Chapter Thirty-Four
“I’m home!” my mother’s voice echoed through the almost empty house, the only word I could think to describe it being “jolly”.
Every year around this time, Monica Turner’s mind got taken over by an army of elves. She transformed into a lady who wore bells as earrings on a regular basis and whose normally vastly assorted wardrobe the sole colors of red, white, and green overtook. Sufficed to say that Christmas was her favorite time of year.
“Fuck,” I muttered, pulling away from the boy my lips had somehow been attached to for a blur of innumerable minutes.
“Is that your mom?” he asked, deserting my bed as I did the same. What a class act I was turning out to be— having a make-out session in my room with an attractive quarterback, when we were supposed to be working on homework. I would have never even imagined that this would be my life four years ago.
“Yeah,” I gulped, brushing down my shirt in an attempt to smooth out any telltale creases.
“Elizabeth!” I heard my mom bellow.
“In my room with Eric Wilson!” I decided to give her a fair warning as I replied loudly.
“Oh, Eric’s here? Hi, Eric!” she called, the sharp heels of her stilettos letting themselves known by the distinct clank as she walked down the hallway, nearing my room.
“Hi, Ms. Turner,” Eric returned through the closed door, glancing at me as if to ask why I had made his presence known to her.
“It’s Monica, sweetie!” my mom laughed, the clangor of her shoes becoming louder by the second. Suddenly, the doorknob began to wobble, unsuccessfully fulfilling its duty of allowing the individual on the other side entrance. “Elizabeth, honey, why is the door locked?”
“Oh, uh, sorry about that,” I quickly rushed over to the door and opened it, only to come face to face with a candy cane who slightly looked a heck of a lot like my mother.
Standing before me was a blonde woman in her late thirties, with eyes matching my own. She was adorned in a white and red striped dress, greatly resembling a certain candy customarily associated with the upcoming holiday. Heels of a nauseating green were strapped to her feet, Lawson originals, no doubt. Her crystal eyes began to explore my room from the doorway, stopping at a particular boy who stood a few feet away from me. She had zeroed in on her chosen target.
“Let’s make a new rule,” a cheery smile filled with authority surfaced, “no locking doors. Wouldn’t want to accidentally make a baby, now would we?” Her candor clearly caught Eric off guard, as I heard him cough from behind me, most likely in an effort to conceal any form of amusement he may have had in regards to her blunt words.
“Sounds like a plan, mom,” I managed to choke out, only marginally surprised with what had come out of her mouth. Boundaries: they were something she lacked, and I knew it all too well.
When I was about twelve, the same women who had just indirectly accused her daughter of having unprotected sex, asked if I had a crush on my best friend, Justin …while he was standing next to me. It was one of the most uncomfortable situations I had ever been in. I was barely at the primitive stages of my teen years and didn’t like talking about my emotions (not that’s changed, five years later). The worst part about the entire experience was the way that she had inquired, though: “Elizabeth, do you have a crush on Justin?” It was so open— so direct. After that traumatic day, I never once doubted my mother’s abilities to amaze the shit out of me by her straightforwardness.
“So, Eric, how are you?” she questioned sweetly, brushing past me to enter my room. “Liz, when was the last time you cleaned up in here?” Most likely, she was referencing the landfill of dirty clothes and miscellaneous objects I wasn’t aware I possessed, but Eric decided to take initiative and answer his query first.
“I’m good, and yourself?” his simple and broad response only somewhat irked me, seeing as how I knew it would give my mom further to interrogate.
“I’m fine, thank you. And how has my daughter been when with you? Has she been acting like the proper lady I know she is deep down inside?” she kept talking as expected.
Eric glanced over to my motionless frame that was stuck by the doorway, and the foundations of smile jerked at the edges of his lips. “Liz has been wonderful,” was all he said.
“So, why are you here?” she asked. “Not that I have an issue with it. In fact, I wish that Liz would bring more friends over— especially ones like you.”
“What does that mean, mom? ‘Ones like you’? Is Eric truly any different than my other friends?” I immediately jumped on her emphasis choice.
“I just meant that, now, at least, you’re always hanging out with the girls, and I think that it’s nice that you’re going back to—”
“We have homework to do,” I interjected, stopping her before she could touch on my days of bonding with the solely the male gender.
“I don’t see any books or papers,” she pointed out with a smirk.
“We’re doing an oral presentation and were just practicing,” Eric supplied, almost causing me to burst out laughing like the immature thirteen year old I was at heart at the word “oral”.
“I’m sure you were doing something that involved your mouths,” she muttered loud enough for both Eric and me to hear.
“Okay, I think it’s time for you to leave,” I declared, needing to end the conversation before it got worse— if possible.
“I know when I’m not wanted,” she sighed, melodramatically stomping back over to the entry.
“Bye,” I waved a limp hand at her, anticipating her leave.
“You should stay for dinner, Eric,” she said as what I thought to be parting words.
“Well, I don’t kn—” Eric began.
“Nonsense! You’re staying,” she declared in finality.
“Oh, uh, okay,” Eric said for an absence of anything else to say.
“Stay safe, kids,” she called, closing the door behind her. I started for the door to make sure my mom didn’t randomly pop in, when her voice rang down the hall and past the barrier the shut door had created, “Remember, sweetie, we don’t lock doors in this house!”
And that was that. After our little encounter with Monica, the previous form of studying we had been doing prior to her arrival didn’t seem too appealing anymore. I not longer had a desire to observe the way Eric’s lips felt on my own, or how nice the connection with him felt. Thanks, mom.
I let out a yawn, wondering how I had achieved the unthinkable of actually accomplishing some amount of homework while within a five feet radius of Eric Wilson. Originally, I had thought that we would severely veer off topic from the dreary work that had been assigned over the course of the day, but we didn’t. We had somehow managed to stay on task the entire time with the exception of one irrelevant tangent led by me about why I didn’t think it was fair we were reading Shakespeare in English.
I had nothing against the guy; I simply didn’t think that an honors English class should have been reading something like Romeo and Juliet. I had already read it back when I was a freshman, and found it an okay piece of literature. Why we were being forced to read it again, though, was what I didn’t understand.
“Is twelve the right exponent?” I asked, my vision blurring as I stared down at the sheet of lined paper I had been working with for the past half hour.
“Yeah, I think so,” Eric nodded, scrunching his eyebrows together as he stared his own sheet.
“This boring,” I proclaimed.
As if she possessed the power of supersonic hearing, I then heard a jovial, “Kids! Dinner’s ready!” echo from the mouth of Monica Turner throughout the house until the sound waves reached my room.
“Personally, I don’t really identify myself as a kid,” I said, stretching as I heaved myself from the hard, homey floor.
“Eh, anyone under the age of eighteen is technically a kid,” Eric shrugged.
“So, because you’re still a minor, you have no issue when someone calls you a ‘kid’?” I asked dubiously.
“It depends on the context,” he let out a yawn, spreading his toned arms above his head so his shirt just barely rode up. I tried not to look, I really did, but when life hands you a guy with a sixteen-pack who just happens to be exposing it, you make the best of it. My eyes weren’t able to move as I saw traces of a muscular abdominal as his shirt elevated ever so slightly. I was a teenage girl; wouldn’t I have been shunned for not looking?
“Um, let’s go,” I managed to tear my gaze away from the view before Eric noticed, but it was too late.
“You weren’t staring at my tummy, were you?” he questioned with a smug tone.
“You mean the flap of fat you hide under your clothes?” I plastered a confident front on to deter from the fact that I had, indeed, been gawking at his fabulous, flab-less stomach.
“I’m very self-conscious, Liz, please don’t make fun of my body,” he said earnestly, wrapping his arms around the discussed body part.
“Of course you are,” I mumbled.
“Elizabeth! Eric! It’s dinner! I’m not going to have to come up there, am I?” I heard my mother threaten. “Come down! Now!”
We both glanced at each other quickly, before I took lead and walked straight out of the comfort of my room like a warrior in battle, not turning around to see if Eric was following (which he was). I carefully stepped through the long corridor between my room and the rest of the house until I reached the front room. My eyelids flickered up and down for a few moments before I finally adjusted to the sight. Though Monica had transformed the house the second Thanksgiving was legitimately over, I still wasn’t fully used to how she had altered certain areas.
The routine colors of green and red were accompanied by sparkles, making the entire room look as though it were taking Christmas steroids. A large tree ornamented in a mix of festive orbs, small lights, and a single red ribbon that draped around the entire figure stood erect in the corner of the spacious expanse, making quite a grand statement. At the apex of the lengthy plant was a five-pointed, golden star I had seen many times over my years of existence. When Monica did something, she did with class and purpose— there was no half-ass with that woman: something was either done her way (the right way), or wasn’t done at all.
“I’m just going to take a completely random guess here and assume that you’re not Jewish,” Eric commented, coming up behind me.
“Really?” I mocked blithely, resuming my original route of walking.
Not surprised that my mother had chosen to hold the meal within, I halted at a place I had stepped foot in about three times since moving: the dining room. Normally, the act of eating took place in the kitchen at the small seating area or on stools and the counter. The dining room was only reserved for special occasions. Evidently, having Eric over classified as “special” to my mom. Shocker.
“Finally!” my mother exclaimed, standing as we entered the room that had also been taken over by the woman possessed by the spirit of a rather round, red, elderly man who gave presents to children. “Come! Sit!”
I let out a sigh, unsure of what the evening would entail, and then found a place setting obediently. Monica sat at the head of the table, while Eric and I took the seats on either side of her, so we were across from each other. Thankfully, she hadn’t gone completely crazy over a simple meal at night (she hadn’t brought out the china nor bothered to place a cloth over the wooden table), so there was still hope that she withheld some of her previous sanity.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked, a smoky smell entering my nostrils.
“Seriously, Elizabeth?” she scoffed for no apparent reason other than to express my full name.
“What?” I groaned, my taste buds watering slightly as the aroma continued to waft into my nasal regions.
“Look at the table,” she shook her head. I glanced down once more at the dark, tree-stained piece of furniture and noticed a thin, white, steaming, cardboard box deployed in the center. A red checkerboard design embellished the top of it and I apprehended what an idiot I could truly be at times.
“So, we’re having pizza?” I voiced my intellectual conclusion.
“Tell me again why you put up with this girl?” my mom disregarded my deduction, turning to Eric.
“Well, she’s amazing,” his enchanting, emerald eyes bore into mine as he said the words, “and, despite the, uh, ill-informed moments that come along with her, she’s Liz, and, as said before, she’s amazing.”
I tore my eyes away from his as he finished the statement, lifting open the squared chest and subtracting a slice of molten, cheesy delectableness. My fingers immediately reacted in a way of dislike as the heat warmed them during the short journey to my plate. After dropping the triangular wedge onto my flat dishware, a coating of translucent grease was left on the tips of digits that I quickly wiped off on a conveniently located napkin.
Monica let out a cough, the short span of silence intolerable to her. She was a people person, and loved to talk almost as much as she enjoyed creating awkwardly tense environments. “So, how was studying?”
“Fine,” I answered, elevating the sustenance (or lack of) to my lips.
I inserted the pizza into my mouth, masticating downwards. My jaw clamped in both directions, a taste deserving of heaven coming in contact with my tongue. Maybe I was just famished, but I could swear that the pizza I was consuming was the best thing I had ever eaten. Hunger probably played a large influence on my perception of the food, but it didn’t really matter.
“Mom, I love you!” I said, well into my second bite. It was so good.
“No, seriously, why her?” my mom watched with scrutiny as I digested my dinner.
“To be perfectly honest, besides her being amazing and, excuse my language, ‘hot’, I’m not quite sure. She’s different, I guess. There’s something about her that’s not like other girls. I like it,” Eric affirmed his thoughts about me to the woman who had brought me into the world.
“Liz is definitely not like other girls, I can tell you that much,” she said with a knowing smile, thankfully not going into detail and allowing her words to bask in their broadness and all their glory.
“She’s special,” he sent me another hypnotic gaze, shivers unintentionally running across my spinal cord as I continued to eat, half done done with my first piece.
“That she is,” Monica agreed, the edge of a grin remaining on her face.
Dinner was a jumble of monotonous dialogues regarding Eric, me, school, our homework, the pizza (my mom had picked it up in the city before she came home), and what was occurring during the winter break. Not that I was informed until it came up, but, apparently, we were going to Italy over vacation with the Lawson Family (Trevor included). Why Italy? Kit and my mom wanted to see some special fashion show. Fun.
“So, who wants dessert?” my mother questioned excitedly. I had ingested four slivers of pizza too many, and didn’t think it was possible to devour more, but, when my deceitful ears heard “dessert”, my stomach automatically found more space to cram food within.
“I do!” I said, mirroring her level of enthusiasm. Like mother like daughter, I suppose.
“Eric?” she prompted for an answer.
“I’d love some, but it’s getting really late and I think I have to head out,” he declined remorsefully.
“Oh? Are you sure?” she pressed as if it would change his given response.
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he asserted.
“That’s fine, sweetie,” she assured him. “Your family’s coming to the holiday party we’re throwing, right?”
“Yes, I believe,” he began to stand up.
“Well, it was lovely seeing you again, Eric,” she sent him a parting smile of approval.
“As you,” he returned, as I matched his stance, wanting to verify that he didn’t think my mom was completely daft. I walked over the doorway of the room, as my mother waved lightly to Eric, who mirrored the gesture before joining me.
We wandered out of the dining room in a contented hush, neither one of us bothering to say anything. Our bodies moved side by side as we neared the steps that led to the front door, after passing the room in which Christmas violently puked. Eric took my hand in his as we made our way down the stairs, and to the primary ingress of the house.
“That was… nice,” Eric was the first to break the silence.
“I’m fully aware that my mom’s crazy,” I said, as he cracked a smile in objection.
“She’s not; she’s nice, really,” he said.
“Right,” I wasn’t entirely convinced that his thoughts on my mother differed greatly from mine. “So, you’re not going to run from here, screaming?”
“I would never do that, Liz,” he dropped my hand, repositioning his own so they cupped the sides of my face.
“And why not?” I questioned, being forced to gaze right into his deep eyes, unable to look away to any place other.
“Because I’m not going to run; I’d never run from you, Liz,” he said, the intensity and conviction in his tone surmounting the amount I deemed required for the situation. The façade of sincerity was quickly substituted with a silly grin as his eyes broke from my own, glancing up. “Wow, your mom really went all out, didn’t she?”
I looked up, wondering to what he was referring and saw a bundle of green tied together with a red ribbon. Before being able to process or formulate an interpretation, two lips were hurled onto my own, eradicating any and all rational thoughts. I immediately melted, allowing Eric to take lead and kiss the stability out of me. It was like a movie— the abrupt act of affection right before parting ways.
Unfortunately, I willed myself to pull away from Eric’s mouth for the second time in the evening, fearing that Monica would make a startling appearance. I stared at him, pondering his course of thinking on the action.
“Mistletoe,” he nodded his head up, solving my unasked inquiry. Mistletoe. Only Monica Turner…
“Oh,” was all I succeeded in verbalizing, my breath having not been returned to my lungs after the suddenness.
“Good night, Elizabeth Turner,” he said, blissfully beaming.
“G’night, Eric,” I said, watching as he departed. A void feeling filled me as the door shut in definiteness of his leave, as well as a sense of assurance about a notion I had had in the past: I liked Eric Wilson. Though it was simple, it was something of which I was sure. Yeah, I liked Eric Wilson a whole lot.