The Quirky Tale of April Hale (Quirky Series #1)

7. The Problem of Being a Good Girl is Everyone Thinks You're Boring

My mom ribbed my dad.

“But Marcy and Corinne-“

“They’re helpless,” Mom cut me off. “See, April. We’re a family of open-minded people. We don’t mind you befriending Marie and Curie.”

“Marcy and Corinne, mom.”

“Whatever,” my mother’s smile widened unnaturally. “Anyway, we only want you to experience the normal teenage life of harmless fun and they couldn’t possibly give you that when they can’t even talk right when Quentin is around.” Mom then eyed Quentin analytically. “Look at your brother. He’s barely a man and his voice is so squeaky. If his nose is a little higher and his jaw a little stronger, then I’d understand their awed silence around him.”

“Hey, you’re the one bequeathing me these feminine features, Mom,” Quentin protested.

“But I’m happy holed up in my room,” I said.

“No, no, you shouldn’t be happy being alone and talking to TV!” Mom grappled at both of my shoulders hard. “I want you to be a bad girl, April. It’s time. You’re pretty, you’re skinny, and even though you’re a little pimpled here and there, I’m sure boys will still like you.”

“They do,” Quentin said. “As long as she keeps her mouth shut.”

“That’s mean,” I said, a little hurt.

“Go put twenty dollars on the Mean Jar, Quentin,” Dad said.

Quentin groaned, but he did it anyway. Since Quentin was so used associating with the popular kids, he could never really control his mouth. Since his comments could be a little too mean and a little too vain, my parents invented the Mean Jar to hold him off a little bit.

It didn’t exactly work, as proved by the earlier incident, but at least he wouldn’t be spouting mean-spirited comments like he had done last year.

I loved Quentin,  I really do. But sometimes I just hoped that he wasn’t as exposed and as popular as he was now because it’s making him a bad person.

“So, here comes the important question,” Mom’s eyes became even bigger. “How’s your date with Andrew?”

Following my mother’s question, Dad and Quentin peered over me like I was some kind of animal zoo. I stared at them, perplexed at their question. I wasn’t having a date with Andrew; he was just taking me home since we were on the friend zone (the witty term is courtesy of Ryder), and on the way we got lost so bad that we almost got knifed by a group of dangerous gangs. And then suddenly my neighbor showed up there and took us home.

But even I knew that that wasn’t what my family wanted to hear. 

“It’s great,” I said. “He’s nice.”

“You kissed him tonight?” Mom asked.

“No.”

“Kissed a stranger, at least? Make him jealous a little bit, keep the fire burning.”

“No.”

“Any girl, then?” this time, it was my father’s question, and to my horror, a little too hopefully.

“Um. No.” I shuddered as I thought about it. Kissing boys had never crossed my mind before, but kissing girls, despite it being a little less intimidating notion, was an even more alien idea. “But I skipped a class today.”

“Oh my God! It’s about time you do something mildly interesting!” my mother gave my father the alcohol to open, and my father did, and the cork narrowly missed our family photo. As the champagne poured over our expensive sofa, he shoved the bottle to me gently.