by Emily Asad
Chapter 2: Unpacking
Statistic: Second marriages fail 75% of the time
I checked my watch yet again. With a shake of my head, I noticed that it was only four minutes since I last checked the time. “Stupid,” I said aloud.
“What’s stupid?” asked Matt - my twin brother, even though we look nothing alike. He has black hair and blue eyes. I have red hair and green eyes. In fact, we look so different that people often mistake us for a dating couple. That always grosses me out.
“I keep looking at the time. And they’re not supposed to come home until tomorrow.” I tucked my frizzy red hair behind my ears and bent over another box.
“Paranoid, aren’t we,” Matt said. He stood up and stretched. “I think I’ve done enough unpacking. It’s Peter’s turn.”
“Oh, come on, Matt! You know that mom will beat me bloody if the house isn’t in perfect order. And Peter’s no good. He knows he can get away with anything.”
“So tell Becky to carry stuff for you.”
“You’re saying that a seven-year-old is more useful than a sixteen-year-old?”
He shrugged. “I’m done for today.” With a sharp but affectionate punch to my shoulder, he added, “And there are only nine boxes left. You’ll finish before dinner. Speaking of which, what are you making?”
Weary, I rubbed the back of my neck. I hadn’t even thought about making dinner yet. I was so worried about Mom coming home to a messy house that dinner was the least of my concerns. “Spaghetti, maybe?” I replied. “Hey, go check on Peter and Becky. Make sure they haven’t messed anything up.”
“Spaghetti, huh,” he complained, but he did go outside to see what the kids were doing.
I sat back on my heels and looked around. The house had shaped up nicely in the week they had been gone – they being my mother and her new husband. You’d think after all the moves I’ve been through, I’d be an expert at this. After all, fourteen houses in sixteen years has got to be a Guinness-book qualifier, and I’m not even a military brat. But always before, Mom was in charge of the moves, and everybody helped, even lazy Peter.
Of the nine boxes left, most of them were books for the shelves in the living room. I could unpack those in less than an hour. Especially if I pulled the nasty-sister routine.
“Peter!” I bellowed, raising my voice toward an open window. “Get in here!”
Knowing that appearance was crucial, I stood up, put my hands on my hips and pasted a stern expression on my face. The minute he came inside, I growled, “Why are you playing when there’s work to be done?”
Peter laughed. “School starts in a week, remember? I don’t want to waste any vacation.”
I continued to look stern despite his easy-going answer. “Well, I haven’t had any vacation this summer so far, and I want some time to relax. Grab that and put it where it belongs.”
To my surprise, he obeyed immediately. I knelt beside the remaining boxes and began to shove books onto the shelf.
“Where does this go?” asked Peter after a few minutes, removing a magazine rack from his box.
I flipped my hair out of my face so I could see what he was whining about. “Which box did it come from?”
“Uh, the one from Wal-Mart.”
“No, stupid. I meant, what label did we put on the box?”
His face lit up in a goofy grin. “Oops. Bathroom, I guess.”
“So put it in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, but which one?”
I sighed, a long-drawn out sound that let him know I was being a very patient older sister but was on the edge of losing my temper. “Mom’s the only one who reads while she sits, Peter.”
He knew that sigh well. I had used it on him dozens of times before. “Sorry,” he muttered, and hustled out of the room.
It always amazes me how I’m the only one with brains in our family. My twin brother, Matt, is probably as smart as I am – at least, he knows lots more useless trivia, and always gets straight A’s – but he lacks common sense. He’s a poet and a dreamer who would have done better if he had been born in the Renaissance era. Twelve-year-old Peter, our younger brother, was never any good with academics, even though he’s probably the most popular kid in his grade. As if sixth grade matters. Then there’s Becky, the baby of the family, who still has to prove herself. I’m pretty sure she has a brain, but it’s hard to tell with second-graders. In any case, she’s phenomenal in gymnastics and already has coaches turning their heads whenever she gives a performance. Me? I’m the invisible, responsible one, the one who takes the blame for everything. And I don’t even complain.
A squeal of fright, followed by a shriek of laughter, arrested my attention. I turned my head. Matt was chasing Becky around the kitchen, threatening to tickle her. For some reason, their laughter made me cranky.
“Is everyone going to enjoy themselves while I slave away?” I said, loud enough for everyone to know I was unhappy.
Matt came and sat beside me on the hardwood floor. “How long do you think this one will last?”
I knew he was referring to Mom’s latest marriage. “I’d give it a year,” I said, “maybe two. Statistically, it has a chance at two years.”
I’m a big believer in statistics. Not because I believe that all people can be categorized, but because I’m determined to defy the statistics. Especially the ones that apply to me.
“I’m thinking a couple of months,” he said. “You know Mom.”
“No, this one’s different. She looks… I don’t know… more complete. Relaxed, at least.”
“You shouldn’t place bets,” said Becky, who had settled in a corner to play with her dolls. “That’s not nice.”
“You said that about the last one,” Matt continued, ignoring her.
“Yeah, well, this one seems different,” I insisted.
“You’d think four marriages would be a record of some sort,” he mumbled.
“Three,” I corrected.
He shrugged. We never were quite sure if that second one counted as a marriage, or if it was just some colossal fluke. We kids counted it as a marriage, since it had produced our little brother Peter. The third marriage gave us Becky. This new one was going to give us something we had never known before – stepsisters.
None of the Others came with kids, and this one – his name was Roger – came with two daughters. We had only met them once before, for a few minutes, right after the wedding. That is, I should say right after the wedding was over. We missed it. Matt and I were at summer camp half an hour outside of town, and we kept trying to get the driver to hurry. Did he? No, and my mom decided that it was better to proceed with the wedding as scheduled, instead of making her guests wait. So we missed their wedding by about twenty minutes. Not that I’m bitter or anything.
“I don’t know why we had to move again,” Matt continued.
“Neither of them wanted any of us to have an advantage,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “A new home is neutral ground. We’re all moving into a New Life, remember?”
He groaned at the often-repeated phrase. To him, it was propaganda. “I liked the last place. It had a lake.”
“This one’s better.”
“I can’t go fishing.”
“You can go hunting. Do you realize how much land there is behind the house? Have you gone for a walk back there yet?”
He shook his head.
I lowered my voice. “I saw two deer out there this morning.”
“Oh, yeah?” His eyebrows lifted. I could tell he was interested.
I pointed out the window to our twenty acres, complete with a thick tree line. “Come on, Matt. We’re nine miles out of town, in a huge old farmhouse surrounded by all this open land. Don’t tell me you didn’t think about hunting.”
That did the trick. He forgot about fishing – I could tell by his sudden pensive expression. I smiled to myself. At least one of us felt better.
“I’m starving,” said Peter. “And I hav
e to go to the bathroom again.”
“When we finish unloading these boxes, I’ll make dinner,” I replied.
The faint crunch of wheels on gravel grew louder, prompting Peter and Becky to look outside
“They’re home!” screamed Becky. She tucked her favorite doll under her arm and ran onto the lawn, laughing.
Matt pushed a curtain aside. “And of course, you’re not done unpacking yet. Well, guess you’re in trouble.”
I froze. There was no telling what kind of punishment I had earned this time.
