by Dalya Moon
Tick's only been walking to and from school with me for two weeks, but being on my own today, I feel so lonely.
Across the street, a group of little kids are building a snowman. Some older boys nearly run me off the sidewalk because they're so engrossed in an animated discussion about comic books. There's some movement in the purple house's windows and I see some older girls—grade eleven or twelve, I think—jumping around. They're either playing a video game, or just dancing to music.
Why do I feel so lonely? I have friends, they just aren't with me right now.
I wonder what Tick is doing at Dana's house right now.
* * *
When I get home, I can hear arguing through the front door, before I even open it. Mom, Dad, and Aunt Trudy are all yelling.
I turn the knob slowly and crack open the door.
“I'm still talking!” my father shouts. “Trudy, you need to have a backup plan. You're the adult. She needs boundaries, and stability.”
“Stability?” Aunt Trudy says. “Don't make me freaking laugh. You mean spoil her with expensive dry-clean-only clothes, bribing her so she gets her homework done like a good little robot?”
My mother starts to say something, but my father cuts her off with his booming voice. “My daughters are not robots.”
“Yes they are,” says Aunt Trudy. “And what's more, if you don't encourage them to experiment now, they'll go crazy as soon as they leave the house. Like that Billy Joel song, about the good little Catholic girls.”
“My girls are good girls,” my mother says, sounding like she's on the verge of tears. “And they're gong to stay that way.”
“Better lock them in a freaking jar then,” Aunt Trudy says.
Something crashes to the floor and my mother lets out a swearing streak unlike anything I've ever heard, let alone from her mouth.
“You did that on purpose,” my father says.
“It's this cast!” Aunt Trudy squeals, followed by some swearing of a biblical nature.
“Shush,” my mother says. “Is that a draft? Is someone at the door?”
I'm still outside the house, so I close the door silently, before they see me.
Chapter 5
I wait a few minutes, hoping they've stopped yelling inside. I stamp my boots on the porch, and then open the door again.
“Mom! I'm home!”
It's Friday, so I always call that out on Fridays. My mother takes the day off work so she can get ahead on housework. My father isn't usually home early Fridays, so when I see him, I try to look surprised. “Hey, Dad, you're home early.”
He puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Someone had to chauffeur around Trudy.”
My aunt looks up from where she's leaning down, still seated on her wheelchair, doing something with her hands on the floor. “Sorry I'm SUCH a burden,” she says.
On the floor are pieces of colored glass—my mother's treasured mouth-blown vase, a wedding gift, broken.
I feel sick, like when I tried to swallow the cinnamon.
My mother, who must have slipped away to the kitchen, returns to the front room with a broom and dustpan. “Don't touch it!” she says to Aunt Trudy. “Honestly, you're as bad as the children.”
“I'll pay for the vase,” Aunt Trudy says.
My father answers, “It was one-of-a-kind. And over two hundred dollars, not that you can get another.”
Aunt Trudy's face turns so red it's purple, and she seems to be in danger of exploding. “For crying out loud, if a vase costs hundreds of dollars, why would you leave it out where it can get knocked over? I am not a child. But as you can see, I do have a whatchacallit, a handicap.”
“I didn't say you were a child,” my mother says, her voice wavering between forced calm and hysteria. “I mean don't grab broken glass with your hands. You'll hurt yourself. We don't care about the vase. It's just a thing. But I would hate to see you cut your hands, because then we'd never hear the end of it.”
“Now, now,” my father says. “This doesn't have to end in catastrophe.”
I've already hung up my coat and tucked away my boots, so I run past everyone, up the stairs to my bedroom, and close the door behind me.
My mother was lying. She loved that vase more than anything else in the house, and there are a lot of antiques in here that she treasures. The vase was a wedding gift from her parents, and she keeps it in the front room, where the windows face south, so it catches the best light all day. I've noticed her looking at it, last thing as she leaves the house and the first thing when she gets home.
They're still arguing downstairs, my father trying to keep the peace without taking sides.
I turn on the computer and look for Olivia online, but she's not there. I'd really like to talk to her about our parents. I've never heard my mother tell a lie.
Mostly, though, I just want to talk to my big sister.
I send her an email with a heart, <3, in the subject line.
The text reads: I miss you. Hugs and kisses, Lainey (your favorite sister.)
We're each other's only sister, but the favorite sister reference is always good for a smile.
* * *
I get through all my homework in less than an hour. I don't know how other kids can relax all weekend, knowing it's hanging over their heads. It's so satisfying to turn to a new sheet of paper and neatly write my name and the date in the top-right corner.
The pens I use have a darker-than-average ink. I get them at the dollar store, and I'm sure they're not the best quality, based on how often they let out extra blobs of ink, but the color is lovely, an indigo, nearly purple.
I also use a red pen to customize my pages. Using a ruler, I go over top of the faded pink vertical line with the red pen, and add a second, new line, an eighth of an inch to the left. It makes every page look snappy and smart.
My computer pings and I turn on the video chat to find my sister, rubbing her eyes.
“Hey,” I say. “I feel like I haven't talked to you in ages.”
“Is Pattycakes there with you?” asks, using a childhood nickname for Patricia.
“No.”
“Why so bitter? I thought you guys were having a blast. Dad told me she's a real maniac at the pool.”
“Olivia, it's not fair! She's a maniac all the time, everywhere! They're wrecking everything. Aunt Trudy broke Mom's vase.”
Olivia's silent for a few seconds, staring at something out of range of her webcam. “She broke Mom's vase? That does not bode well.”
“No, it does not bode well. Mom acted like she was all fine with everything, too. I had no idea she could pretend like that. She totally lied. To everyone's face.”
Olivia rubs her chin thoughtfully. A naked guy's torso passes by behind her head.
“Holy crap, Olivia, who was that?”
Olivia turns and tells the guy, now off-camera, to put on a shirt. “Nobody,” she says. “A friend. Don't tell Mom and Dad, okay? I'm sending you some sweatshirts from the college gift shop. Do you want white or cream? There's also brown.”
“There is a guy in your room, Olivia. Are you having S-E-X? I hope you're being safe. At school, they told us everyone should get that HPV vaccine. Are you going to get those shots?”
Olivia grins and leans back, tenting her fingers. “Honestly, kid, don't you want to know his name? Don't you want to hear about how he kisses?”
I jump up from my chair, quickly minimize the chat window, and look around guiltily. I walk to the door and peek that nobody's standing in the hall. When I sit back down at my desk and maximize the chat window, the screen shows Olivia and some guy kissing.
“Gross!” I say into the microphone. “Stop right now or I'm turning you off.”
The guy pulls away from her and looks down at something—at the screen that's showing my face. “Hey, Lainey, nice to finally meet you,” he says.
He's got a goatee, and he's still not wearing a shirt. I can see his nipples and chest hair. I cover my eyes with one ha
nd. “Olivia, do you want to, uh, call me back later?”
“No can-do,” the guy says. “We're going to a party and I'm going to monopolize your sister the whole night.”
“I like the sound of that,” she says. Kissing sounds follow.
“Gross,” I say again, and shut down the program while peeking through the cracks in my fingers.
I sit there for a moment staring at the desktop wallpaper, which Tick has changed to puppies.
This is how a person feels right before their head explodes.
* * *
I've thought about it for a bit, and I don't feel as shocked.
So, my sister has a boyfriend. I guess I'm happy for her, but I sure don't want to see it, or hear about it. I like thinking about boys sometimes, and dates, and kissing, but I don't like it when movies or TV shows get too intimate. I fast-forward those parts, because I feel too embarrassed for the actors. Some things should be private, where they can stay special.
“I guess you didn't hear me?” my father says from my door.
I jolt at the surprise. The three of them have been so quiet downstairs, I almost forgot they were here.
“Dinner's ready,” he says.
“Mashed potatoes?”
“Even better. Scalloped potatoes.”
* * *
While my mother's mashed potatoes are heavenly, the scalloped ones are to die for. I've had them at other people's houses, where the sauce was lumpy or the potato slices were undercooked, so I can understand if not everyone shows my appreciation for the dish. They haven't had my mother's scalloped potatoes.
Because Tick is over at Dana's house, dinner at the dining room table seems quiet without her. Nobody mentions the vase. I peeked into the front room and saw a different vase on the front table, a plain glass one Mom uses for flowers from the garden.
My father asks for me to pass the salt, then says, to everyone, “The doctor felt the knee was healing nicely.”
“Oh yes,” my mother says attentively. “That's good to hear.”
They both turn to Aunt Trudy and look at the cast, propped up on pillows on a footstool. I look at my mother's eyes and catch her scanning the room, possibly for more breakables. Some of the antique china serving dishes have been removed from the hutch next to the dining room table.
Mom asks if I have plans for the weekend, while Tick is away. I have to be cautious about letting her know how available I am, or she'll decide she wants my help decluttering the pantry, or some other project. Normally, I'd love to help my mother, but I'm tired from Tick keeping me up every night, and I just want to catch up on my sleep.
Genna and I have been getting along well enough this week, but she's busy this weekend with some visiting family, and Briana's still claiming to have Seasonal Affective Disorder, which means staying in bed all weekend reading.
“I have a lot of lines to memorize for the play,” I say.
“Swimming on Sunday,” Dad says.
“I need a new swimsuit. As you may recall, from The Incident.”
Dad gets a little smile that spreads socially, like a yawn, to my mother and Aunt Trudy.
“You all know?” I say. My father nods. “Is there anyone you didn't tell? Why don't you write a note for Principal Woo to read over the loudspeaker at school?”
Aunt Trudy says, “Pants-ing each other is a Murphy family tradition.”
“Lainey-bear, don't frown,” Mom says. “You'll give your forehead wrinkles and you'll be wanting Botox by sixteen and a facelift by twenty. I'll take you shopping. It's probably time for a new suit anyway. You're a growing girl.”
“When I was your age, we weren't spoiled,” Aunt Trudy says to me. “We didn't get new clothes until the old ones had holes. Your father's feet grew so fast that he always had holes in his socks.”
“Give me a break, Trudy,” my father says. “We grew up in the suburbs, in the 1980s. You make it sound like we lived through the Potato Famine. You sound just like Mom.”
My mother catches my attention and gives me a little wink.
Aunt Trudy says, “Yeah? Well you look like Dad.” She leans over and pokes him in the stomach. “With your scalloped potatoes hanging out over your belt.”
“This is muscle,” he says.
“Why don't you have another scoop of potatoes?”
His voice tinged with irritation, he says, “Why don't you? Though I suppose it would dampen the charming sound of your voice coming out of your yapper.”
“I have a lovely voice.”
“I'm sure you think you do. I'm sure you love hearing it, as evidenced by your inability to stop talking.”
She sniffs. “You just don't like to hear other people's thoughts. You like being the boss of this household.”
He clears his throat and stares at his plate. “I like having a nice, pleasant dinner. Is that too much to ask?”
My mother lets out a delighted chuckle and we all turn to look at her.
“I'm so sorry,” she says. “Was that out loud? I was just so struck with ... emotion. By the sight of the Murphys turning on one another in fine Murphy tradition.”
“You're a Murphy too now,” I say. “You married in.”
She gives me a serious look. “But you're related by blood.”
I shake my body in an exaggerated shudder. My father and aunt are not terribly impressed.
My mother says, “More potatoes?”
I look at everyone's faces, trying to figure out what just happened. The balance has shifted, somehow, and I don't know what it means, but I feel better when my mother smiles.
My father asks for the bowl and takes three big scoops of potatoes, looking at his sister the whole time.
I think about asking for another helping of potatoes, but Aunt Trudy's words, teasing my father about his stomach, linger in my mind.
My father was skinny once—I've seen the photos. He takes two helpings of everything. My mother, who likes to announce every few months or so that her wedding dress still fits and that she's the same weight as on her driver's license, only takes one serving, which she eats very slowly.
Could it be that simple? Could I become more like my mother—or at least be thin like her—simply by eating the way she does?
I lay my utensils down and take a sip of water just as she takes a sip of hers.
* * *
All day Saturday, in between memorizing my lines for the play, I research weight loss on the internet.
I'd like to believe I could take some magic pills full of ground-up berries and herbs. If it worked, I'd eat plain old dirt, but something tells me these advertised supplements don't do as promised. Wouldn't everybody be as thin as they wanted if it were that easy?
I guess it comes down to math. Thanks to my comfort with that subject, calories are easy enough to understand, because they're just units of energy. Calories are printed on the sides of packages, but most of the food I eat doesn't come that way, and I'm not about to carry around a tiny weigh scale. There are iPhone apps that have databases of common foods, but I don't have an iPhone.
As good as I am at math, I don't know if calorie-counting is going to work for me.
What I can do, however, is try out the idea I had Friday night at dinner. I can look at how much the skinny people I know are eating, and copy them. I don't know why I didn't think of this before.
* * *
Over Sunday breakfast, Mom asks how Dad likes his bacon, which is extra thick and maple-syrup-flavored.
“It's okay,” he says. “The regular stuff is fine with me, you know.”
Aunt Trudy sniffs the bacon. “I hope you're not buying all this expensive Farmer's Market stuff on my account.”
Mom turns and looks out the window at the chickadees, happily enjoying the suet and sunflower seeds in the bird feeder.
“I love it, Mom,” I say, and I take two more slices. I already had three, which is one more than Mom had, but still less than I would have taken if I weren't on this new diet. The bacon is thick,
and while it smells like syrup, it tastes like regular bacon, and there's nothing wrong with that.
“Not too much bacon, Elaina,” Mom says. “You'll make yourself sick.”
A wave of guilt makes my bacon taste less delicious.
She looks at the clock and mentions that we've missed church again this week, and how we probably won't go again as a family until Christmas Mass comes around.
An extra helping of guilt does not improve the bacon.
“I think I'll take the night off cooking,” Mom announces. “What do the Murphys think of that?”
Dad swirls his orange juice and looks at his sister. “How's about we paint the town red, Tru? Dinner out? Some Chinese all-you-can-eat at The Golden Won Ton?”
I put down my fork, leaving half a slice of bacon in syrup on my plate.
The adults continue talking about Chinese food and I space out, thinking about the play, the dress, and how nice it was to sleep in this morning without my cousin jumping on my bed to get me up.
The syrup-soaked bacon is in my mouth before I even realize what I'm doing.
Dad says to me, “With your fingers? Lainey. You're as bad as your cousin.”
Aunt Trudy says, “Excuse me?”
Before they can get a fight going, I say, “They're doing something cool at The International. Genna told me. They're doing this whole Moroccan thing. Actually, I have their page Liked on Facebook. I can go check the menu.”
“That sounds good,” Dad says.
Aunt Trudy frowns and scratches around the top of her cast, which is starting to smell. “Sounds spicy,” she says, making a face.
My mother starts stacking up the plates. “I think it sounds lovely, but of course I only get one vote because I'm just one person.”
“I vote for The International,” I say.
“Excellent,” Dad says.
Aunt Trudy grabs a spoon from the table and rams it under the edge of her cast. Her eyes flutter up as she itches away like a maniac.
