It’s Getting Late, and They’re Up a ‘Creek’

Here we are at the House of Homework on a rollicking Tuesday night, with the end of the school year closing in and me trying to maintain some sort of order.

“Can I just get a straight answer?” I ask.

“How about a round answer?” says the little red-haired girl.

“Or a hexagonal answer?” says my lovely and patient older daughter.

No, I insist on a straight answer. For two years, I have been searching for a straight answer in this house. So far, no luck. But I keep trying. I have become the Don Quixote of straight answers.

“I really just want a straight answer,” I say.

“How about a triangle answer?” the little girl says.

“Or an octagonal answer?” her older sister suggests.

It is 9:30 at night, well past the little red-haired girl’s bedtime. But amid the flurry of final exams and end-of-the-year projects, time has gotten away from us. Suddenly, it is 9:30 and two kids are still up. Worse yet, they are watching TV. That’s right, television.

“I want to know when you two are going to bed,” I say. “Seriously.”

“Seriously?” asks my lovely and patient older daughter.

“Seriously,” I say.

“Seriously, we don’t know,” she says, prompting another round of giggles.

But I insist. Lately, I have been doing a lot of insisting. When I’m not out looking for straight answers, I’m insisting. I insist on insisting. I believe it would be a better world if parents insisted more. To me, insisting is like prayer--something a parent needs to do often, whether it pans out or not.

“OK, we’ll turn it off,” my older daughter says. “In 20 minutes.”

“Now,” I insist.

“But it’s the season finale,” she says.

It’s actually the finale of the season finale. On the TV, things are happening quickly. Teenage relationships are exploding. Girlfriends are crying. Homework is not getting done. Apparently, the show is pretty true to life.

“Twenty minutes,” I say softly, pulling the covers over the little red-haired girl, who, fortunately, is drifting off to sleep. “Twenty minutes and lights out.”

“Twenty-five max,” my older daughter says.

“Twenty,” I say.

*

I’ve seen parts of this show before. It appears to be about troubled teens with great hair who live in big upper-middle-class homes near the ocean.

As you might expect, they are pretty miserable about having to live in big upper-middle-class homes near the ocean. Incredibly, their parents don’t always understand them.

“Who’s the guy with the hair?” I ask.

“That’s Dawson,” my older daughter says.

“He’s the one with the creek?” I ask.

“Please, Dad, I’m trying to watch.”

From what I can tell, teenage girls keep climbing in and out of Dawson’s bedroom on a ladder propped on the side of his big house. All hours of the night, pretty girls are climbing through the window. It’s no wonder he’s miserable.

“Hi, Dawson,” the pretty girls all say. “Can we talk?”

Dawson, incredibly, always agrees to talk.

“Don’t they have stairs in the house?” I ask as another girl scampers up the ladder. “It’s a nice house. They must have stairs.”

“Dad, please,” my daughter scolds.

Like the school year itself, this episode hurtles toward its conclusion. From what I can tell, some girl is threatening to go to Paris. And this Dawson guy suddenly realizes he loves her.

“Joey, don’t go!” Dawson pleads.

But Joey starts to go anyway. She heads for the ladder to climb out of Dawson’s life forever and head for Paris. Because this Dawson guy may have his own creek, but it ain’t exactly Paris.

“Give me one good, nonanalytical, off-the-top-of-your-head reason why I should stay,” Joey says, backing away toward the window, leaving Dawson fumbling for a response.

“Kiss her!” my lovely and patient older daughter screams at the TV. “Just kiss her!”

This awakens the little red-haired girl, who bolts upright in her bed.

“Kiss her,” the little girl says, still groggy with sleep. “Kiss her!”

The little girl is not sure who’s kissing whom. She just knows she’s in favor of kissing in general.

“Kiss her,” the little girl mumbles sleepily, before her head plops down on the pillow for good.

“Wait, Joey!” Dawson says on the TV.

And Dawson kisses her, which triggers the show’s theme song, a song about not wanting to wait any longer, about wanting love now, not five minutes from now. Right now.

And for one fleeting moment, everybody on “Dawson’s Creek” is happy.

“Thank God he kissed her,” says my lovely and patient older daughter, finally turning off the TV and putting her homework away.

“Thank God,” I say.

*

* Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.