I laughed a little too loudly and crossed my arms again, trying to shrink into the floor. “Yeah, well … you know. These stools just come out of nowhere!”
I am so stupid. Why am I so stupid?
Jackie put her hands on her hips and grinned over at Theo. “We’ve all hit the deck once or twice,” she said sympathetically.
“Or a hundred thousand times, if you’re me,” I half joked.
Jackie let out a hearty laugh, and I chuckled along with her. I tried putting my hands on my hips confidently, like her, but the buttons on my blazer popped off and flew across the room. She laughed even harder. I turned as red as her hair/my pasta stain.
“So,” I said, trying hard to divert their attention, “you work in the kitchen with Theo?”
Theo shook his head. “Actually, Jackie’s one of the owners of Farmhouse Catering,” he explained. “She’s in charge of the LA branch.”
“Oh, wow! That’s impressive!” I said, declaring the obvious.
Jackie seemed charmed by my simplicity. “Well, thank you. I try to be.” Her eyes glimmered with amusement. “But the person who’s really impressive here is your boyfriend. He’s quite the talent, as I’m sure you know.”
Theo blushed and stared down at his shoes, which I noticed had purple laces.
“Trust me, I do,” I quickly agreed, nodding emphatically. “I’m honestly just dating him for his ricotta toast.”
Theo sent a loving smile my way. Jackie’s grew wider.
“Well then, maybe we add ricotta toast to the menu, huh?” The question was directed at Theo, who was turning into the lankier version of Bashful from the Seven Dwarfs. I, on the other hand, had somehow morphed into Dopey.
“The menu?” I asked, looking back and forth between the two of them. “What menu?”
Jackie checked her watch, probably deciding if her time was well spent answering a sauce-covered plebeian like me.
“I’m opening up a new restaurant next month,” she graciously explained. “Farm to table, primarily Mediterranean. I’ve been scouting some of the young caterers at Farmhouse, and after watching him work for a few months now, I’m asking Theo to be one of my chef de parties.”
My chin dropped to the frills of Megan’s blouse. “WHAT??” I yelled much too loudly. “Wait. Isn’t that a sous chef position? I could be wrong. I think that’s what they said on Chopped. I can’t remember exactly. We watch a lot of Chopped.”
Jackie laughed again, patting Theo on the back. “You’ve got a funny one here, huh, Theo? Yes, he’d be a sous chef. And frankly, my right-hand guy. Assuming he takes the position.”
For a moment, I forgot all about my embarrassment and was overcome with pure, unmitigated joy. Theo was being asked to work as a CHEF! A real-life honest-to-goodness Chopped-level sous chef!! My heart soared with pride as Jackie looked back over her shoulder to their food-adorned table.
“Well, our lunch just got here, so we should probably get to it.”
“Yes! Of course!” I said, nodding furiously. “Go and eat! Just don’t get it all over yourself, like I did.” I pointed with two fingers toward my multiple pasta stains. Jackie squinted at my chest.
“Oh, look at that! I hadn’t even noticed!”
And with that, she turned around and walked back to her booth. Theo grabbed both of my hands in his and squeezed them tightly, his buckteeth fully out.
“This is such a good day! I can’t wait to hear about your interview … I’ll call you in the car, okay?”
“Okay,” I croaked.
He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and skipped back to the table, where Jackie had already bitten into her fresh chopped salad. It took me a minute to remember what on earth I was even doing there, covered in pasta sauce in a ruined blazer alone on a Thursday. All the pieces fell into place as I slowly made my way back to my cold bowl of Bolognese.
Wow. So this is what bottom looks like: pretending to interview for a fake job while almost ruining your boyfriend’s offer for a real one.
Could this day possibly get any worse??!?
* * *
Megan Bitchell
AUGUST 23
12:16 P.M.
* * *
Mom stormed into the kitchen this afternoon carrying four canvas bags stuffed with multicolored bottles. They clinked together loudly as Mom set them down on the kitchen counter, Dad trailing behind her, arms crossed.
“Mom? What is that?”
She began pulling glass bottles out of the bags one by one, placing them on the countertop. The pugs trotted over and sat on my feet, anxious to be part of the action. Dad shook his head and disappeared into the pantry.
“These are our meals for the next week!” Mom chirped, opening the refrigerator door. I pulled one of the bottles from the bag and read the label.
“Aloe vera ginger juice?”
She nodded, her blond hair bouncing just above her shoulders. She began filling the fridge with the strange elixirs.
“That’s right! You and I are juicing for seven days, Lulu!”
I picked up another bottle: charcoal Reishi root blend. Ugh. “So we’re drinking these juices for the next seven days?”
“That’s right!”
Muffin and Baguette stared up at me, desperate to be included. I lowered the bottle to their level, giving them a sniff. Muffin licked it twice, violently snorted, and then ran into the other room. Baguette growled. Not a good sign.
“Okay, Mom, that’s fine. But where’s the food?”
“This is the food!”
I cocked my head and frowned. “I think we have a very different definition of food.”
Mom started removing half-empty Diet Cokes from the back of the fridge to make room, spilling them into the sink. “What’s the big deal? You’ve done plenty of cleanses before.”
“Yeah, but normally they include some sort of chewing. Four ounces of protein. A carrot stick. Anything.”
A plastic bag popped open in the pantry and was followed by the distinct crunch of potato chips. We have potato chips?? Since when do we have potato chips?!
“That’s the whole point of a cleanse, honey! Solid food is too harsh on the stomach. They’re saying it’s the best thing to do for your digestive system … Prepare to flush out those nasty toxins!”
My whole body shuddered. No food for seven days? Surely this was banned by the Geneva convention. I rolled my eyes as more crunching sounds emanated from the pantry.
“Why isn’t Dad doing it?” I asked.
The crunching abruptly stopped. Mom shook her head. “Because it would be too expensive to add a third cleanse for the week, and your father is addicted to food.”
“I am not!” Dad protested, his mouth half full.
“You are, too!” Mom and I shouted back in unison.
Dad growled words like whipped and browbeaten as he sulked back into the kitchen, the dust of fallen chips spattering his guilty chest. Mom shoved the bottles deeper into the fridge, the entire shelf dominated by vibrant juices and alkaline waters.
I quickly considered my options as Mom yelled at Dad about the evils of processed foods:
I could refuse the cleanse altogether, but that would put me in terrible standing with Mom. I’d end up a pariah in my own home, which would be difficult considering it’s where I spend 99 percent of my time as of late.
I could subtly cheat throughout the cleanse, but that’s a preposterous waste of money and my mother would find out. She always does. It’s like she has a sixth sense that detects whenever carbs come near my face. She would hear the crunching of a single snap pea from a mile away if I dared to attempt a nibble.
Then of course I could … just do it? Why not? It’s not like I have any dinners or social events planned this week. And if all goes well, I’ll be a few pounds lighter, which is on my list of medium-term goals and of course will make Mom happy. Maybe this is the secret weapon I’ve been looking for! Maybe, just maybe, this will lead to …
“All right,�
� I conceded as Dad ran out of the room to escape the nagging. “Seven days of juices. Sounds great! I’ll look at this as an experiment. And hey, it’s great that the bottles are recyclable!”
Mom smiled wide. “That’s the spirit! I’m so happy to see you embracing health in this way! Maybe spending a day with Megan wasn’t so bad after all. Now, help me find where your father hides those potato chips.”
AUGUST 24
8:30 P.M.
* * *
Juice cleanse, day one:
Hunger Level: Surprisingly, the hunger has been manageable. I craved solid food only twice today, and both times I was able to curb it with alkaline water or coffee.* The juices themselves have ranged from pretty good to absolutely revolting, depending entirely on the presence of fruit. I didn’t think it was possible to juice plain dirt, but this company may have found a way to do it.
The equation I’ve come up with is:
Taste of Juice = (Number of Fruits per drink [NF] / Number of Vegetables per drink [NV]) − Hunger Level [HL]
Physical Sensations: I have peed approximately three hundred and forty-nine times today.
Mood: Generally unpleasant, but not terrible. Comparable to a light PMS, or a bad encounter with a disagreeable relative. Regardless, I’m going to bed early, so I can be one day closer to the end of this nonsense.
AUGUST 25
9:20 P.M.
* * *
Juice cleanse, day two:
Hunger Level: Today was … harder. I experienced some tummy grumbling, and I had to hold my nose to choke down certain juices. Luckily, my tongue has started to go numb from all the acid, so it’s harder to taste anything anymore. The updated equation is as follows:
Taste of Juice = (Number of Fruits per drink [NF] / Number of Vegetables per drink [NV]) − Hunger Level [HL] × Number of Juices Already Consumed [JAC]
Physical Sensations: I’ve started getting hunger headaches and continue to pee like a diabetic who is pregnant with twins. My energy is low, and so is my tolerance for Mom, who continues to call the cleanse “euphoric.”
Mood: The mood swings fluctuate from slightly peeved to egregiously annoyed, but I’ve yet to hit any extreme levels of sadness or rage. All in all, it was a good day.
Only five more to go.
AUGUST 26
9:47 P.M.
* * *
Whoever created the all-liquid cleanse deserves to spend eternity in a purgatory so dark and desolate, their souls beg for the sweet escape of toxin-filled hell.
Hunger Level: 40 years stranded in the desert.
Physical Sensations: The headaches are blazing. I can barely lift my arms to write this. It’s like someone spray-painted the front of my brain with lighter fluid and lit a match. I started chewing on my own finger just to feel the sensation on my teeth again. Ugh.
Mood: I’m absolutely fucking miserable and downright homicidal. Mother is first on the list. How is she so damn chipper??
“I feel amazing!” she all but sang to me, lightly dancing into the living room. I stared up at her from the couch, a zombielike expression stuck on my face. “What about you, Lulu? Don’t you feel amazing??”
I grunted and hiccupped a little. She didn’t seem to hear or care.
“Wow, I’m feeling so good … I might just extend the cleanse for a few more days! What do you think, honey?”
I choked back tears. Extending? Mom twirled out of the room and I slumped so deep into the couch that I fell off onto the floor. The pugs found my motionless body and licked my face, like fat little vultures feasting on the dead.
Almost halfway there.
AUGUST 27
8:10 P.M.
* * *
Day four, and I’m feeling … good? Can that be true?? The headaches are gone, even though I didn’t drink coffee today, and I’ve begun noticing subtle complex flavors in the juices. Dandelion has a bit of a bitter taste, doesn’t it? Huh. Who knew consuming dirt required such a sensitive palate?? I’ll have to discuss the culinary possibilities with Theo later.
Is it plausible that this godforsaken cleanse actually does flush out some sort of strange, mental-blocking toxins? I might be able to suffer through this, after all!
AUGUST 28
10:15 A.M.
* * *
I. Feel. GREAT!
Day five, and I’m feeling positively excellent. Exultant! Blissfully swimming in a cloud of oxygen and glorious golden light. WOW, energy is bursting from my core!! Where is Mom? I need to find Mom! It’s a beautiful day and we’re going to go on a HIKE!
1:45 P.M.
* * *
I effortlessly ran that entire hike TWICE. I could barely even feel my legs, much less experience pain. I’ve never seen Mom look so proud of me. She was actually glowing! Or maybe that was the aura that seems to be emitting from objects every thirty minutes. It’s hard to tell. BUT SHE WAS SO PROUD!!!
AUGUST 29
10:27 A.M.
* * *
Hahaha everything’s glowinggggggg. My head feels funny. I think I’m seeing spots. Or polka dots. Polka spots? OOOOOO the pretty colors!
12:30 P.M.
* * *
Why’s my body tingling? Is that normal? It’s like I’m carbonated. Can humans be carbonated?? Whoa.
5:45 P.M.
* * *
I don’t want anyone to panic … but I think the living room lamp might be alive. It keeps dancing in circles, but no one else sees it. WHY CAN’T ANYONE ELSE SEE IT?!
9:12 P.M.
* * *
Everything is beautiful. How is everything so beautiful?? I just want to hug everyone in the whole world. I AM NEVER EATING SOLID FOOD AGAIN!!!
AUGUST 30
7:30 P.M.
* * *
The Last Will and Testament of Eloise Laurent Hansen
As she feels the grip of death slowly but surely closing around her juice-filled body, Ms. Hansen leaves to her beloved successors the following:
TO MAMA SHELL, Eloise leaves all the material possessions found in her closet, oversize as they may be. She also asks that Shelly dresses her for the funeral, since Lou would never be allowed to do it herself.
TO PAPA HANSEN, she leaves her cherished book collection, as well as the stash of dark chocolate and pretzels that she kept in the first-aid box below the sink.
TO HER SISTER, VALENTINA, Eloise bestows her old ID to be used as a fake, assuming Val does not have a fake already. She also grants Val access to all her embarrassing pictures and journals, to be burned if deemed necessary by the new possessor.
TO HER BOYFRIEND, THEODORE, Lou leaves her fallen dignity and deepest condolences, seeing as he’ll now know the dark secrets of her wacky family. Also, all her cookbooks, coffee mugs, and whatever succulents he so chooses.
TO HER PUGS, Eloise grants permission for her old bedroom to be converted into a doggy restroom, which it might as well be at this point, anyway.
AUGUST 31
Alyssa
Month Five
Back-to-School Shopping
SEPTEMBER 1
Mama Shell
11:03 A.M.
* * *
Val just spent three weeks in Topanga eating crappy grilled-cheese sandwiches and shoveling dirt, yet she somehow looks like she went through an episode of Extreme Makeover: Camp Edition. She’s toned and tanned, and I’m pretty sure her butt got even perkier. Seriously, who comes home from camp looking better than when they left? Most of us were still finding soil in our near-dreads for three weeks afterward, grateful to be using a shower with hot water that didn’t require flip-flops.
Hold on, I’m getting a call.
11:15 A.M.
* * *
… Well, that was weird.
Mom just called me from the car, hysterically crying.
“My last back-to-school day, Lulu!” she blubbered as I stared across the bathroom at the dreaded scale. “It’s just hitting me now! No more pickups, no more drop-offs, no more parent-teacher conferences
or SAT tutors…”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked, slowly tiptoeing toward the digital doomsday mechanism.
“Of course not!” she yelled too loudly into the phone. “For twenty years, I’ve been sitting in the backs of classrooms, listening to your teachers drone on and on about enhanced curriculums and critical thinking. Because that’s what moms do! That’s who I am!”
Another flood of tears overtook her as I came face-to-face with my inanimate nemesis. I braced myself, hovered one foot over the scale, and then quickly withdrew, too afraid to step down.
“You’re still a mom, Mom. That doesn’t suddenly change.”
Mom’s wavering voice came booming through my phone speaker: “But it’s not the same! You don’t need me anymore. You and your sister are strong, independent, fully capable young women.”
I lifted my foot again and let all the air out of my body before stepping onto the scale, eyes squinted so that I could barely make out the number.
… Ugh.
“Yeah, the ‘fully capable’ thing is kind of debatable right now.”
Mom let out a tiny hiccup. “Oh, sweetie, you’ll find a job. You have the whole world in front of you! What do I have to look forward to? More wrinkles and senior citizen discounts??”
“But you won’t be a senior citizen for another ten years.”
“ONLY TEN?!”
Even more tears. Dad’s low voice mumbled words of comfort on the other end of the line as I contemplated how leftover juice might still be hiding in my organs, keeping me the same exact weight as I was pre-cleanse. Maybe if I start crying, too, I’ll rid myself of some remaining liquid.
“I’m sorry you’re upset, Mom. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes, actually,” she said, sniffling a bit. “Will you go with me to the doctor tomorrow? Normally I go with a friend, but no one’s available.”
Smothered Page 13
