Vampire Vanilla
.
I
n Nigella’s world the mere smell of comfort can provide solace. Somehow, I don’t think sniffing vanilla is going to solve this problem. I cream a cup of butter with one and a half cups of sugar and add in a full tablespoon of vanilla.
I crack six eggs, separating the slippery whites from yolks.
I’m baking. It’s not too stressful. And neither is tying my shoes; it hasn’t been for years. And I’m sure if I
wanted
to kiss someone I would be less like a plastic goldfish. I try not to dwell on the insults Parker and Will threw out and that’s why I’m baking. We task-oriented girls find solace in tasks. Each time I picture sitting down across from Will, with my cupcakes in hand, swear words rise. I baked these BEEP cupcakes. I am not goldfish-lipped, you BEEP. You obviously need more practice at making out with plastic, cold-blooded, aquatic vertebrates, you BEEP.
I add the egg whites into the butter and sugar.
Visions of Will laughing at me make me cough, as if I’m allergic to mere thoughts of him. I cough harder. I have to turn the mixer off because my coughing fit is becoming a panic attack.
I can’t catch my breath. Past my kitchen windows is the darkest night and I’m under the lights. The shark is out there. I fly through the house pulling down blinds, shutting curtains, turning off lights, until
it’s only me again, in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. How could I have been so exposed?
I’m so desperate I consider calling my mother to ask for her advice. She’ll say, with friends like that you don’t need enemies. Next year, I’ll be homeschooled.
The recipe tells me I need to finely chop some almonds. The knife slips on the first almond, nearly cuts the end of my finger off. Wait. I retrieve my dad’s hammer from his toolbox in the garage. I smash an almond. That’s Will’s pathetic face. Will’s parts zip across the counters and the floor in smithereens. When I’ve gone through the entire bag of almonds, I gather enough shards from the counter to make the cup that I need. My feet crunch the floor. If my mother were here, she’d be the one having the panic attack now.
As I dump the almond bits in with the flour and baking powder, I remember what Nigella said in her chocolate croissant episode. “If you make these, you can get your way at any meeting.” As I pour the sparkling batter into the liners I decide I’ll get on with it, as Nigella says. My enemy will suffer his own humiliation.
I swirl the cooled cupcakes with a velvety cream-cheese frosting. I’ll call them Vampire Vanilla Cupcakes, because now, I am the predator. And these morsels will be irresistible to my prey.
Shoe Gazing
.
I
wake up to knocking on my bedroom door. “Hey, get up. I need a golfing partner.” It’s my brother, Brad.
I shove my headphones into my ears and turn the volume to high. My Bloody Valentine plays. Noise. That’s what I need. A distraction from what I don’t want to do.
I drift in between asleep and awake, surfing on the music and seeing Jillian, mud flying off her heels as she runs past me at Twelve Mile Flats. She’s got great calves. And other great parts. Really. Great. Parts. And she laughs like she’s having fun. Like she’s real. The lead guitarist slips in a riff that explodes in noise. My Bloody Valentine has a surprising sound, you think they’re all pop and then this riff shows you they’re totally serious. Jillian surprises me like that.
I keep my hands on top of the blankets. I have to keep my head straight about all of this.
The door opens, daylight forces me to squint at Brad. “Mom’s making breakfast. And then we’re leaving. Get up.” He shuts the door.
My thoughts fizzle out. I remove my headphones.
The three of them are waiting for me in the kitchen: my mom at the kitchen sink, Brad at the espresso machine, Dad at the marble island, memorizing the financial news.
“Oh, hey, Parker. Tee time in thirty minutes.” Brad steams the milk for his latte.
“Sorry, man. Prior commitment.” I pour a glass of milk.
“You gotta come, man. I like outshooting you.”
“Sorry. You’ll have to get your ego boost elsewhere.” I pick up the plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon my mom has set aside for me and take my seat at the kitchen table. Brad says his life is perfect because his wife lets him golf twice each weekend. She doesn’t want to go with him.
“Your girlfriend is making cake for you?” Brad holds a piece of the chocolate cake. From the looks of what’s left on the plate, it’s not his first taste. “It’s frickin’ great cake, but, that, little bro, is dangerous …”
“Brad, stop with that. Annelise is a sweet girl,” Mom says.
“And she’s from a good family.” Dad’s idea of what’s important.
I’m really wishing I hadn’t talked to Mom last night. When she asked me who made the cake I told her I thought it was Annelise. I didn’t mention Will figured she’d left the cake for him. My parents don’t know I broke up with Annelise. They don’t know about Jillian. And I’m not going to tell them, at least not until I’m sure.
“Mom.” Brad wraps his arm around our mom’s shoulder. “Parker’s going into senior year. You have to be unattached. That’s the rule.”
“The rule.” I slide two pieces of bread into the toaster. Hell is three older brothers who constantly preach the rules.
“I think your brother’s got something there.” Dad’s arms cross over his chest and he’s got this voice that’s loud, clear, commanding. This is his authority pose, the way he stands when he fires people. “Girls in high school are … practice … for real life. You’ll meet the girl for you in university.”
While my brother and Dad give myriad examples of how right they are, I watch my mom. She’s buffing the top of our stainless steel stove, which is already spotless. She hasn’t had a job since my oldest
brother Ellis was born. I wonder what she thinks of what they say about women. Finally Dad finishes his speech on the merits of finding a smart girl who is willing to quit work and look after all the kids and me, too.
“Got it.” I take my plate to the dishwasher but before I can open the door my mother takes it from me. I turn toward my bedroom. I think I’ve heard enough.
“Hey. How about that golf game?”
“Uh. I’m meeting up with Will.”
“His dad is the pain-in-my-ass employee who’s always complaining.” Brad hasn’t ever liked Will and now that he has to deal with Will’s dad being the union rep, he likes Will even less. “You know what kind of hell he’s putting my office through? I told Cindy this morning that I needed golf for stress relief. I got all the departments breathing down my neck.”
“Man, sorry to hear that.” What diversion would get me out of golf and get him off my back about Will? “We’re planning my campaign. Class president. You set the bar high, bro, everyone expects something big.”
“Class president?” My mom turns toward me. “I hoped you’d change your mind and run. It’s so important to keep up the family tradition.” She hugs me and I smell her perfume, something French and expensive Dad bought her on his last business trip to Europe. “Brad and your dad can go golfing. Your dad can mow the lawn later.”
“Now that’s a deal.” My dad claps his hand on my shoulder. Brad is loading his clubs into the X5 before I get back to my bedroom.
I sit on the edge of my bed and slide the music into my ears. I should have said I was too sick to get out of bed.
My brothers don’t get me. They think I’m like them, that I have some master plan for my life. I’m happy to hang out. That’s safest. Just be around, to like everyone. When Will was into watching the old mob movies last year, he kept saying my dad was like the head of our
mob family. And, actually, he was kind of right. I mean my dad sees it as his job to keep all of the boys in line. Not to be criminals, but to be accountants and married, with nice cars and a summer cottage each. The answer to all problems, my dad seems to think, is to work harder.
My Bloody Valentine soothes out the rough spots again. I lie back on my bed, inertia claiming me, Kevin Shields’s riffs entertaining me. I saw this video of Kevin playing and he never looked up. They call it shoe gazing because the guy has so many noise pedals he’s always looking down to see what he can do with them.
You have to respect a guy like Shields for doing exactly what he wants and keeping at it. And my dad, too, he’s successful. Even my brother Brad’s working his ass off to be good at his job. But they chose what they wanted to do. I haven’t chosen. In fact, I am in total avoidance-mode. Last month the career and life management teacher told me to write down my career goal. When I wrote the truth,
I don’t know,
she told me to erase it and write something else. The teachers are all worried that next week we’re going to be doing drugs or painting graffiti or listening to explicit music. This is the number one thing Will and I agree on—most of the world doesn’t want to get who we are.
Right now I’m texting Will even though I feel like I’ve just run twenty kilometers. Class president? That’s in what-am-I-thinking territory. And Jillian—I know because I’m lying to my mother about her—is a train wreck about to happen. I can’t stop myself and I’m halfway there.
Lightning Strike
.
I
’m barely awake on Wednesday morning when Dad 3 buzzes into the kitchen, his electric razor grating the remains of his moustache and beard from his face. Irony unplugged had Mom and Dad 3 showing up on Tuesday night within thirty minutes of each other. My mother and I were just starting our fight when the door slammed shut and Dad 3 shouted, “I’m home.”
“You’ve got the wrong address.” I knew it would be the last time Dad 3 would be walking through that door without knocking. She wants everyone to believe that she kicked him out; not that he left us.
I expected to find him asleep on the couch when I got up with baby Ollie. Instead, I found a discarded crocheted afghan, two fingerprint-covered scotch glasses, and an empty bottle of Dad 3’s favorite brand. Yes, my mother is inconsistent.
Dad 3 leans over baby Ollie’s breakfast tray to kiss his forehead, showering the bowl of oatmeal chunks with dark hairs. I don’t tell him I think he’s disgusting; it’s a bit late for hygiene lessons. Instead I dump the oatmeal into the garbage, reach for a box of Cheerios. I wipe down the tray and pour a pile of O’s in the middle.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Ollie holds one in the air, showing his four tiny teeth. I’m the only one who knows that he wants Dad 3 to notice.
Dad 3 is busy chugging a cup of coffee. The Hat Trick and Double Minor are too sleepy-eyed to look up.
“Hey. Jillian.” Dad 3 sets his cup down, reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. “I … uh … want to give you some money for … ice cream. Take the boys out a couple times until I can take ‘em out myself.” He pulls a hundred-dollar bill from the wallet, holds it out for me.
Whatever bad things we could say about Dad 3, we couldn’t say he was cheap. From the first night we met him, he’s tried to win us over with trips for ice cream or to the convenience store for slushies and candy. I wonder if the Dairy Barn will give change for a hundred.
A horn sounds in the driveway.
“That’s my ride.” Dad 3 doesn’t turn around to Ollie or me. He slams the door behind him.
“Is that it?” Travis asks. “Doesn’t he have some stuff?” Mom must have told them Dad 3 was leaving.
“He’ll be back. He’ll say good-bye.”
“Or not …” My mother shuffles into the kitchen in a pale blue bathrobe that is shapeless, stained, and ugly. Smeared mascara bruises her eyes. She pulls her favorite pottery coffee cup from the dirty dishwater, rinses it, and reaches for the coffeepot. “And he drank the last damn cup of coffee.” She melts down against the counter. This is not a woman who is bouncing back from rejection.
Out of habit I rescue her. “Boys, we’re going out to play.”
“We just got up,” they complain.
“I’ll take you for ice cream.” Maybe I can text Parker, see if he wants to meet us there. He called me three times yesterday to ask how I was doing. I told him we could meet up today, that I thought I’d be feeling better.
“Ice C-eam? For b-ek-fest?” Stevie jumps up, bounces like he’s being bonked on top of the head with a rubber mallet, runs a circuit around the table, his eyes wide, his sleeper pajama feet slipping. It’s his best cartoon imitation. Usually we all laugh.
Mom doesn’t respond.
I’m in my room changing into shorts and a T-shirt when I hear my mother screaming.
“You bastard! You bastard!”
Feet fly across the hardwood floors.
My mother is beating Dad 3’s chest, he stands just inside the door. He grabs her arms, holds her wrists between them. She struggles. “How could you? How old is she? Eighteen? Twenty?”
Behind them a girl with a brown ponytail holds a box labeled RECORDS. A pile of stereo equipment rests by Dad 3’s feet.
“There’s nothing going on,” Dad 3 says. “She’s Bernie’s sister. She’s helping me move.”
“You think I’m stupid! I watched you kissing her outside in the driveway.”
Bernie’s sister, if that’s who she is, turns red.
So … Dad 3’s moved on to another woman … uh … girl.
I want to vomit.
Their argument continues. Bernie’s sister is stupid enough to stand and listen. And, I’m stupid, too, because I need to hear it all, understand how my mom drives away one dad after another. “I told you, I’m dying here,” Dad 3 says. “There’s nothing for me in this town.” The Hat Trick whisper among themselves and they run for their bedrooms. Stevie and Josh make a break after them. Baby Ollie shouts from his playpen in the living room. The energy changes from fight to acceptance as Mom stops struggling and Dad 3 lets go of her arms. They move outside to the driveway. I follow. We are between the front door and a beaten-down truck.
“
She
…” Mom points at Bernie’s sister. “She walks through my door one more time and I’m calling the police.”
Suddenly, the air is filled with little boy testosterone. The Hat Trick, with the Double Minor behind them, rush out, hockey sticks and plastic swords raised, screaming as if they are actors in a gladiator movie. They fly at Dad 3 and Bernie’s sister, smash hockey sticks
against their arms, legs. At first Dad 3 laughs as if this is some game he always plays with them.
Bernie’s sister dumps the box she’s holding and gets into her truck. Slams the door. The boys all gang up on Dad 3. He tries reasoning, “I never hit no one, not one of you, now get off of that.”
Mom doesn’t try to stop the boys and I don’t, either. For me, it’s like watching an explosion in slow motion. Mom screams, “Get out! Get out!” Dad 3 surrenders. The boys chase him to the passenger’s side, but back away when Dad 3 slams the door. The truck jerks as the girl shifts into reverse.
And now, as if this is some ninja/hockey/vigilante movie, Travis smashes the side mirror with a hockey stick before they get out of the driveway. The boys punch fists in victory. The truck backs away, leaving shards of silver mirror but Dad 3 doesn’t look back.
The boys wave their hockey sticks in the air. They are the winners. “Let’s get ice cream. We need ice cream,” they chant. My mother turns away, hides her eyes behind her hands, the bottom of her robe drags on the walkway to the front door. I could strangle her, her and her self-pity; she’s walking away just like Dad 3. She should be consoling the boys, thinking about the consequences of her choices.
I shake in my flip-flops.
And then, I see what can only make this the worst day of my entire life. Parker. He’s at the bottom of the driveway. He waves. I wave. Awkward. We both know that he was a witness. Now, what little we have between us is reduced to nothing. I turn to go inside, knowing that he’ll head back home. I’m choking on a lump in my throat.
“Jillian. Wait up. Jillian.” He still wants to talk to me?