* * *
"What in the world are you doing awake?" I ask Hailey as I walk into the kitchen. But the answer hits me like a Mack truck before I even finish asking the question. She's sitting at the counter, dividing her time fairly evenly between unhinging her jaw to stuff an entire cinnamon roll into her mouth with one hand and playing on Carson's phone with the other.
Typically, the only person in this house who sleeps later than me on Saturdays and Sundays is Hailey. She'll sleep till approximately one or one-thirty--which beats my usual high-noon rise--and then waddle downstairs and bully the remote away from Carson if he's in the living room so she can watch her DVR'ed cartoons. But her early-bird activity this morning tells the tale: the tale of an innocent looking little girl who blackmailed her half-witted older brother into handing over his phone, which she's now addicted to.
She just shrugs, not even looking at me as I walk past her.
"Mom and Dad out jogging?" I ask, making my way to the stove to round up my own plate of cinnamon rolls.
It takes her a few seconds to respond, as I hear the dings and jingles coming from whatever game she's playing. Then she finally mumbles, "Umm?yeah."
I walk around to the other side of the counter with my plate of three?okay, six cinnamon rolls, and my full glass of low-fat milk, and set them down directly across from her. I reach over and tap the pause button, then slowly pull the phone from under her little finger as I bend over and place my elbows on the counter, becoming eye-level with her.
"What's the story behind this?" I ask her accusingly, holding up the phone.
She looks at me with a blank stare, her exhausted eyes full of cobwebs as if she's a med student looking up from her laptop for the first time in days. I can tell she's trying to come up with something clever, but her sleep-deprived brain simply won't allow it. She's also never been able to easily lie to my face--not to say she hasn't pulled it off a time or two, though.
I put the phone down next to my plate. "You know Mom's warned you about blackmailing Carson," I remind her, followed by a short silence. "I don't want to see you get into trouble. Plus, you know it's not right to do that."
She lowers her head. "I know."
"Does this have anything to do with the other night in the living room when I came in and asked you where Carson was?"
She peeks back up at me and nods. "Yeah. I tricked him into admitting a bad grade he got then threatened to tell Mom."
The shameful expression on her face is only because I've discovered what she's done, not because she feels bad for Carson. It's the same look she gets every time I discover her blackmailing Carson. Hailey looks up to me a great deal, and she's always seeking my approval, but she can never help herself. And when she gets sloppy--which isn't often--like she has with this whole phone business, she takes it really hard when I catch her.
I wipe my mouth and swallow down a mouthful of cinnamon roll. "Okay, well, I'm gonna give this back to Carson," I tell her, turning off the phone. "I know it's tough, but try to go easy on him."
"I'll see what I can do." She assures me, just as Mom and Dad burst through the kitchen door in their matching grey sweatpants and blue hoodies, jogging in place as if they've yet to realize they're inside now.
"Whew, jogging makes you feel great!" my dad exclaims, wiping his forehead with a towel. "I sure hope there's some cinnamon rolls left." He glances at our plates, then to the empty pan on the stove.
"Oh, umm?sorry. While y'all were out feeling great, we killed that pan of cinnamon rolls," I jokingly shrug, as if to say "your fault!"
"Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I should just rip open some bellies!" he shouts as he begins to tickle Hailey, causing her to laugh hysterically, which always causes us to do the same.
"I'll make some more," my mom says, walking toward me. "Hey there, Miss Cheerleader!" She wraps her arms around me, almost too tightly for me to breathe. She's taking full advantage of the agreement she made with me not to overreact?in public. So, as soon as she releases her death grip on me, I change the subject.
"Becca's gonna spend the night tonight. Her parents are going out of town to visit some friends," I say, shoveling in my last cinnamon roll.
"That's fine," Mom says.
"I'm spending the night at Maw Maw and Paw Paw's tonight. We're gonna rent movies." Hailey tells me, her focus remaining on Dad as she puts her plate in the sink.
"Cool, that sounds like fun," I mumble with a mouthful.
Then, giggling, Hailey pops Dad on the shoulder and sprints out the kitchen. He quickly turns in his chair and takes an unsuccessful swat at her with his newspaper just before she disappears.
"I'm going to take Hailey over there later, and I think Carson is having a friend over tonight, too," my mom says, arranging a new batch of cinnamon rolls.
"Yeah, and you and Carson don't forget my get-together is tonight," my dad reminds me. "There's going to be quite a few people here from my office."
"That's right, so y'all might want to hang out upstairs, maybe order some pizza or something," Mom suggests over her shoulder.
I glare at Dad. "Is Phil gonna be here?"
He looks up from his paper and chuckles. "Yeah, why?"
"Because he's always rude to Mom."
"I'm not gonna disagree with her," Mom quickly says.
My dad folds his paper, sets it down on the table and sighs. "Look, I know he can be a little overwhelming, but he's a good friend of mine, so just try to bear with me, please? Maybe just try to avoid him," he adds, looking at Mom and me. We don't say anything.
Phil's a prick, and it sucks he's going to be here tonight. I guess I'll just try to look forward to the pizza.
7
Near Exposure
"I mean, seriously, how cute is he?" Becca asks again, slapping her book down on her lap.
I peek over at her with a grin--for like the fourth time--laying my book on my chest. "He is kind of cute."
I can't help but notice how odd Becca's behavior is as I look at her laying on the comfy green recliner, all hot and bothered, completely unable to focus on her book.
"Why in hell is he friends with Carson?" she mumbles, more to herself than to me, then slings her book back to her face.
"I don't know. Why don't you go talk to him? They're probably in there just playing video games. Nothing to be scared of." I should really take my own damn advice.
But it's a lot tougher for me to talk to guys. It always has been. Becca, on the other hand, has such a rough exterior, and I've surely never seen her struggle to talk to anyone. Especially not guys. Last year, when she was dating her first boyfriend, she definitely wasn't the affectionate one in the relationship--unless you count the time she sweetly kissed him on the cheek after pushing him clean off a barstool for trying to grab a chicken tender off her plate. She wasn't a raving bitch or anything, but without a doubt, he was the affectionate one while she called the shots. And there was surely no reckless disregard for her reading material, staring blankly at ceilings, or repeatedly blabbing about how cute he was throughout the course of their relationship. So it's pretty cool to see this side of her.
She simply shrugs at my suggestion to go talk to him.
"Okay, clearly you like him," I say, sitting up on my bed.
"I don't like him," she replies. "I just think he's cute."
"Great, you don't like him. So go talk to him," I challenge. But instead of being the Becca I've always known, who would have jumped up from that recliner and marched down the hall with no fear, she just giggles and covers her face with her book, turning on her side to face away from me.
"It's too weird with Carson in there," she says, her voice muffled by the book. "What's his name again?"
I grab my book and lay back down, smiling. "Brian Crepple. Not that you care, though, right?"
"Nope."
"Pizza's here!" my mom suddenly hollers from the top of the stairs. We both jump up and run to the door as if someone just tossed a live grenade through my window.
My mom told us earlier she was going to order "three or four" pizzas for us. So Becca and I decided it was imperative to get there first so we could seize control of two of the pizzas in case there were only three. The only problem is, although we made several attempts, we never discussed a detailed plan on how to accomplish that since Carson's room is right across from the stairs, and we have to run the length of the hall to get there. This lack of discipline and preparation could very well cost us a pizza, which I'm not okay with.
As we head down the hall, we notice four pizzas sitting on the end table by the stairs as Carson darts out his room, beating us to them.
"Thank you!" Becca snaps, ripping two pizzas from Carson's grip.
He throws his hands up. "Hey!"
"Make sure those are pepperoni," I tell Becca, pointing to the two in her hands. She quickly inspects them as Carson checks the ones on the table.
"These are supreme," Carson smiles.
"Pepperoni," Becca says. Then she glances at Brian, who is leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed and grinning.
"You want pepperoni?" she asks him shyly.
"No, I'll eat supreme. Thanks, though," he smiles.
After a few silent, awkward seconds pass, I can tell Becca wants to keep talking to him, but for the first time ever she's not sure how to do that. So I grab the pizza from her hands and walk into Carson's room.
"What game are y'all playing?" I ask, setting the food down and turning to the TV.
"Halo 4," he responds.
Carson and I take a seat on the floor while Becca and Brian settle next to each other on the edge of the bed, and for the next ten minutes or so, the pizza we all made a mad dash for sits on the desk untouched. As Carson explains the game to me, I can hear Becca giggling as she and Brian talk. Their conversation bounces back and forth between Halo 4 and other random questions and statements such as "I'm not good at video games at all, but I love the graphics" from Becca, and "Really? Yeah, the graphics are cool, and it's fun to play once you get the hang of it" from Brian, and "where do you go to school, and what grade are you in, and what kind of music do you listen to?" All the normal stuff.
I was happy the two of them were getting a chance to talk, but the pizza was starting to make my stomach growl. And knowing I'd have to be the one to bust up this four-party gathering, I abruptly stand and rub my stomach.
"I'm starving! This game is awesome, Carson. You'll have to let me play sometime." I pat him on the shoulder.
"Sure," he says, never averting his eyes from the screen.
As I'm walking to the desk to grab our two pizzas, I realize we have no plates or drinks. And as much as I hate the idea of going down to the kitchen in the middle of my dad's annual office get-together, I want to give Becca and Brian as much time to talk as possible. So I volunteer.
"I'll be right back, I'm gonna go get plates," I say, then quickly walk out before Becca can offer to go in my place.
Now, my only concern about going down there is possibly running into Phil talking to my mom. Phil is a petroleum engineer who works at the Exxon refinery plant in downtown Baton Rouge. He and my dad became close friends during their college days while sharing an on-campus apartment at LSU, so Dad invites him every year.
The problem I have with Phil is he likes to lord his intelligence over people. And my mom is his prime target every time he sets foot in this house. Without a doubt, he was one of those nerdy guys in high school who probably got picked on every day and is now successful, and likes to make people feel dumb every chance he gets. I've seen him in the past practically chase my mom around this house to engage her in conversation, and somehow I've always kept myself away from the situation. But it infuriates me more and more with each passing year, and the fact that I'm starving and cranky at the moment surely doesn't help anything.
When I get halfway down the stairs, I peek around the wall to see what's going on. And of course, like a scene right out of a Lifetime movie, there stands my mom and Phil talking in front of the couch, about five feet from the path I have to take to get to the kitchen.
I get increasingly angry as I stand here and watch. Phil is babbling to my mom in his light grey suit and tie with his drink of choice in hand, his shiny bald head reflecting the bright light above him while his eyes cast a condescending look from behind a massive pair of round, thick glasses. Probably the same pair he wore in high school.
After staying put for a couple minutes in the hopes they would split up and walk away, I begin making my way down the stairs when I realize it may not happen anytime soon. As I hop off the bottom step and swing around the banister, I quickly realize everyone is dressed in suits and ties and nice dresses, including my mom and dad, as they all mingle around holding their drinks, making this little office get-together look more like a high-class, fancy-pants cocktail party. I swear I don't remember them ever being this formal in the past. I'm definitely feeling out of place in my black and white Nike Tempo shorts--which my dad always tells me are too short--and an old green Mardi Gras t-shirt I caught at the Bacchus parade in New Orleans several years ago. All this while sporting a sloppy side ponytail, fresh off my pillow after an hour of reading.
But despite my bold dress code violation, Phil is still my main concern by far. As I speed-walk to the kitchen door, hoping I'm somehow invisible to everyone, I hear Phil say to my mom: "I had to keep my son home from school for a week so he wouldn't spread poison ivy to the other kids." He's still glaring at her as he always does, waiting for her opinion on the matter so he can shred it to pieces.
As I burst through the kitchen door, I'm happy to see it harbors no cocktail party-goers. I feel extremely proud that I kept my cool after hearing Phil's voice. And after rounding up some paper plates and a six-pack of Cokes, I'm fairly confident I'll be able to sprint back upstairs without making any tongue-lashing pit stops.
But when I walk back into the living room, I notice my mom and Phil now standing much further away, over by the double doors as if my mom has unsuccessfully tried to escape to the front yard. Or perhaps after noticing me walk into the kitchen, she tried to lure him away, knowing I would come back through. Either way, he's still attached to her side, taking little jabs at her, relentlessly trying to engage her in his choice of conversation.
Phil is definitely the one exception to my non-confrontational personality. It makes my blood boil to see my mom under constant fire by him, and as I'm once again speed-walking to the stairs, I quickly discover that despite my mom's attempt at relocation, I'm still within earshot of them as I hear Phil's voice once again in mid-sentence. "?and so Exxon has to suffer from these frivolous lawsuits, you know what I mean?" he says, wide-eyed and using elaborate hand motions as if he's talking to a child.
"So, tell me what you think about that," he continues, staring Mom down while sipping his drink.
Apparently, I'm not as in control of myself as I previously thought, because before I know it I'm walking toward them as if it's out of my hands completely. As if someone grabbed my shoulders and violently shoved me toward them with absolutely no regard for my wishes to dart up to my room unnoticed, unspoken to, and unprovoked.
They don't even seem to notice my casual approach, and I waste no time once I'm within speaking distance of them.
"First of all, poison ivy is only contagious within an hour of contact?so congratulations, you've fallen victim to a ridiculous myth," I begin, my eyes narrowed, my demeanor strict, and my words sharp and to the point, in order to clearly convey to him my anger at his behavior toward my mom.
"And tell me what you think of Exxon raising their product price to cover the cost of their rising insurance premiums as a result of these frivolous lawsuits you speak of. And tell me again who suffers? Should I assume you understand this cycle, or is this another myth that has you confused?"
Moms eyes grow round, and I immediately regret everything I just said. I'm now hoping I haven't opened a can of worms that can't be cleaned up, as I stand here with no
idea what to say or do next.
Then suddenly, I hear Becca's voice behind me.
"We're starving up there!" she exclaims as she snatches the Cokes from my hand, then grabs my arm and pulls me toward the stairs.
I can always count on Becca to be there when I need her, and her timing couldn't have been more perfect just now.