bartender had been right. I was the definition of lightweight.

She nodded, seeming to relax at this news. We sat in quiet contemplation for a moment. I don’t know where her thoughts drifted but mine were magnetized to reliving the most mortifying moments of the car ride last night. The tightness in my chest made it hard to breathe so I pushed a breath from my lungs, wondering where the closest nun recruitment center was located.

“Desmond brought you home,” my mom said, and it sounded like the beginning of a conversation.

“Yes,” I said, closing my eyes. How would I ever face him?

Then again, I might not have to. I felt the heat of mortification drain from my face at the realization and glanced at my nightstand, searching for the loaner phone Uncle Alex had given me on Friday after I’d lost mine at Henri’s murder office.

“Uh, where’s my phone?”

“It’s there.” My mom picked it up and handed it to me. It had been hiding behind my lamp.

I sucked in several deep breaths, willing myself to be courageous enough to look at it. If Des had sent a text or left a voicemail, that meant he’d done as I’d asked. A voicemail or text would be him letting me down gently via my preferred method. But I couldn’t look. I’m such a coward.

“What’s wrong?” My mother covered my hand, giving it a squeeze. “You have no color in your cheeks.”

“Nothing.” I clutched the phone to my chest, not ready to look yet. “I did something really embarrassing last night and I’m living to regret it now that the sun is up.”

Her brown eyes moved over me, assessing. “Well, you’ll tell me if you feel like it’s important. Right?”

I nodded. “I will.” I would not tell my mother about this.

My mother was poised and competent in all matters relating to everything. She had no problem navigating society’s expectations, pitfalls, and nuances. And I was so not any of those things. I loved my mother, obviously. But I was grateful for my dad. He made obvious mistakes, owned them, and had taught me how to move on gracefully. His constant mess-making made me feel less foolish.

“Okay. Good.” She sat back, bringing a leg up to my bed and bending it at the knee. “I do need to discuss something with you, if you’re feeling okay.”

“Is it about last night?” I braced myself for her answer.

“No. Not at all.”

Whew. “Sure. Yes. Fine. What is it?”

“I got a call from your uncle Alex on Friday night.”

I stiffened and purposefully dropped my eyes to my legs. “Oh, ah—I see.”

“He said that you probably had something to tell me, but to give you until Monday morning.”

Oh, Uncle Alex. How cruelly consistent you are.

To be fair, he’d warned me. He said he would call my mom, and that I should debrief her by this morning about the Raziel-Wickford-Harding Building debacle. He’d also told me it was preferable if I didn’t reveal to my mother Raziel’s true identity, but he’d leave that up to me.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” My mom dipped her head, probably in an attempt to catch my gaze.

“S-sure.” I had to tell her eventually. And, bonus, telling her about Friday would delay me checking my phone for Des’s rejection text.

Crossing my legs, I set my phone down on the bed next to me and leaned forward. “First, I need you to be calm. But I don’t want you to go all robot calm. I want you to stay human calm.” Sometimes my mother reminded us of a robot. She could magically turn off her feelings, or all outward signs of them, especially when she was either really mad or really focused. She grew quiet and impassive, and then turned into a robot.

Lifting her eyes to the ceiling of my room, she crossed her arms. “I promise, I will not be robot calm. Please tell me what happened.”

Picking up the honey water from my nightstand, I held the mug in both hands and peered at my mother over the cup. “So, on Friday, I almost died.”

I heard my sister before I saw her.

The door off the back porch opened and she called, “Ava? Are you out here?”

“I’m on the swing set,” I yelled back.

Similarly to how Desmond and I had used the set during the barbecue several weekends ago, I wasn’t swinging. I’d been shifting my weight back and forth, my eyes on the grass. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out here, but the sun was directly overhead.

Because I was a coward, I hadn’t checked my phone yet. I’d left it inside my bedroom. But it was past noon and Des hadn’t showed up first thing. I guess I already knew what would be waiting for me on my cell. There was no need to check it.

“I’m coming out,” Grace yelled. “And I have water. Dad wants you to drink the whole thing.”

My mother hadn’t been as robotic as I thought she’d be after I’d told her about Friday. On a scale from the wisecracking housekeeper from The Jetsons (1) to Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey (10) she’d been Ex Machina, the 2014 film with the robot named—ironically—Ava (8.5). Unlike Hal, she appeared human. And given the situation, her actions were understandable but also frightening.

I’d refused to tell her where the incident took place and I’d refused to give her Henri Wickford’s name or the pseudonym he’d used. And, obviously, I didn’t tell her that Des had been Raziel. But I did slip and say Raziel at one point, so she knew the thief’s name. But she also knew the thief had saved my life at least three times.

My mother was very smart, so she knew I was protecting someone by withholding details. She didn’t push. Once I’d finished relating the information I was willing to share, she’d given me a hug, told me she was so glad I was okay, and calmly stood to “make some phone calls.”

The reason I didn’t give up Wickford’s name or associated details had more to do with protecting Des than anything else. It was obvious Des was working on a job related to Wickford. If my mother knew Wickford’s actions had almost led to my death, I was fairly certain she’d intervene in Wickford’s affairs, which might jeopardize Des’s mission.

Basically, I was fine. It was over. No need for my mom to go all ninja.

“Are you okay?”

I glanced up and found my sister strolling toward me. I didn’t know what she’d heard or to what she was referring: my embarrassing encounter with Des last night or the Friday fiasco. Either way, I would be fine. Eventually.

Grace held a cup with a lid and straw in one hand and passed it over as soon as she’d closed the distance.

I accepted it. “Yes. I’m⁠—”

My sister reached down and pulled me up by the shoulders, wrapping me in a tight hug. “You are so important to me. Do you know that? I love you so much. I’m so glad you seem okay.”

Ah. So. Someone told her about the Friday fiasco.

Bringing my arms around her much smaller form, I returned the embrace, resting my cheek on the top of her head. It was almost comical how much shorter my sister was than me. She may’ve been six years older, but I was six inches taller.

“I’m fine. My foot is cut, but it’s healing fast. Other than the memory, I’m okay.” I pet her hair and we stood that way for a while before a thought occurred to me. “Why are you here? Did Mom call you?”

“No. I’m staying here for a few days. I have three jobs in this neighborhood and they’ll all be late nights. Are you leaving town?” She leaned away, gazing up at me. “Where are they sending you?” Then, on a whisper, she asked, “Can I come?”

I chuckled, letting her go and sitting in the swing again. “I’m not going on vacation. I’m going back to work Tuesday.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” She claimed the swing next to mine, turning it to look at me.

“There’s no reason for everybody to panic. Uncle Alex already arranged guards. I’m perfectly fine.” I sat and sipped my water.

“What exactly happened? Mom said there was a guy in all black, a thief named Raziel, who took you hostage?”

Swallowing the water, I related the story—again—for my sister, trying to keep it as succinct and to the point as possible. When I finished, my sister looked completely confused.

“The thief goes by the name of Raziel? Why Raziel?” That was her question. After everything I told her. That.

I loved my sister.

Shrugging, I fiddled with the straw of my water cup. “According to Uncle Alex, he’s known as Raziel the Thoogist.”

“Thoogist?” She twisted left and right in her swing, frowning thoughtfully.

“Yes.”

“How do you spell it?”

“Uh, T-H-E-U-R-G-I-S-T. My bad, I missed the r. Maybe it’s pronounced thoorgist?”

“Thee-er-gist” She nodded once. “Not thoo-er-gist.”

“Okay, but what the yam and pickles is a theurgist?” I’d tried searching for it and then gave up. “According to the Internet, it’s something like a wizard related to Neoplatonism? Which I now know is a movement of old white dudes talking about spirits and their divine essence and so forth. I did find a reference to Raziel though. Raziel is⁠—”

“I don’t know about Neoplatonism, but a theurgist is also a type of spellcaster.”

I looked at my sister. “Who the what?”

“You know, Dungeons and Dragons.” She bumped my swing with hers. “The role-playing game Jack used to play all the time.”

“Oh yeah.” I made a face. “I hated that game. It didn’t make any sense.”

“It does make sense when you play for fun, Ava.”

“I tried to play for fun, but it wasn’t fun.”

Grace’s swing went still. “You focused on how the mail system in a fictional society works, and who pays for it, and what branch of the government is responsible for the postal workers’ pension fund.”

“Right. Fun.” Obviously.

“Sure. But you have to admit, your obsession with bureaucracy sorta ruined the adventure part.”

I exhaled loudly. “You can’t tell me a society can function with only private couriers. That’s completely improbable. Mail would get lost all the time without a regulatory oversight body, and there’s nothing fun about lost mail.”

“I’m not telling you anything! It’s a game!” she ranted. “It’s supposed to be fun. Who cares about how the postal system functions?”

“Oh, so you don’t care if you never get your packages? Is that what you’re saying?” I couldn’t disagree with her more. This might’ve been a fifteen-year-old debate between us, but my points were valid and hers were not.

“It’s pretend, Ava! It’s not real. How and whether or not the postal service works doesn’t matter!”

Ugh! Thinking about this made me mad like I was ten again and she was sixteen and she knew everything and I knew nothing. However, and certainly more significantly, it also felt good to yell about something not related to my feelings for Desmond, his latest rejection, or the fact that I’d almost died on Friday.

“How can pretending to live in a society without a means to reliably send and receive mail be considered fun? Do you know how many Kickstarters I back? Do you know how hard it is to wait for their fulfillment? And then to have an unreliable method of mail delivery? That sounds hellish.”

“ANYWAY!” She launched herself out of the swing, paced several steps forward, turned, and set her hands on her hips. “That’s not the point. In D&D, a theurgist is a type of spellcaster, a type of magician.”

“What you’re saying is, D—uh, Raziel—who can do parkour like a glue-sniffing galago—named himself after a character from Dungeons and Dragons.” I would let the mail delivery logistics go. For now.

“Theurgists aren’t characters in D&D. Spellcasters are character archetypes and the theurgist is a third-level spellcaster, their spellcasting ability is Intelligence.”

I stared at my sister. Impressed. “Whoa.”

She gave me the side-eye of suspicion. “What?”

Standing, I crossed to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Nerd.”

“Yeah. I’m a nerd.” Grace rolled her eyes, knocking my hand away, but she also smiled.

“I know. I’m just impressed with your level. You’re like a level-seventy nerd. What’s your special ability?”

“Ava? Grace?” My dad’s voice boomed from the back door.

“We’re here!” We both answered in perfect unison, then grinned at each other.

“Ava, you have a visitor!” My dad continued to yell rather than walking out on the porch and using a normal voice.

Grace and I swapped stares. She shrugged. I did too.

“Who is it?” I called back.

“Desmond Sullivan,” my father announced, like this news wouldn’t send me on a one-way ticket to panic planet. And then, probably thinking he was hilarious, he added, “The third.”

I didn’t know what I was doing. The moments following my father’s announcement were like navigating a tropical jungle without a guide. I felt hot and lost and honestly afraid of a sudden possible encounter with a proverbial anaconda. After all, wasn’t that what I’d asked him to do for me last night?

I couldn’t speak. I was so overwhelmed, I was literally speechless. My brain felt full to bursting with random movie lines, all of which struck me as improper in the moment.

If you build it, he will come.

Get in loser, we’re going shopping!

Here’s Johnny!

Snakes. Why’d it have to be snakes?

Thus, when my mom and dad and Des meandered into the backyard wearing smiles and everyone exchanged greetings and my dad joked about whether or not the yellow roses Des had brought were for me or my dad and Des laughed and handed them to me and then pulled me into a tight, one-armed, full-body hug and kissed my cheek—IN FRONT OF MY PARENTS!—and stood next to me holding my hand while they spoke naturally and easily and then said something about us needing to get back—TO WHERE, DES? WHERE?!—and then led me out of the house to his car and opened my door and put his hand on my back to guide me inside and then shut the door and then drove. I said nothing.

He also said nothing during the entire drive. I stole a few glances in his direction. He appeared completely at ease and focused on safely operating this motor vehicle.

What is even happening right now?

Had he taken my drunk ravings seriously yesterday? I mean, I’d been serious. Even after I woke up this morning, I’d regretted the words but they hadn’t been spoken in error. I’d meant them, even in retrospect. I couldn’t pretend I’d been too drunk, or joking, or claim temporary insanity. They were my thoughts. I’d asked for what I truly wanted.

But had he taken me seriously?

I’d snuck a glance at my phone before we left and he’d left no voicemails. He’d sent no messages. Instead, he’d shown up like I’d asked him to. And that meant⁠—

Tugging my T-shirt away from my body, I fanned myself with it and closed my eyes. Hot and lost. I could not stop blushing. My mortification continually crashed over me, my embarrassing words from last night smacking me across the face. I wanted to become one with the leather seat. I wanted to disappear. I wanted⁠—

Hearing a noise and sensing movement from his side, my eyes flew open and I pressed my back against the door. Eyes at maximum diameter, I watched him.

Des fiddled with the air conditioner controls, cranking the air flow up and the temperature down. He pointed the vents in my direction, then returned his attention to the road.

Well. That was nice. Considerate. Des had always been considerate of me, noticing when I was uncomfortable. I hadn’t, with him. I wasn’t as good at that as he was. I was⁠—

I need to apologize. The notion gripped me with a sudden force, focusing my frantic, random thoughts on the single idea.

Crap. I need to apologize. Nothing is happening between the two of you today, you’re acting all bananapants, you need to apologize to your old friend. That’s it.

Forget about whether or not he’d taken me seriously. It didn’t matter if Des had taken me seriously. What mattered was that I’d been completely out of line. I’d propositioned him. I’d touched him without his consent. I’d likely made him feel horribly uncomfortable. Plus, I knew his identity as Raziel. How must he have felt? Me pushing him for sex while I knew his big secret. Maybe he was worried I’d be retaliatory if he said no and expose him.

He’d been wholesome and considerate.

I’d been a gross, lascivious monster.

Less frantic now that I finally understood the assignment and the situation for what it was, I relaxed in the seat for the rest of the drive and practiced potential apologies. Des found a spot outside my apartment in record time, parallel parking like a professional, and cut the engine. In the next moment, he’d unbuckled his seat belt and exited the car. Tiredly, I unbuckled my seat belt and lifted my fingers for the door handle. But he was already there, holding the door for me.

“Thank you,” I said, standing. I gripped the roses to my chest, really taking a look at them for the first time and realizing I hadn’t even thanked him for the flowers. “And thank you for the roses.” Lifting my eyes to his nose, I tried to smile. “They’re beautiful.”

He returned my effortful smile with a small, effortless-looking one, and reached for my hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you up. Show me your place.”