The rest of the school day went by far too quickly. No, I am not, I repeat, not crazy. It's just that at home, two things were waiting for me that tended to weigh heavily on my stomach: my elder sister and my mother's dinner. It wouldn't be so bad if at least I could devour the former and sit next to the latter instead of the other way around. But I doubted that would have gone over very well with my parents.
I had hardly closed the apartment door behind me, when I heard my mother's voice.
“Honey! You're home.”
Honey? I do not know why she calls me that, honestly, I don't. I doubt it is for my sweet-tempered nature. I turned around and saw my mom standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a horrible flowered apron around her waist, and holding my packed lunch at me accusingly.
“You left your lunch behind, honey.”
I tried to infuse my voice with as much sincere regret as I could muster. “Oh, I'm so sorry, mom. It won't happen again, I promise.” God, I'm such a liar.
Mollified, she gestured to bathroom. “Go clean yourself up. Dinner's almost ready. Your daddy and your big sister should be here any minute now.”
Desperately, I tried to think of an escape route. I could lock myself in the bathroom and pretend to be sick... But then, they'd just get something from the pharmacy which would taste even worse than my mother's attempts at cooking. I could always go into the bathroom and jump out of the window – or drown myself in the bathtub. But I decided that in spite of my mother's dinner looming before me, I wasn't quite that desperate. After all, I had the trip of a lifetime to look forward to: I was going to the local homeless shelter tomorrow. Yippee! I couldn't end my life just yet.
So I just went into the bathroom and did the things one usually does in bathrooms.
When I came out again, smells were wafting through the air which were considerably less appealing than those of Bert's hot dogs. I knew it was inevitable, so I slunk into the dining room and slumped down on my usual chair in the corner. My mother was furiously leafing through a cookbook to find out how long the lasagne she had in the oven was actually supposed to stay in the oven. You couldn't help but admire her efforts – even if they were completely stupid.
I probably would have understood her better if she actually liked cooking. But she didn't. In fact she hated it – she just thought it was part of her duties as a good, christian housewife. I just couldn't bring myself to tell her that she totally sucked.
“Where is it, where is it... ah, yes. Thirty minutes.” My mom took a look at her wristwatch. “Oh dear. Well, I suppose ten minutes more or less won't make that much of a difference.” She hurriedly opened the oven door and backed away, coughing.
“Air vent?” I suggested.
She nodded and fumbled for the switch. The vent turned on and soon we were rid of most of the smoke. A faint burned odor remained, however.
“Perhaps ten minutes make a bit of a difference,” my mother admitted. She pulled the lasagne out of the oven and regarded it critically. “Well, I can always cut off the burned parts.”
“You do that, mom. I'll just go and...”
“No. You stay right here. It's dinner time.”
“Yes, mom.” And if my day wasn't bad enough, at that moment, I heard the apartment door open and close and an ever-cheery voice call: “Mom, I'm home!”
Great. Just great.
Catherine strode into the room in a way that suggested she had invisible pom-poms permanently attached to her hands.
“Hi, Mom.” She made a move to hug her, then saw the burned lasagne, and instead nodded. “Great day, it was. Really great! We practiced for the big game next Saturday. I bet it'll be a really great game!”
“Sure, if you'll be there,” I muttered, playing with a fleck of dust that had landed on my plate.
She turned to me.
“Did you say something?”
“Me? No. Ignore me.”
She promptly turned around, doing exactly as I suggested. I told myself I should treasure the experience – it was sure to remain a rarity.
“You came home just in time, Cathy,” mom said with a special smile that was reserved for her favorite daughter. “Dinner's ready.”
“Yea, about that...” Catherine suddenly had an incredibly convincing, apologetic expression on her face. “Mary invited me out to her place for a sleepover, and dinner's part of the deal. I know I should have called, but we were so busy practicing, and then the bus was already leaving...” She trailed off in a suggestive manner, the conniving bitch.
“That's all right, Cathy,” Mom said, trying to not let her disappointment show. “You go have a good time with Mary. She's such a nice girl, a good friend for you. A good influence.” She looked over at me, and I knew the remark is aimed at Jen. I mashed my teeth together.
“Thanks mom!” With a big smile on her face, Catherine leaned over to me. “You can have my share of the lasagne, Minnie Mouse. I'm sure it'll be delicious.”
It took considerable effort not to try and strangle her.
“Thanks so much... Catherine.” Damn! Why couldn't I be good at coming up with insulting nicknames?
“I'll be up in my room for a sec, getting everything I need for the sleepover. If I miss him, say hello to daddy for me, will you?”
“Sure honey,” mom called after her. “Are you sure you wouldn't like to at least taste the lasagne?”
Unfortunately, my sister was spared an answer because the door opened and we heard my dad's voice call: “Hello everybody! What's for dinner this wonderful day?”
One thing about my dad – he has about as much taste as my mother has talent for cooking. Truly, a match made in heaven.
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
I poked my lasagne with my fork as soon as it was on the plate. Best to get it over with quickly, right? Then I saw my mother glaring at me and thought 'Why's she looking at me like that, I am prepared to eat the stuff, aren't I?' Only then did I remember.
“O yes of course,” I sighed. “What was I thinking? Of course we have to thank the Lord for this meal.”
Fourteen years. Fourteen long years. That's how long my mother had been serving dinners in the MacAllen household and that was how long we all had said grace before dinner (although during the first few years my contribution was probably not very intelligible and accompanied by a lot of spitting). Fourteen years. You'd think I'd remember to thank the Lord for my dinner by now. But I forget nearly every time. Do you want to know why? Because never, ever in my wildest dreams had the thought occurred to me to thank anybody for the stuff my mother put on our table. And if I truly believed that our Lord Jesus Christ were ultimately responsible for putting it there, I would lose the last bit of faith I had. Something which I didn't really want to happen.
Following my parents' example, I folded my hands and spoke:
“Bless us, O Lord,
and thy gifts,
which we are about to receive from thy bounty.”
See what I mean? See who's probably to blame? I just can't bear the thought!
“We thank thee for what you have given us,
we praise thee for thy wisdom, thy mercy, thy glory.”
Well, as to that...
“I will remain strong in my faith,
as Jesus remained strong until the end.
Hear me, Oh Lord,
In Jesus Christ's name I pray,
who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit
One God
forever and ever.
Amen.”
About half an hour later, mom, my dad and I had consumed a goodly portion of the God's gifts, or in other words the lasagne, and Catherine was still taking a 'sec' to gather together all the things she would need for her sleepover. I supposed she had meant clothes. Not that I knew why one would need anything but pajamas for a sleepover, but there was simply nothing else that could take my sister that long to pack.
I took a look at my dad's plate. It was almost empty. And after dinner, he'd want to be left alone. I'd hoped to have Catherine out of house or at least out of earshot before I brought up my school trip, but I was out of options, so I cleared my throat.
“Dad... we're going on a school trip tomorrow, and I'll need you to sign the permission slip.”
“That's nice.” He nodded. “Where are you going? Golden Gate Bridge? Chinatown? Alcatraz?”
“No.” I swallowed. I had no Idea how he would react, but something told me it wouldn't be too positive. “We're going to a local homeless shelter. Our social studies teacher, Ms Ellis, arranged for us to have a look around and help out a bit. It'll be fun.”
His fork stopped on the way to his mouth.
“A... homeless shelter?”
“Yeah.”
“And this is supposed to be a school trip?” Slowly, his bearded face began to redden. “A teacher came up with this idea?”
“I told you, it was our social studies teacher, Ms Ellis. She thought it'd be an educational experience.”
“Well, not for you, it won't be,” he growled. “I'm going to have a few words with this teacher of yours. Homeless shelter, indeed. That's no place for children!”
“But dad, I'd really like to go,” I said, surprised that I actually meant it.
“No! I absolutely forbid it,” my father said, sternly. “You have no Idea what kinds of people could be there – drug addicts, thieves, mafiosi even.”
“Really? Do you think so?” I looked up, a sudden gleam in my eyes. This was beginning to sound interesting...
“Yes, I do.” My father didn't seem to notice my expression.
“Well, you're going to have to tell that to Miss Ellis. I think she expected us all to come.”
“Oh, I'll do that. And while I'm at it, I'm going to have a few words with her on appropriate surroundings for 14-year-old children.” He gobbled up the last piece of his lasagne and pulled the napkin out of his collar. “In fact I'm going to do it right now.”
“Dad, she's my favorite teacher, please don't...” But he was already in his study, slamming the door behind him.
“We have to say Grace after Dinner, too!” I shouted after him, but it was no use. There was a short silence while he was dialing. I prayed that Miss Ellis wouldn't be at home – but God didn't answer my prayer. He was probably pretty miffed that I'd never really tried to chat with him before.
“Miss Ellis?” I heard my father's muffled voice through the door. He was using his subordinate-voice. The one that inspired such respect in all the employees of the company he worked for, and also, incidentally, the one he usually used on me. “This is Herbert MacAllen, Angela's father. I have heard some astounding things about what you have planned for the trip with your class tomorrow. As a concerned parent, I must protest in the strongest terms. And I can tell you now, that my daughter will not be allowed to...”
He was cut-off in mid sentence – my dad, Mr Listen-to-me-young-lady! I dearly wished I could hear both ends of the conversation. Then I would have known how Miss Ellis had accomplished this miracle.
“Why, yes, of course, Miss Ellis. But the unsuitable environment presents so many dangers to a child at an impressionable age that... - what do mean? Of course my daughter doesn't take drugs! Yes, we have explained the dangers to her. What do you take me for? I am a responsible parent.”
A pause again.
“We trust each other completely. How dare you imply... no, she's never had trouble with her police! Her uncle is a police inspector, for God's sake.”
And again.
“Teaching children about life is one thing, but taking them into such an institution in what is by many considered a high crime area... the filth that lives there could be highly dangerous. What? Of course I am a Christian. Compassion? Charity? This has nothing to do with my moral values! It's about... No, I have nothing against our more unfortunate brethren. Certainly, they deserve every help we can provide. I just don't think that it's a good idea... very well, Miss Ellis. Yes, Miss Ellis. I will sign the permission slip immediately, Miss Ellis. Good bye.”
The receiver was slammed down on the phone.
I tried to keep the smirk off my face as my father came stomping back into the dining room.
“And?” My mother, who hadn't listened to a word, said with a sweet smile. “Did you make her understand your concerns?”
“Not exactly,” Dad grunted. “Give me that dam- that dang permission slip.”
“Here.” I took the slip out of my pocket and handed it to him. “And you can use the word in front of me. I've heard it before, you can stop worrying about the innocence of my ears.”
He decided not to respond to that, instead scribbling his signature on the piece of paper and handing it back to me.
Catherine chose this moment to reappear from upstairs with a large bag under each arm. “What's all the fuss about?” she asked.
I closed my eyes. No, oh no. Please don't tell her.
“Angela is going on a trip to a homeless shelter tomorrow,” my mother said. “She's going to help all those poor people who have no roof over their heads. Isn't that nice.”
Cautiously, I peeked out from under my lashes, only to see a humongous grin on Cathy's face. “How nice. I'm going to a Cheerleader fundraising-party tomorrow. Nothing special, only the high society of my school and whatever important and famous friends they can think of. I'd much rather come along and coddle drunken old slackers with you, but, you know, responsibilities...” She gave a mock sigh of a regret. “Those come with a leadership position. And I can't disappoint Mark. I promised him faithfully that I'd be there.”
Oh yes, of course: Mark the strong, Mark the infallible, Mark with the perfect marks, Mark the top jock. I almost could hear the words that were on the tip of her tongue: 'Of course you wouldn't know anything about that, seeing as you don't have a boyfriend and likely never will, imp. But who knows, perhaps you'll meet a nice, quiet drug addict at the homeless shelter? That would be just perfect for you.'
“Don't you have a sleepover to get to?” I mumbled.
“That's right. Bye dad, bye mom.” Now that the lasagne was out of her way, she actually did hug our mother. “Bye, little imp. Hope you have fun, tomorrow.” She leaned down and whispered in my ear: “Perhaps one of the drunks there will like you. If so, some advice: don't squander the chance.”
Sometimes it was depressing how well I knew my sister.
She strode out of the room, looking just like Cinderella going off to meet her handsome prince. I only wished she actually were Sleeping Beauty instead. Then, she would go to her sleepover and not wake up for the next hundred years. Glumly, I stared down at the permission slip. As much as I didn't want to admit it, Cathy was right. I was worse than a nerd or a punk – I was a loser, by nature, with no friends but other outsiders and good marks only when I copied from someone who had more brains than I. Tomorrow, I'd go on a school trip and spend the day knee deep in stale beer the rejects of society. If I was going to find someone like me anywhere on this planet, It would probably be there. Perhaps I should reconsider Eugene's offer.
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Hi! I have a question for you this time. Wattpad just changed the age restriction of my story to PG-13. And I haven't even had a real brawl yet, or a naughty scene ;) Do you think my story should be PG-13? If so, why?
I'd love to hear some feedback, either here or on my facebook page, t be reached via the external link :)
Cheers
Robert