Dead Flowers | H.S.

Chapter Fourteen

I was on the cusp of something, I decided. I was surely on the cusp of something, yet I wasn't aware of what it was yet. The heaviness in my heart, the fullness of my stomach, the ache in my head-they were telltale signs that something was approaching. Perhaps something that would excite me, like the sweet sound of a new piano. Perhaps something that would deflate me, like another cut in my leg from the brush by the river. It was almost as if there was a storm brewing in a darkened sky and I was lying on the grass watching about as helpless as a ladybug.

"Eat up," my mother ordered from beside me, already halfway finished with her egg whites, "especially that banana and those strawberries."

My mother was hinting to the fact that I was gaining weight-she danced around actually saying it, though we all knew that she noticed and that she cared. My stomach was becoming puffy and my thighs were thicker than they had been before. I was nearly breaking 145-which was twenty five pounds more than what my mother weighed. Only five more pounds than what she weight at nine months pregnant. She liked to say that a lot, especially when she saw that I was poking my stomach in the hall mirror.

A late August rain washed the back porch as I stared out the window, entranced by the familiarity. It was gray outside-but it was supposed to be sunny tomorrow, which I dreaded. Perhaps I was on the cusp of something horrible. Horrible things seemed to happen on sunny days in Astoria. As if some sort of mystical haze washed over the town and made left right and backward forward.

"Do as your mother says," my robot-of-a-father repeated while flicking through the Sunday morning paper.

Eugene rolled his eyes at the head of the table, hardly breaking 130 pounds. His plate was stocked to the ceiling with carbs and sugars yet my mother had served me a measly pile of egg whites and Greek yogurt with fruit.

"You could just say that I'm chubbing out a bit," I finally replied, taking a bite of the mostly chilled eggs.

My mother, somehow thinking she had been stealthy in her backhand insults and clever remarks, paused and peered up at me with a wide mouth. She put her hand over her heart and narrowed her eyes just enough to make my stomach hurt.

"Why, Jane...I would never say that you're chubbing out! What kind of mother would that make me?"

Returning her distant look of disinterest, I decided to let it go, turning back to my fruit. I noticed Eugene cackling to himself behind a forkful of pancake and let a minuscule smile float towards my lips.

Without any words shared between us, Eugene lifted a pancake and set it in my plate.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Just as I was about to take a bite, my mother's incessant acrylic nail tapping became erratic enough to divert my attention.

"Yes?"

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

The breakfast table remained silent for a long time. I thought about telling the truth. I thought about lying. I thought about maybe stabbing myself with a fork and diverting their attention. I thought about behaving by my primal instincts and standing on the table, robbing open meat with my teeth.

"No, why would you ask?"

"You're different is all," my mother's voice was not harsh anymore, "almost as if you're seeing someone new."