Call the Shots (4 page)

Mom calls after me, “We love you, Sean! All we want is for you to be happy. Whatever that means for you!”

As if this moment weren’t awful enough, just then my cell phone vibrates against my thigh. I don’t have to look at it to know who’s texting me. Evelyn’s been cell-stalking me from the moment I left the ice rink last night. Thirty-six texts and counting. I never should have given her my real number.

I reach into my pocket and blindly dismiss the text because I’m “at my grandmother’s today” and we don’t get any cell-phone service in the mountains.

Speaking of mountains, I wouldn’t mind escaping to them right now. Or to the 7-Eleven at the very least. I wade my way through the dog pack and head toward the front door. Just as I go for the doorknob, someone knocks.

The dogs erupt into a chorus of barks and I freeze, convinced that it’s Evelyn trying to catch me in a lie. I duck below the peephole, picturing her standing on the other side of the door, her weepy eye pressed against the circle of glass, looking for a teeny, tiny Sean.

Evelyn knocks again. “Hello?”

My heart hammers in my chest as the dogs leap against the door, some of them howling now. There’s nothing they love more than visitors — though shouldn’t their animal senses alert them to the danger that awaits on the other side?

A third thump, this one so heavy that it reverberates through my body, which is trying to melt into the wood of the door. “Open up, jackass. I know you’re in there. I just saw you walk by the window.”

Jackass? That doesn’t sound like Evelyn. The dogs are now dancing in circles. Sure, they get excited for visitors — any visitors — but there’s only one person who makes them dance like this.

I let out a relieved breath and pull open our creaky front door, boxing out the snuffling dogs, to see Nessa — Cathy’s best friend and partner in Gothworld — standing on the stoop, her squid-ink-black hair hanging in her ghost-white face.

“Jeez, took you long enough,” Nessa says. “What the hell were you doing, tweeting about your doll collection again?”

“They’re not dolls. They’re action figures. And I don’t tweet about them,” I say, and step aside to let her in. “She’s upstairs.”

“Cool.” Nessa enters and brushes past me. I get a whiff of her heavy makeup as she goes by. The smell brings back memories of spirit gum and Halloween costumes.

“Oh, hey.” She turns back and smiles. “I never got to tell you. You guys were totally savage at the Battle of the Bands. I didn’t expect you to be that good.”

“Thanks,” I say, completely caught off-guard by the compliment.

“Okay, well. See ya.” Nessa flashes another smile, then makes her way into the living room. The dogs attach themselves to her like iron filings to a magnet, wagging their tails, squeaking and whimpering, leaping this way and that. You’d think they were starved for affection the way they crawl all over her.

A brief flash of
me
crawling all over Nessa blindsides me, and I shake my head like a golden retriever, trying to dislodge the unsettling image.

R
OAST BEEF, POPOVERS
, potatoes au gratin, creamed spinach, creamed corn, and vanilla shakes.

This is the fattening feast that has been laid out in front of us tonight. Which, if we were a normal family, who ate normal food all the time, might seem completely . . . normal, if a bit excessive. But since Mom is a total health freak who swallows fistfuls of vitamins and runs five miles a day, every day, rain or shine, it’s more than a little weird to see this kind of food on our table. Weirder still, this is the third time in five days that Mom’s prepared some kind of ginormous spread.

“Okay, what the hell’s going on?” Cathy stares at the food on the table. “Are you guys getting a divorce, or what?” She plops herself down in her chair and ushers several of the curled-up dogs out from under the table with her stocking feet.

“Don’t be rude,” Dad says, tucking his napkin into the collar of his sweater with one hand and scooping a pile of potatoes onto his plate with the other.

“I’m not being rude,” Cathy says. “I’m just concerned about my pants size. I’ve gained, like, ten pounds in the last week.”

Mom shrugs. “So I’ve relaxed my dietary restrictions a bit. Big deal. If you ever turned off your computer and exercised a little, maybe you wouldn’t be gaining so much.”

“Is that so?” Cathy says, staring at Mom’s rounding belly. “Then what’s your excuse?”

Dad points a serving spoon at her. “That’s enough out of you, young lady.”

“What?” Cathy shrugs. “It’s not like I’m saying anything we all haven’t noticed. Right, Sean?”

“I don’t . . . know.” I avert my eyes, not wanting to get involved.

“Oh, come on. You
know.
Mom’s packed on a few lately. And she’s cooking like she expects Paula Deen to show up and join us for dinner. If Mom’s depressed or something, are we just supposed to ignore it?”

“I’m not depressed,” Mom says, her eyes getting moist.

“Just eat your food, Cathy,” Dad says.

“I’m a vegetarian,” she announces, staring at her empty plate.

“Oh, really?” Mom asks, snuffling back her tears. “Since when?”

“Since right now. I just decided.”

“Not me.” My mouth is watering as I serve myself some roast beef. “I love me some meat.”

Cathy smirks. “So I’ve heard.”

I glare at her. “I didn’t think vampires
could
be vegetarians.”

“And I didn’t think little mama’s boys could think for themselves.”

“That’ll be quite enough,” Dad says.

“Ignore your sister, Sean.” Mom pats my hand. “She’s probably just having her period.”

Cathy narrows her eyes. “Just because I don’t want to have a heart attack at eighteen doesn’t mean I’m PMSing.”

“Look, if you don’t want to eat, don’t eat,” Mom snaps as she serves herself a puddle of creamed corn. “I’ll bring the leftovers down to the shelter, where I’m sure the starving homeless children would appreciate a nice home-cooked meal.”

“Fine.” Cathy crosses her arms tightly across her chest. “Can I be excused then?”

“No, you cannot.” Dad lowers his gaze at her. “You’re a vegetarian now, okay, fine. Potatoes, spinach, corn. Last I heard, those were all vegetables. And just a little factoid for you: there is no substantial proof that being a vegetarian prolongs a person’s life span.”

My shoulders start to shake as I try to hold back my laughter.

Cathy stares lasers at me, then angrily slings a spoonful of creamed spinach onto her plate with a wet
splat.

We eat in uncomfortable silence until Mom makes a loud slurping sound with her straw as she attempts to get the last of her vanilla shake from the bottom of her glass.

“Heaven,” she says, slapping her cup down on the table. “Shakes should be illegal. Or at least there should be a hefty fine. They’re just too good. I can’t believe I’ve denied myself for so many years.” She forces a smile. “So, what’s the latest and greatest? Who wants to share? Sean?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. School starts tomorrow. Not looking forward to that.”

Mom looks at me sideways. “Anything . . .
else
?”

“Uh, no. Not that I can think of. Why?”

Mom’s eyes slide to the side. “No reason. I just thought, you know . . . maybe there were some
other
things you might want to talk about. You know.
Other
things.”

Oh, Christ. Here we go again with the gay thing. There’s no way I’m taking this bait. “Sorry. No
other
things to discuss.” I lift my utensils and resume slicing up my food.

“Okay.” Dad gestures toward Cathy. “How about you, Cath? What’s the news?”

“I just announced I’m a vegetarian. That’s not interesting enough for you?”

“All right, you two want to be stingy?” Mom shakes her head. “That’s fine. Don’t share your lives with us. We’re only your parents. The people who gave you life. Why should we know anything about anything that’s going on with you?”

Mom looks at Dad across the table.

Their eyes meet, and he gives her a little nod and a small smile. Some sort of silent answer to a psychic question she’s just asked him.

“Well, then,” Mom says, “your father and I will start the ball rolling with some news of our own.”

I put my silverware down, eyeing my roast beef suspiciously. Suddenly the food seems like a trap or a bribe.

“Something very exciting has happened,” Mom continues. “Something that’s going to have an enormous impact on all of our lives. For the
rest
of our lives.”

“Y
OU’RE
WHAT
?”
Cathy says, blinking furiously.

“But . . . how?” My voice sounds a thousand miles away.

I realize that Mom has just told us she’s going to have a baby but my brain seems unable to fully process it. Like a computer with too little RAM and too many open programs.

And so I sit here at the table, my hands tucked under my legs, my feet resting on the warm furry body of our chocolate Lab, Bronson, and the spinning beach ball of death rotating uselessly in my mind.

“I don’t get it,” Cathy says. “I thought you were fixed.”

“I had a tubal ligation, yes,” Mom explains. “But sometimes — it’s rare — but apparently, according to Dr. Halpern, your tubes can grow back together. What can I say? All that running and vitamins and healthy eating for so many years. I guess I’m a strong healer.” She shrugs. “That’s why we only just figured it out. Your father put it together after I started having my cheesy-creamy food cravings. So, anyway, it looks like I’m around five months.” She grabs her rounding belly. “And here I was thinking I was just giving your father a bit more of me to love.”

“So, wait.” Cathy screws up her face. “Are you telling us that you guys . . . still do it?”

Mom laughs. “Uh, yes, Cathy. As difficult as that is for you to believe, your father and I have a very vigorous, active, and healthy sex life.”

“Eww,” I blurt. And just like that, my brain has been smacked back into functioning again, offering up a seriously disturbing image of my pasty parents rolling around in the nude.

“That’s totally gross.” Cathy shudders.

I rub at my eyes, trying to lock this image away in the never-to-be-thought-of-again file of my mind — right alongside Ms. Luntz on the nude beach and the foot-long snot rope Coop stretched from his nose in third grade.

Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t want to cooperate and so I need to change the subject.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” I say, the idea of a sweet little pink-or-blue-bundled baby thankfully trumping the freak show of my parents’ sweaty bedroom antics.

“Not yet,” Mom says. “But I’m scheduled for an ultrasound in a few weeks. We should know after that what color we’re going to have to paint the bedroom. Although we’re thinking of leaving it as a surprise and maybe just painting the room green or yellow.”

And with that, a terrible realization hits me.

We only have three bedrooms in our house. Mom and Dad’s. Cathy’s. And mine.

“The baby’s going to sleep in your room, right?” I say.

“Well.” Dad steeples his fingers and takes a deep breath. “That’s the other thing we need to discuss with you.”

“We’re moving?” A panicky flutter dances in my chest.

Mom flashes a quick tight-lipped smile. “No. We’re not moving.”

“Funds . . . are going to be a little tight for a while,” Dad says. “Especially since we want your mother to be able to stay home with the baby for the first few months.”

My head swivels from Dad to Mom to Dad to Mom. “So it
is
going to sleep with you?”

“I’m afraid that won’t work out,” Mom explains. “I’m going to be up and down all night with feedings. It’d be too disruptive with your father having to get up so early for work.”

“Well, it’s not sleeping in my room,” Cathy declares. “I’ll tell you that right now.”

“That’s not fair,” I say. “I’ve already got the smallest bedroom.”

“Too bad.” Cathy shrugs. “I’m the oldest. And I called it.”

“The baby’s not going to be sleeping with either one of you,” Mom says.

An incredible wave of relief washes over me.