The Pretty One(11)

“I think I’m leaning toward this one,” she says, picking up the pink.

“I liked the blue one better,” I say.

“Oh,” Lucy says, but she’s still staring at the pink, not even pretending to consider the blue. It’s clear she couldn’t care less what I think.

“Whichever one you want,” my dad says, smiling at her like she just got into Harvard or something.

“I’m going to take the pink,” she says finally.

“How about lunch?” I suggest, as we follow Dad to the cashier. In spite of my dad’s less than enthusiastic reaction to my dress, I’m still excited and feel as if a celebration is in order. The restaurant next door to Mein-U makes a sandwich called the California Grill—turkey, bacon, avocado on toasted and buttered bread—that is totally dee-lish.

“You just had breakfast a couple of hours ago,” my dad says as he hands me my white-plastic-wrapped dress. “Don’t tell me you’re already hungry?”

His insult catches me by surprise. I fight my initial reaction (which is to cry) and my second reaction (which is to grab the gold chain around his neck, rip it off, and slap him silly with it). There’s a third reaction, too (feed him to a tankful of piranhas), but the pet store is all the way on the opposite end of the mall. “Okay, I won’t tell you I’m hungry,” I say quietly.

“I think lunch is a great idea,” Lucy says, supportively looping her arm through mine. “I’m starving.”

And even though I know Lucy isn’t really hungry and will order a salad of which she will only eat half, I still appreciate the effort.





four

black comedy (noun): a comedy with a distinctly disturbing quality.

Saturday night. I’m sitting across from my mother at one of my favorite restaurants that just happens to be a couple blocks from our house, the Blue Agave. Although Simon claims the only people who come here are tourists, I think the food is superb and my dad, who is practically an expert on these matters, agrees. “What are you going to get?” my mom asks, peering at me over her menu.

Although I have a reputation as an excellent orderer, I must admit I’m never quite sure what to get here because I’ve had almost everything (except the lamb since I just can’t deal with eating baa baa black sheep), and it’s all good. “I’m going to get the pecanencrusted chicken with the fried plantains. And maybe the fried calamari for an appetizer.” I snap my menu shut with authority.

“Mmm,” my mom says, raising her eyebrows as if intrigued. “That sounds good.”


I have a standing date with my mom every Saturday night. Dad is usually at work and my sister has an incredibly busy social life, so Mom and I usually go out to eat or see a movie. I always look forward to it because my mom is totally cool. Even though she works a lot she still finds time to pick up cookies at the bakery to sell at the bake sales, and she’ll rearrange her schedule rather than miss a school performance. That’s not to say we don’t have our occasional issues (for example, I got grounded once for forgetting to lock the front door), but they’re few and far between.

As I place my order I’m reminded of yet another good thing about my mom. Even though she is totally skinny and can fit into my sister’s jeans, she (unlike my father) never ever comments on my food choice or intake. At all.

“So I love the dress you picked out for the dance,” she says after the waitress leaves.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, grinning. I tried my dress on for her when I got home and her ecstatic reaction couldn’t have been more perfect. It was almost enough to make up for my dad’s lackluster response.

“Dad said you guys had a lot of fun,” she says.

“Oh,” I reply. The mere mention of my father reminds me of my diet. Why did I just order fried calamari?

“You’re chewing your nail,” my mom says quietly. She is convinced I bite my nail when I’m upset about something. And she’s right. Unfortunately, I also bite it when I’m bored, happy, or distracted. Or when we run out of Oreos.

“You didn’t have fun?” she asks suspiciously, still looking at the thumb that is now on the table where it is going to stay, just so I can keep an eye on it.

“It was okay.” I suddenly realize my thumb is inches away from my mouth, ready to sneak back in. Damn. I tuck it under my rear end.

“Just okay?”

I hadn’t really planned on getting into all the Dad stuff with my mom, mainly because I knew it would upset her. I also knew she would probably take his side since she likes to do the whole your-father-and-I-are-a-united-front thing. (My dad’s no walk in the park, so I give Mom credit for dealing with him. He likes to fly off the handle for the stupidest things. Last week he was cooking and a spoon fell on the floor and he screamed “JESUS #$%^ CHRIST!” like he was bit by a rat.)

“It was just…you know,” I say casually. Be cool, I remind myself. “The usual.”

“What do you mean the usual?”

“Um…” The words I know she wants to hear pop into my head, one right after the other: Nice. Enjoyable. Entertaining. Amusing. “Lousy.”

“What?” my mom asks.

Oops.

Now I have no choice but to lay my cards on the table. “I so obviously annoy him.”