Service with a Smile

The flimsy piece of silver plastic hit the face of the table with a weak splat.

            It took my father about three seconds to realize there was someone else in the room and wheel his big office chair around. His bushy eyebrows scrunched together and a very solid frown brought out all his wrinkles. After recognizing me, he raised his eyebrows and glanced at what I had just slapped on his desk.

            “What’s this?” he asked.

            “It used to be my credit card,” I spat.

            His eyes flickered with amusement as he then proceeded to humor me. “Then whose is it now?”

            But I didn’t have the time or patience to take his crap. “Who told you you could cancel my credit card?” I demanded.

            Dad pressed his lips together. “I don’t need permission to cancel my daughter’s credit card.”

            “What the hell, Dad!” I yelled in frustration. I paced back and forth for a few moments before twisting to face him again. “If this is because I walked away while you were talking to me this morning—”

            “It’s not,” he cut me off. “I think we should save this for dinner. I believe your mother’s making roast beef today.”

            I huffed in disbelief. “I don’t think we should save this for dinner. I think we should talk about this right now.”

            “Well, darling, I’m the father, you’re the daughter. Seniority rules.”

            And basically, that was the end of that because his stiff, old, brown office chair wheeled itself back around, and once Dad turns away from you, he won’t look back unless you’re on fire or something.

            In one last attempt to get him to talk, I snarled at him, “Now dinner’s gonna suck. Thanks for ruining roast beef for me.”

            And then I stormed out of there.

            Wow, Carter. Good one.

            Dinner came around when the maid did. She knocked on my door in a consecutive tap-tap-tap. Perfect rhythm, each on beat. Perfect and on the right track, just like my parents. Maybe it was because I was a rotten mood already, but even that was enough to push me off the edge.

            I yanked the door open and mustered all of my hate in one glare. The maid took a petite step back. She was a tiny little thing, and from day one, she was terrified of me the second she got a glimpse of me: leather jacket, motorcycle, never covering up anything… I must have screamed dangerous to her little freckled, blonde self.

            “Dinner’s—” she began, but not before I cut her off barbarically.

            “I know,” I practically barked, resembling a rabid dog.

             And then I waltzed down the grand staircase and headed in the dining room.

            In movies, rich people always have really extravagant dining rooms. Double doors, spacious with a ceiling the higher than the Empire State Building, a long-ass table with utensils and a plate perfectly delivered at every one of the million seats—even though there’s only like, three people eating—about a million chandeliers, maids and butlers, a long, elegant red carpet.

            That’s in movies.