His eyes bugged out as she hissed into his ear: “Joel…the next time you come into me bathroom, I swear to Vincent Price, I’m gonna take a switch to your little freckled fanny!”
Joel tried to kick her shin but Josie was used to his tactics by now and easily evaded his flailing limbs. Knowing his sister wouldn’t release him until he surrendered he fought her till his face turned blue. His male pride wouldn’t have it any other way.
At last he nodded his head in defeat. “Jeez alou,” he gasped. “It was just a little old dart! Get a sense a humor, why don’t you! Those things don’t even hurt!”
“That’s not the point,” said Josie, getting a strawberry Pop Tart out of the cupboard. A roach skittered away from the sudden light. Josie ignored it and tore open the foil cover. She pulled the O.J. out of their wheezing refrigerator and drank straight from the jug. She grimaced as she screwed the top back on. The refrigerator, like most everything around the house, was falling apart. She put the tepid orange juice back into the fridge and sat across from her brother, pointing her finger at him. “For one thing, kiddo, you’re too old to be coming unannounced into me room. At my age a girl needs her privacy.”
Joel had taken after their father. With his curly red hair and all-over freckles, he was the spitting image of Joe Rusty O’Hara. Josie had been spared the worst of that particular Irish trait, though oddly enough it was Josie who spoke like her father, with his lilting Irish accent, while Joel had his mother’s soft southern twang. Physically, Josie had taken after Shayna’s Swedish/Italian side-of-the-family. She had her mother’s thick hair (although Josie’s was red, not blonde), Shayna’s curves, and her light-olive skin-tone. As for her dad, Josie had at least inherited his best feature: those gorgeous green eyes, which had made him so popular with the girls before he got engaged. She had at times caught her Uncle Ham staring at her eyes. He liked to tease her that she must have stolen them straight from her daddy’s head. Despite the ghoulish overtones, it made Josie proud to hear that. Because otherwise she didn’t look anything like her old man. Then again, looks are the most superficial of all human attributes. Josie had taken after her father in all the ways that really mattered: his gentle temperament, his empathy for his fellow man, and best of all, his integrity and courage of character. In those regards, Josie O’Hara wasn’t anything like her mother.
Joel rolled his eyes, affecting indifference. He recognized the warning look on his sister’s face, though. Josie reserved it for times when she really wanted to get a point across. He shrugged, not understanding what all the fuss was about; his mom and sister always went around the house half-naked, grossing him out—although Josie had recently become more circumspect. For the life of him, he didn’t know how they could go through life with those silly things wobbling on their chests. Seemed so impractical.
“Is that milk any good?” she asked him, picking up the milk carton to smell for herself. Joel had come to the O’Hara household almost a decade after Josie had been born, an overdue bundle for her parents, who for years had had trouble conceiving another child. Josie had always adored him, even when he got on her nerves, like this very morning. One of the last things their father had done, before vanishing underneath that emerald sea, was to convert the storage closet in the hallway into a bedroom for his yet to be born son. Joel was inordinately proud of that windowless cubby—like Harry Potter living underneath the stairs. Sometimes he felt it was the only connection between him and his dad.
“Yeah, it’s not very cold though,” he said, tipping the sludgy remnants from his
Joel tried to kick her shin but Josie was used to his tactics by now and easily evaded his flailing limbs. Knowing his sister wouldn’t release him until he surrendered he fought her till his face turned blue. His male pride wouldn’t have it any other way.
At last he nodded his head in defeat. “Jeez alou,” he gasped. “It was just a little old dart! Get a sense a humor, why don’t you! Those things don’t even hurt!”
“That’s not the point,” said Josie, getting a strawberry Pop Tart out of the cupboard. A roach skittered away from the sudden light. Josie ignored it and tore open the foil cover. She pulled the O.J. out of their wheezing refrigerator and drank straight from the jug. She grimaced as she screwed the top back on. The refrigerator, like most everything around the house, was falling apart. She put the tepid orange juice back into the fridge and sat across from her brother, pointing her finger at him. “For one thing, kiddo, you’re too old to be coming unannounced into me room. At my age a girl needs her privacy.”
Joel had taken after their father. With his curly red hair and all-over freckles, he was the spitting image of Joe Rusty O’Hara. Josie had been spared the worst of that particular Irish trait, though oddly enough it was Josie who spoke like her father, with his lilting Irish accent, while Joel had his mother’s soft southern twang. Physically, Josie had taken after Shayna’s Swedish/Italian side-of-the-family. She had her mother’s thick hair (although Josie’s was red, not blonde), Shayna’s curves, and her light-olive skin-tone. As for her dad, Josie had at least inherited his best feature: those gorgeous green eyes, which had made him so popular with the girls before he got engaged. She had at times caught her Uncle Ham staring at her eyes. He liked to tease her that she must have stolen them straight from her daddy’s head. Despite the ghoulish overtones, it made Josie proud to hear that. Because otherwise she didn’t look anything like her old man. Then again, looks are the most superficial of all human attributes. Josie had taken after her father in all the ways that really mattered: his gentle temperament, his empathy for his fellow man, and best of all, his integrity and courage of character. In those regards, Josie O’Hara wasn’t anything like her mother.
Joel rolled his eyes, affecting indifference. He recognized the warning look on his sister’s face, though. Josie reserved it for times when she really wanted to get a point across. He shrugged, not understanding what all the fuss was about; his mom and sister always went around the house half-naked, grossing him out—although Josie had recently become more circumspect. For the life of him, he didn’t know how they could go through life with those silly things wobbling on their chests. Seemed so impractical.
“Is that milk any good?” she asked him, picking up the milk carton to smell for herself. Joel had come to the O’Hara household almost a decade after Josie had been born, an overdue bundle for her parents, who for years had had trouble conceiving another child. Josie had always adored him, even when he got on her nerves, like this very morning. One of the last things their father had done, before vanishing underneath that emerald sea, was to convert the storage closet in the hallway into a bedroom for his yet to be born son. Joel was inordinately proud of that windowless cubby—like Harry Potter living underneath the stairs. Sometimes he felt it was the only connection between him and his dad.
“Yeah, it’s not very cold though,” he said, tipping the sludgy remnants from his
Similar Books
