killers.
Even though I’m relieved the party won’t wreck my chances with Parker, I still wonder what he’s thinking now. I wonder how much girl drama a guy can take before he walks away. I wonder how much mom drama I can take. I lock myself in my bedroom, ignore the screams of
the twins as they pretend, for the 127th day in a row, that they are knights slaying a dragon.
I know what’s coming; the boys will realize their dragon is invisible but they can slay each other instead. It will be up to me to limit the damage. I’ve tried to stop them in mid-battle, to take away their swords, to distract them, but the slaying is part of the game. I can’t change their knight and dragon story any more than I can interrupt whatever story my mother tells herself when she’s drinking.
She’s probably totally shitfaced in the hotel room doing something with the-guy-without-a-name that’s disgusting. Justifications like “I deserve to have fun,” “I’ve had a hard life,” “Jillian’s brothers love her,” cancel out the one thought she should have: I promised I’d be home by 4 P.M. When she shows up she will tell me one of her lies: the traffic was awful, the clock didn’t work in the hotel room, the car broke down, or I got a phone call from a friend and had to go help.
And then, like now, and like always, I won’t know how to respond. Nothing prepares you for having a lousy mother, just like you can’t really be ready for an earthquake. It’s all about minimizing the harm. I know it’s easy to imagine that you wouldn’t stick around after the first natural disaster—you’d move to a safer building or transfer to higher ground. But, listen to me: it’s not easy to admit you’re living on a fault line.
I don’t call Chantal because I don’t feel like dealing with anyone else right now. I sit on the floor, my back against the metal bed frame that collapses if I sit on the right corner. It’s 5:45 and I know from experience that if Mom’s not home before happy hour, she won’t be home until the bar closes. Self-pity itches at the back of my throat, but I pull my headphones from my pocket, ready to extend my break from responsibility. Four small fingers and a thumb stop me.
Baby Ollie’s chubby fist wiggles under my bedroom door, his fingers stretch, and then retreat. A few sticky “O” cereal pieces are left behind. It happens again. I hear him digging deep into the cereal box,
gathering another handful. He crunches a few with his four teeth and adds the rest to the pile he’s creating for me. Again. I smile. My brothers do this, thing, to me. The moment I decide I hate them, they show me their sweet side, like Ollie with his O’s message. The next time his hand slides under, I tickle his fingers. I hear him giggle.
But the cuteness wears off when I realize what’s really happening—Ollie’s feeding me O’s because he wants to take care of me. If I’d been drinking I’d probably have laughed the way my mother does, giggled and blathered about how Ollie entertains himself so easily and I wouldn’t have made the connection that he’s trying to take care of me. I can’t let this happen. I can’t.
My brothers will tell my mother that they didn’t even miss her while she was gone. Josh and Stevie will rush to explain the rules of the best-ever game of dragons and knights (make that one mother dragon and six brave knights). Travis, Thomas, and Trevor will remember that I told ghost stories with a flashlight under my chin. Baby Ollie will beg for nacho chips and cheese with pickles on the side for dinner. And me? I will find a way to help myself.
Chantal
Shrunken Diameter .
T he SRC 2 (Social Retard Cake squared) is a cool, sophisticated quadrate. Caramel Chocolate Ganache fills and envelops two layers of the insides of my formerly round cake, precisely reconfigured at right angles. The toffee accessories pebble a horizontal line a third from the top edge of the cake. The SRC 2 is more a
Even though I’m relieved the party won’t wreck my chances with Parker, I still wonder what he’s thinking now. I wonder how much girl drama a guy can take before he walks away. I wonder how much mom drama I can take. I lock myself in my bedroom, ignore the screams of
the twins as they pretend, for the 127th day in a row, that they are knights slaying a dragon.
I know what’s coming; the boys will realize their dragon is invisible but they can slay each other instead. It will be up to me to limit the damage. I’ve tried to stop them in mid-battle, to take away their swords, to distract them, but the slaying is part of the game. I can’t change their knight and dragon story any more than I can interrupt whatever story my mother tells herself when she’s drinking.
She’s probably totally shitfaced in the hotel room doing something with the-guy-without-a-name that’s disgusting. Justifications like “I deserve to have fun,” “I’ve had a hard life,” “Jillian’s brothers love her,” cancel out the one thought she should have: I promised I’d be home by 4 P.M. When she shows up she will tell me one of her lies: the traffic was awful, the clock didn’t work in the hotel room, the car broke down, or I got a phone call from a friend and had to go help.
And then, like now, and like always, I won’t know how to respond. Nothing prepares you for having a lousy mother, just like you can’t really be ready for an earthquake. It’s all about minimizing the harm. I know it’s easy to imagine that you wouldn’t stick around after the first natural disaster—you’d move to a safer building or transfer to higher ground. But, listen to me: it’s not easy to admit you’re living on a fault line.
I don’t call Chantal because I don’t feel like dealing with anyone else right now. I sit on the floor, my back against the metal bed frame that collapses if I sit on the right corner. It’s 5:45 and I know from experience that if Mom’s not home before happy hour, she won’t be home until the bar closes. Self-pity itches at the back of my throat, but I pull my headphones from my pocket, ready to extend my break from responsibility. Four small fingers and a thumb stop me.
Baby Ollie’s chubby fist wiggles under my bedroom door, his fingers stretch, and then retreat. A few sticky “O” cereal pieces are left behind. It happens again. I hear him digging deep into the cereal box,
gathering another handful. He crunches a few with his four teeth and adds the rest to the pile he’s creating for me. Again. I smile. My brothers do this, thing, to me. The moment I decide I hate them, they show me their sweet side, like Ollie with his O’s message. The next time his hand slides under, I tickle his fingers. I hear him giggle.
But the cuteness wears off when I realize what’s really happening—Ollie’s feeding me O’s because he wants to take care of me. If I’d been drinking I’d probably have laughed the way my mother does, giggled and blathered about how Ollie entertains himself so easily and I wouldn’t have made the connection that he’s trying to take care of me. I can’t let this happen. I can’t.
My brothers will tell my mother that they didn’t even miss her while she was gone. Josh and Stevie will rush to explain the rules of the best-ever game of dragons and knights (make that one mother dragon and six brave knights). Travis, Thomas, and Trevor will remember that I told ghost stories with a flashlight under my chin. Baby Ollie will beg for nacho chips and cheese with pickles on the side for dinner. And me? I will find a way to help myself.
Chantal
Shrunken Diameter .
T he SRC 2 (Social Retard Cake squared) is a cool, sophisticated quadrate. Caramel Chocolate Ganache fills and envelops two layers of the insides of my formerly round cake, precisely reconfigured at right angles. The toffee accessories pebble a horizontal line a third from the top edge of the cake. The SRC 2 is more a
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