husband and freaking pool boy they probably have for their nauseating whirlpool tub, she couldn't find anything decent to wear. But the truth is, her blouse and skirt smell like the high-end department store I know they came from, and they do an amazing job of showing off her Pilates-toned waist and her dancer's legs.
"Don't know that I'll ever call that place again. Not exactly friendly, if you know what I mean," she says as she rolls her ice-blue eyes behind her thick, black mascara.
I want to tell her I'd probably be ticked, too, if I was them-after all, Brandi's the one who just treated some professional catering service like a neighborhood pizza delivery boy. Not that Brandi believes she could ever truly wrong anyone-not even me, or my mother, who was still married to my dad when she arrived on the scene.
"You like curry, right?" Brandi says, shimmying her tight little ass into their kitchen, loaded to the gills with granite countertops, a hand-cut travertine floor, and all the stainless steel appliances that the world says you're supposed to like.
I prefer the thirty-year-old olive refrigerator in the kitchen I share with Mom, actually.
"Hey, sweetie," Dad says as he bursts from a bedroom, a blond and pouty Carolyn on his hip. Sweetie. The word's like electricity shooting up my spine. Because it's replaced my real name, since he's too embarrassed to even say it anymore-Aura, like it's a tattoo he got when he was eighteen and now hides under long-sleeved shirts, even in August. Aura, like it's some silly notion of his misspent youth, something he outgrew.
"I'm afraid we're in a bit of a weepy mood today," Dad says, kissing the top of Carolyn's head, then smoothing her corn-silk bangs.
"Another one of our commercials is on," Brandi yells from the kitchen, pointing to the ridiculous TV in their refrigerator door while she dishes up our lunch of Indian food, which smells a little like gym socks to me. "I really like this one," she says, staring at the small screen. "Have you seen it, Aura?"
Get real.
The only consolation in this whole stupid mess is that I'm sure Brandi's parents hate Dad. And I mean, hate. Their baby girl was supposed to marry a CEO, or a NobelPrize-winning chemist, or better yet, the president of Outer Mongolia. Not some stupid old insurance agent with a previous marriage and another child. I figure Thanksgiving's a real bitch for him-imagining it (and the impending divorce that will surely, surely come once Brandi meets said Nobel-Prize-winning chemist) is really the only thing that'll get me through this crummy day.
"Come and get it," Brandi sings, carrying our plates to the table.
I've got two boxes stacked next to my place setting (along with a card containing my obligatory fifty bucks), each professionally gift-wrapped. But I couldn't care less about a couple of crappy presents, not with what I left at home. The words down there in the pit of my stomachMom's a rope raveling down to nothing-fester like a giant pile of salmonella, making me feel like I'm about to throw up. I want to tell Dad-just blurt it and have it over with. I want to tell someone, especially since Janny's no help at all. (And do I blame her? Do I, with everything that's falling on her right now? Yeah, in all honesty, I guess I really do.) But I promised Mom, too-no meds, no more, not ever again-and that's exactly what Dad's going to want to do. Tie her arms behind her and shove a funnel in-between her lips, if that's what it takes to get the pills down. And I swore, too, no Dad. If I break my promises, I'm terrified Mom will snatch her love away, like it was never truly mine to begin with, but a library book that I'm now supposed to return.
I guess I stare at the presents a long time, thinking all this, because Brandi says, "Go on-they're yours, you can open them if you want."
"No-I just ..." I stutter. "I ..." The words try to crawl up, they really do, as I look at Dad, eyes pleading. But he's too busy tying Carolyn's
"Don't know that I'll ever call that place again. Not exactly friendly, if you know what I mean," she says as she rolls her ice-blue eyes behind her thick, black mascara.
I want to tell her I'd probably be ticked, too, if I was them-after all, Brandi's the one who just treated some professional catering service like a neighborhood pizza delivery boy. Not that Brandi believes she could ever truly wrong anyone-not even me, or my mother, who was still married to my dad when she arrived on the scene.
"You like curry, right?" Brandi says, shimmying her tight little ass into their kitchen, loaded to the gills with granite countertops, a hand-cut travertine floor, and all the stainless steel appliances that the world says you're supposed to like.
I prefer the thirty-year-old olive refrigerator in the kitchen I share with Mom, actually.
"Hey, sweetie," Dad says as he bursts from a bedroom, a blond and pouty Carolyn on his hip. Sweetie. The word's like electricity shooting up my spine. Because it's replaced my real name, since he's too embarrassed to even say it anymore-Aura, like it's a tattoo he got when he was eighteen and now hides under long-sleeved shirts, even in August. Aura, like it's some silly notion of his misspent youth, something he outgrew.
"I'm afraid we're in a bit of a weepy mood today," Dad says, kissing the top of Carolyn's head, then smoothing her corn-silk bangs.
"Another one of our commercials is on," Brandi yells from the kitchen, pointing to the ridiculous TV in their refrigerator door while she dishes up our lunch of Indian food, which smells a little like gym socks to me. "I really like this one," she says, staring at the small screen. "Have you seen it, Aura?"
Get real.
The only consolation in this whole stupid mess is that I'm sure Brandi's parents hate Dad. And I mean, hate. Their baby girl was supposed to marry a CEO, or a NobelPrize-winning chemist, or better yet, the president of Outer Mongolia. Not some stupid old insurance agent with a previous marriage and another child. I figure Thanksgiving's a real bitch for him-imagining it (and the impending divorce that will surely, surely come once Brandi meets said Nobel-Prize-winning chemist) is really the only thing that'll get me through this crummy day.
"Come and get it," Brandi sings, carrying our plates to the table.
I've got two boxes stacked next to my place setting (along with a card containing my obligatory fifty bucks), each professionally gift-wrapped. But I couldn't care less about a couple of crappy presents, not with what I left at home. The words down there in the pit of my stomachMom's a rope raveling down to nothing-fester like a giant pile of salmonella, making me feel like I'm about to throw up. I want to tell Dad-just blurt it and have it over with. I want to tell someone, especially since Janny's no help at all. (And do I blame her? Do I, with everything that's falling on her right now? Yeah, in all honesty, I guess I really do.) But I promised Mom, too-no meds, no more, not ever again-and that's exactly what Dad's going to want to do. Tie her arms behind her and shove a funnel in-between her lips, if that's what it takes to get the pills down. And I swore, too, no Dad. If I break my promises, I'm terrified Mom will snatch her love away, like it was never truly mine to begin with, but a library book that I'm now supposed to return.
I guess I stare at the presents a long time, thinking all this, because Brandi says, "Go on-they're yours, you can open them if you want."
"No-I just ..." I stutter. "I ..." The words try to crawl up, they really do, as I look at Dad, eyes pleading. But he's too busy tying Carolyn's
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