by Dalya Moon
My parents pretend to not notice.
* * *
Tick gets dropped off by Dana's family just in time to come with us for dinner, which is too bad, because I was hoping to avoid public humiliation this evening. I check that the waistband is secure on my pants.
We head out to the garage, where Tick and I climb into my mother's Explorer, with me practically on my cousin's lap because the front seat is pushed way back to accommodate Aunt Trudy's cast. At least she's out of the wheelchair now, hobbling around with the help of crutches. The crutches, however, don't fit in the SUV, so we leave them behind, inside the garage, and my father holds her up as a “human crutch.”
“Look at this,” she says, laughing. “You're good for something after all. Contrary to what Dad used to say.”
My father climbs into the back and squeezes in close to me. His face is long from the mention of my grandfather. Grampa Murphy has always been a sweetheart to me and Olivia, but I've gathered from the occasional overheard conversation that he wasn't always so relaxed.
I put my head on my father's shoulder and he puts his arm around me and my cousin. I like it when we're jammed in tight in the vehicle like this. It reminds me of when my sister was here and we'd have a shared sleepover and all of our friends would be packed in the truck, sharing seatbelts.
* * *
On the short drive downtown, my aunt complains about my mother's driving, calling it “jerky” and saying the sudden acceleration and braking are hurting her knee.
My mother says her driving isn't “jerky,” then asks my father to back her up, but he refuses to get involved.
When we get to the restaurant and Mom parks, Aunt Trudy says, “At last the jerking is over!”
Under his breath, my father says to me, “Don't count on it.”
My mother practically leaps out of the vehicle. When my father steps out, she tosses the keys to him, over top of the vehicle. “You can drive on the way home,” she says.
Tick looks at me and says, “Yikes!”
I shush her and push her to let me out.
Dad decides Aunt Trudy is hobbling along too slowly with him as a human crutch, so he sweeps her up in his strong arms and carries her toward the door of The International.
“My hero,” Aunt Trudy squeals.
“Want a piggyback ride?” Tick asks me.
“No way. I'd break you in two.”
She rolls her eyes. “As if. You're smaller than me.”
“I'll still have to decline. You'd probably do something scandalous, like accidentally yank down my pants, or throw me in a slushy mud puddle.”
“Who, me?” she asks with mock surprise, then she races across the street to the restaurant.
I linger behind with my mother, who's mumbling something to the parking meter.
“You need me to get some change?” I ask. When she doesn't answer, I say, “Are you okay? You know Aunt Trudy loves you, she just has terrible manners.”
Mom lets out a long gust of breath, blowing up her sandy brown bangs. “I'm just tired.” She puts her arm around me and looks me straight in the eyes. “Elaina. What's going on here?”
“What do you mean?”
She leans forward and touches her nose to my nose. “Are we the same height?”
She pulls back and motions for me to stand back-to-back with her. We both put our hands on top of our heads and pat the other's head, laughing.
“When did this happen?” she asks.
We must have the same thought at the same time, because we both look down and check the heels on our boots. They're equal.
I say, “I finally grew upwards a bit and not just sideways.”
She makes a tsk sound. “Don't put yourself down, sweetie. You have a lovely figure.” She pushes some quarters into the meter, then puts her arm around me again. “Come on, Miss Long Legs, we've got plenty to celebrate tonight.”
As we walk up to The International Cafe's bright green, black and white exterior, she squints up at the hand-lettered sign. “I always thought this place was a bit garish.”
“No way! They make the best hot chocolate, with maraschino cherries,” I say. “And they're so nice here, even to kids. I come here sometimes with Genna and Briana, no parents.”
“Really,” Mom says. “You guys don't all hang out at the ninety-nine-cent pizza place?”
“Not for years, Mom.”
“Hmm.” She opens the door to the scent of musky incense and the sound of strange, twangy music.
“I sense disaster,” she says as we walk through the threshold.
Chapter 6
Inside, the restaurant is darker than I've ever seen it during the day, and in the corner, a man is playing an instrument similar to a banjo, but with more strings and a long neck with about a dozen knobs. I think it's called a sitar, and the amount of sound coming from it seems like it would require several different instruments, but from what I can see, it's just the one guy. He gives my mother a nod as we walk past.
Some new art has appeared since I was here last. Tapestry-like rugs hang on the walls, next to mirrors with ornately-carved wood frames.
“Exotic,” Mom comments as we sit down. Her mouth is as tight as a flowerbud, and I can tell she doesn't like the smell of the spice and the incense.
Dad, Aunt Trudy, and Tick are already perusing the menus. Tick looks up from hers and asks me, “Wanna share a lassi? It's like a milkshake, but different.”
“Careful,” Dad says jokingly. “It might be yak's milk.”
“You're in a good mood,” my mother says.
Aunt Trudy puts her menu down. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” She waves over our waitress, who is Genna's older sister, Gwendolyn.
Gwendolyn has the same gold-brown eyes as Genna, though hers are a little rounder. I thought she was going off to college, like my sister, so I'm surprised to see her here.
“Yes, Ma'am?” Gwendolyn says to my aunt while giving me and my mother a nod of recognition.
Aunt Trudy says, “I'd like to know if there's anything on the menu that isn't, you know, regular meat. Regular.”
Tick pipes up, “I'll eat anything!”
“Regular meat,” Gwendolyn says slowly, nodding solemnly. “We have chicken, beef, or pork. The vegetarian items are marked with a green leaf, though they aren't vegan, as many of them have paneer. That's a type of cheese.”
“FROM YAKS?” Aunt Trudy asks, loud enough for the whole town of Snowy Cove to hear. Some couples who look like they're trying to have romantic dates turn and stare.
Gwendolyn smiles sweetly. “From cows. Paneer is a fresh cheese made from cow's milk. It's very regular.”
“That sounds interesting,” my mother says. “I've always wanted to try pan-eeeer.”
I survey the restaurant, thankful to not see anyone from school.
After a barrage of questions that—to her credit—Gwendolyn answers patiently, we finally put in our dinner order.
* * *
The wait before our food comes goes about as well as can be expected these days. Dad and Aunt Trudy tell us about Paddy, their old family dog, telling the same three stories for about the eleven millionth time.
“Am I named after a dog?” Tick asks, her tone suspicious.
“No, Paddy is with two Ds,” Dad says.
Gwendoyn arrives with our plates of food and places them in front of us. Everything smells good.
Dad says Grace quickly, then says to Aunt Trudy, “Hey, remember how Paddy used to hoard his food?” He turns and explains to my very bored-looking mother, “He'd leave his dry food for hours, but if anyone came to visit—”
“He'd run over and gobble it all!” Aunt Trudy finishes. “Uncle Wayne got that started. He'd go to Paddy's dish and growl and pretend to eat the kibbles.”
“Yes,” my mother says with a wry smile. “I believe I've heard that story before.” She turns her attention to my cousin. “What are you doing?”
Tick is holding her utensils like they're handlebars
on a bike, and sawing away at her roti wrap.
“What?” Tick mutters around a mouthful of food.
“Your table manners,” Mom says. “How have I not noticed? Is that how you hold your fork and knife? You eat like you were raised by wolves.”
Aunt Trudy says, “Beg pardon?”
My father's face pales. All of us sit motionless, except my cousin, who succeeds in pulling her roti apart, sending it across the table, where it knocks over my mother's glass, which is thankfully empty of wine.
My father says gruffly to Tick, “Well, pick it up.”
“Patricia, sweetheart,” my mother says through her teeth. “If you hold your fork and knife like I do, you'll have more control, and it looks more ladylike.”
Tick shovels in another mouthful. “I di-in go to no finn-a-shim schoo.” Bits of sauce and potato shoot out of her mouth.
My mother rights her fallen wine glass and says, “No, you most certainly did not go to finishing school, but I'm trying to help you.”
“She's just a kid,” Aunt Trudy says. “Let her be a kid. If you repress them too much they act out in other ways.”
“Really,” my mother says, in a tone that makes my stomach drop like a rock. “And what other ways are those? Do you mean getting on the Honor Roll? Getting excellent report cards from teachers?”
Aunt Trudy gulps down the rest of her beer, from the bottle, and says, “Pah. Too spicy. I knew it was going to be too spicy. If you'd just let me in your precious kitchen, I could have made us something regular.”
“I think this is lovely food,” my mother says, despite the fact she's poked at her dish more than she's eaten it.
“Too rich,” Aunt Trudy says. “And your girl here isn't so great with portion control at the best of times.”
Everyone's eyes go to my hand, reaching for another slice of the delicious herb-flecked flatbread. I drop the bread and sit back.
“Probably for the best,” my mother says.
She and my father exchange a look. Have they been talking about my weight?
Gwendolyn appears at the table. “How's everything tasting?” she asks brightly.
The sitar music is louder than ever, starting to hurt my ears. I want to run away from here, away from these people who are my family. Aunt Trudy basically called me fat, right in front of everyone, and nobody disagreed.
* * *
After we're done dinner, Gwendolyn lists off the dessert specials as she clears our plates. My cheeks feel flushed and there are hot tears behind my eyes, just waiting to burst out. I must not cry. Not in a restaurant, and not in front of Genna's big sister.
Name the states in alphabetical order. Alabama, Alaska, Arizona ...
Dad orders some ice cream for dessert and asks if I want my own, or to share with him.
I shake my head.
Where was I?
The letter A. Alabama, Alaska ...
* * *
Monday morning. Again. I swear Monday morning comes around far more frequently than Friday afternoon. Tick hogged the shower, so I didn't get one, and now my scalp feels dirty.
Dad's running late for work and offers us a ride to school with him. Aunt Trudy's already waiting in my father's car, having gone out to start it and warm it up. She's been helping Dad at his software company since last week, mostly answering phones and lecturing the office manager about ordering too many office supplies, from what I've heard.
I answer, “It's a nice day, so I'd rather walk.”
“Nice?” He blinks at the darkness outside the window.
“By nice I mean mild. And I could use the exercise.”
“Alrighty then,” he says in his Jim Carrey voice. My father can be strict sometimes, but he's usually fair. His serious nature makes it more fun when he's occasionally goofy.
Tick looks up from the bench by the front door, where she's sitting with her boots and mitts already on. “I'll walk too, Uncle Jim.”
“Alrighty then,” he says again. “Good girl.” He pats her on the head on his way out.
Mom's already gone to her job, having left a bit earlier than usual due to some sort of doctor appointment.
Outside, on the front porch, I'm locking the door when Tick says, “Let's call in sick today.” She holds her nose with the end of her mitts. “I hab a tewwible cobe.”
“No.” I double-check the door and bury the key in my bag.
Half a block from our house, I can't take it anymore. I'm going to address some of the problems I have with my cousin, who after two weeks, as far as I'm concerned, has lost her guest privileges.
“We have certain rules in our house,” I say. “And I'd appreciate it if you would respect them.”
She looks amused, with a little smirk on her lips. “Sure, why don't you write them down for me?”
“I'm not going to spell out every single thing you can or can't do. You have to use your head, okay? Like, if I'm going to the bathroom, leave me alone. Don't bang on the door until I open it.”
“Then don't lock the door. Why do you have to lock it anyway? Why even shut it? You're not the only one who goes pee and poo. It's not a big secret.”
I take a deep breath and try to resist the urge to push her into a snowbank.
She calls out loudly, in a sing-song voice, “Lainey Murphy goes number two!”
I give her a little shove to make her stop.
“Just come out with the truth,” she says. “You and your mean-girl friends hate me and you wish I'd never come to Snowy Cove.”
“What? Nobody hates you.”
She yells, “You're such a liar!”
From inside the house we're walking by, a dog starts to bark, and a person comes to the window to see what the ruckus is about.
“Shush,” I say. “I don't know why I thought I could have a mature, normal conversation with you.”
She crosses her arms and we walk in silence to the end of the block, our boots crunching the hard-packed snow on the sidewalk. The sun's coming up now, nudging the sky from a deep purple to a soft orange-pink, the color of orange juice with grenadine.
I hear sniffing.
Tick's eyes are rimmed in red and she has tears glistening on her cheeks.
I step in front of her and try to grab her hands. She pulls back and smears one purple mitten across her face, leaving a red mark.
“I'm sorry,” I say, though I'm not certain for what.
“Leave me alone,” she says as she pushes by me.
We're only a few blocks from the school, and some other students are coming up behind us. Tick has run ahead, so I hurry to catch up with her, before anybody can ask questions. She quickens her pace before I can reach her, until we're both jogging.
She runs ahead of me all the way into the school, where I lose her in the crowd.
Inside the front hallway, I say a swear word and take off my mittens. Some big guys come in the door behind me and knock me down to the wet floor, then carry on without even acknowledging what they've done.
A hand reaches for mine. It's Josh, his light-brown eyebrows knitted with concern. “Lainey, are you okay?”
I remain where I fell, on my bum, on the damp, dirty floor of the entryway. “What's the joke here?” I ask. “Are you going to pull your hand away when I reach for it? Or fling me across the hall? Where's Ty?”
He snaps the fingers on his outstretched hand. “Come on, I'm funny, but I don't do mean.”
I let him help me up, and thank him. “I feel like I got hit by a truck,” I say, rubbing my hip.
“Where's your other half? Where's the other Murphy?”
I snap at him, “She's just my cousin. How should I know where she is all the time?”
He throws his arms up and leans his head back, pretending to be blasted by me.
“Uh, sorry,” I say, smiling. “Bad morning. anyway, thanks for helping me ...” Some of the guys who knocked me over walk by. “Unlike some MEAN GRADE TWELVE BOYS!” I yell in their direction.
“I've never
seen this side of you,” Josh says. “You're kind of a spaz, but in a good way.”
“Sleep deprivation. It's bringing out my true, beastly nature.”
“Beastly.” He does a rolling hand gesture and bows in front of me, then turns and runs off, galloping like a horse.
* * *
It's still early, so I go to the library to meet Genna and Briana.
Genna sweeps her silky black hair behind one ear. “I hear your family had quite the dinner on Sunday.”
“I guess Gwendolyn told you all about the Murphy Family Freakshow.” I roll my eyes. “I can't take them anywhere.”
Briana giggles.
“I know, right?” I say to her.
She looks up from her book, her pale blue eyes wide, as though surprised to see other people around her. “Not anything you said. The book,” she says.
“Carry on,” I say, waving her back to her book.
Genna says to me, “I hear your dad's a good tipper, so all is forgiven.” She opens her notebook on the table, revealing pages that are filled with her tiny handwriting and her green lines. When she first saw the double red lines I add to my pages, she decided to do the same, but with green. “Do you want to run lines for the play?” she asks.
“More than anything. Something normal.” I pull out my script and sit next to her.
I already have my lines memorized, since we aren't actually doing the whole play, but just a few scenes from Midsummer Night's Dream. Each Drama class is doing their own bit, a scene or two from a classic play, and we'll perform together for a group recital. I was excited about being Tatiana, until I found out some Seniors are doing a song from Grease.
Instead of running our lines, Genna and I talk about how much we wish we were singing a song from Grease. She says I'd make a great Sandy. I try to imagine Josh with his hair dyed black, playing Danny Zuko.
Briana puts her book down abruptly. “Oh, thanks for remembering my birthday, guys.”
“Oops,” I say. “Happy birthday! I'll buy you lunch.”
“No, dummy,” Briana says, her pale eyes getting even wider. “It was last week.”
Genna and I exchange a look.
