Band X

Chapter 3: Suicidal Snowmen

My personal favorite? Supernatural. I even got to meet two of the stars at this comic con type thing one year. I almost passed out when waiting in line and even scared the woman behind us who told me "If you faint, you won't be able to take the picture with them, honey."

She was old enough that being called honey didn't bother me and I could tell that she was really concerned for me, not talking down to me. I just kind of hung onto my mom and then, after I took the picture, my dad had to hold me up so I didn't fall down from all the stress. My anxiety bubble burst all over my parents that day and I would have ended up on the floor if my dad hadn't kneeled and let me sit on his bent leg. He made himself into a chair for me. If that isn't being a good parent, I don't know what is.

I continue to stare at Michael, amazed at how much pizza he can eat in one sitting. My brother is a hulking 13 year old who looks nothing like me. Before his voice started to change my mom used to say that the only thing we had in common was that we sounded alike. One of us would scream for her for whatever reason from the other room and she'd yell back, "Who the hell is screaming?" Most of the time it was Michael after I smacked him, usually on the back, leaving a bright red hand print.

Michael hardly ever hit back unless you count that time he bit me on the chest because I decided it was a good idea to try to take his toy and wrestle him to the ground. He sunk in his three year old teeth, I screamed, and when my mom took a look she said it looked like a little bear had taken its claws and raked them down my chest. I nearly lost my left nipple in that fight. It didn't stop me from smacking Michael any chance I got, though.

I don't smack him anymore, but even I admit I can be sarcastic and mean to him. He now calls me a bitch when he gets really pissed and even though I maybe deserve that once in a while it still hurts my feelings. He's the nicest person in our family, so when he says something like that to you it makes you stop and think that you might actually be acting like a bitch and should knock it off. Sometimes I do, but most of the time I just get irritated with him.

My mom is busy putting the finishing touches on dinner, setting out the plates so everyone, except Michael who is still shoveling pizza into his mouth, can line up and get their food from the steaming pots and pans on the stove. My dad hovers behind her and I can tell she's getting irritated with him being so close while she works.

She hates to cook, but says she does it to save money and because it's better for us. She says she would either eat out or get takeout every night of the week if she could. So even though she does most of the cooking she also does most of the complaining about it and doesn't like to be disturbed much while she's doing it.

She turns around and stares at my dad who is standing about five inches behind her eyeing the red sauce and chicken parmesan on the stove. "Would you like to crawl right up my ass?"

My mom is rather direct and usually says right what's on her mind. This interaction between her and my father could go one of two ways. My father could get understandably irritated and sigh at her while she continues to bang around the kitchen, making her hatred of the cooking process well known. Or, he could make a stupid yet funny joke and make her laugh. Making my mom laugh is a sure way to diffuse her irritation.

She says she's like a wet hen, all flustered and running around like she wants to peck the hell out of someone. And then someone, usually my dad, makes her laugh and she deflates like an overblown balloon with a slow leak.

Fortunately, my dad makes a joke and she starts to laugh. Unfortunately, his joke is just over the line inappropriate.

"Shhhh! Not in front of the kids!"

My brother is spared this but I hear it and groan loudly from my spot in the doorway. My parents stop laughing long enough to notice me.

"You're up! Just in time to eat."

My mom smiles at me but her eyes look worried. She opens her mouth like she's going to ask me something but stops herself. She knows how much I hate questions. She can't help herself most of the time but I know she tries to give me my space.

"Smells good." I get my plate and load up with chicken parmesan and gluten free noodles. The gluten free is for me because of my Celiac and I'm sure that the bread crumbs coating the chicken are gluten free, too, but I still ask.

"Gluten free coating on the chicken?"

"You mean the bread crumbs?" my mom asks. "Stupid question. Of course they are."

I roll my eyes and dig in. I prefer regular bread crumbs but my stomach revolts when I eat them so I pretend these are just as good.

The cheese is real though so I get as much of that as I can on my fork and shove a big glop of mozzarella in my mouth.

Our house is finally quiet except for the sound of an old Law & Order episode coming from the TV in the living room. My mom loves Law & Order and has it on in the background nearly all day. Original Law & Order, SVU, you name it, she watches it.

We eat in comfortable silence until I swallow my huge bite of cheesy chicken goodness and say, "I have a project to do with some classmates so I'll be out tomorrow night."

My mom and dad stop eating and stare at me. Even Michael pulls his ear buds out of his ears and asks "What?" as he looks back and forth between our parents.

My mom clears her throat. "Oh, really? Do I know these people?" She tries to appear all nonchalant but I know she's both concerned and surprised.

I shake my head. "Nope. just some kids from my world cultures class. We're doing a project."

"On what?" My dad gets into the act. He isn't as much of a helicopter parent as my mom but he's just as shocked as she is. I usually bow out of group projects and my teachers usually take pity on me and allow me to work on my own.

"I'm not sure yet." I'm surprised at how easily I can lie to them both. "We need to meet to find out what we want to do."

My parents say "Uh huh" at the same time like they want to believe me but are having a hard time with my story.

"Well!" My dad sounds overly enthusiastic. "I think that's great, peanut!" No one else has a pet name for me. And no one else can call me peanut. I'll be 30 and he can still call me that.

My mom stares at me. I start to feel clammy and my stomach churns. She knows I'm lying. "Where are you going?"

"Isabelle's house. She's in charge of the group." Not exactly a lie. The band is a group. And Isabelle is in charge.

My mom's eyes bore into me for the longest time. She finally picks up her fork, says "OK" and continues to eat.

I wonder if this is a trap. Is she lulling me into a false sense of security with the hope that I slip up and tell her my true plans?

I decide to play it cool and say, "Thanks. I won't be home too late."

My parents shrug and keep eating. Michael has put his earbuds back in and the only noise we hear is the "dun dun" sound of a new Law & Order episode starting up.

Maybe I fooled them, I think. Maybe they believe I really am working on a group project.

Somehow I doubt it and somehow I think I'm about to be busted.

My phone dings and my dad glances down at it. I'm not supposed to have it at the table. I glance down at the text message I just received.

It's from Isabelle and it just says: how about Suicidal Snowmen for the band name?

I turn it off. I'll respond to her later but I already know my response will be no way.