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Emma, 2004: A Table forEight
Ishould have known betterthan to take a shortcut through the kitchen. The smell of ground beef sizzling on the stove ought to have been warning enough to find an alternate route. Dinner preparations were underway, and if I were spotted wandering through, there’d be no escape. Mom always had a long list of chores to dole out to those stupid enough to get caught. And with the crappy day I’d had, I was determined not to let that happen. Channeling my inner feline, I silently rotated and stealthily crept back toward the door I’d just traveledthough.
“Oh, good, Emma,” Mom said, relief evident in her overworkedvoice.
Don’t look up.Avoid eye contact of any kind.Fiddling with my MP3 player, I hoped the earphones in my ears would fool her into thinking I hadn’t heard my name being called. A getaway, however ugly, was stillpossible.
“I know you canhearme.”
It was a shameless bluff. Unless she’d crawled into my ears, there was no way my mother could know for sure that I’d heard her. The door was a step away; I could still make it if Itried.
“Emma! Do I need to take your CDplayeraway?”
I stopped dead in my tracks, veins pulsing in response to my mother’s ignorant threat. How many times did I have to tell her it was an MP3 player? It wasn’t the 1990’s, forgod’ssake.
“What is it?” I asked curtly, purposely averting my eyes because I knew itannoyedher.
If she detected my snooty sixteen-year-old girl tone, my mother wisely chose to ignore it. Lately, it seemed, I was a hornet’s nest just begging to be poked. I didn’t enjoy the anger that slowly simmered inside, and at times, I felt powerless to control it. My parents blamed my impatience on hormones; I blamed it on their banalnettling.
“Can you please set the tableforme?”
Heat burned my cheeks. I wanted to stomp my feet in protest. Why did every little thing out of her mouth set me off? Had she always been such a controlling dictator, or was this a recent development? Obviously my mother was too self-absorbed to care that I had bigger issues that needed addressing: namely, my ex-best friend, Kara, openly crushing on the guy I liked. Talk about a conniving little slut. She knew how I felt about Drake, listening to hours upon hours of my blubbery declarations of love. How could I not have seen Kara deviously plotting her deception? A wicked smile formed on my double-crossed lips. No one messed with Emma McKallister and lived to tell about it. By tomorrow morning, my former best friend would be systematicallyannihilated.
“Why can’t one of the boysdoit?”
“I didn’t ask one of the boys, Iaskedyou.”
“Because I’m a girl?” I said,allsass.
“No, because you’re a part of this family, and Ineedhelp.”
No, because I walked through the kitchen at the wrong damn time...and I’m a girl!I let out an exaggerated sigh of displeasure. There was no point in arguing since my mother was a world-class nagger. She’d just follow me around bitching and complaining until I did what she wanted, so I might as well get it over with now. Kara would have to wait for her punishment… but she would not bespared.
“Fine, but I’m not clearing the tableafterward.”
Mom didn’t answer other than to roll her eyes and mumble something I couldn’t hear. I went to the cupboard and pulled down the plates, eight in all. Only a couple of them matched. Over the years, some would break, and Mom would buy new ones to replace them. But my mother always bought different patterns because, in her words, she “wanted to mix it up.” So new designs would be mixed with old, and fruit themes would be sitting side-by-side withfloralones.
I completed my chore and then looked down at the finished product. Four different style plates, five different size cups, and hastily placed silverware. Even the napkins weren’t folded ornamentally like in the magazines. Ours were just lying limply next to the plate. I shook my head, struggling to contain my irritation. I had recently developed an aversion to anything mismatched. For me, everything had a place and purpose, complementing each other whenever possible. Mom didn’t see it my way. In fact, when I’d brought up the issue to her recently, she’d instantly turned hostile and alleged she didn’t have time to worry about insignificant stuff like that. Geez, she didn’t have to be sotesty.
When I was younger the slack attitude toward societal guidelines hadn’t bothered me as much; but now that I was sixteen, and chaos surrounded me at every turn of a corner, I sometimes fantasized about coming home to a different family – a fancier, more cultured one, or at least one that cared about the natural order of things. Someday, when I was a mom, I was going to have it all together. My table would be immaculate, and I also wouldn’t be recycling the same eight tired dinners over and over for the rest of my life. My rich husband would provide for swankier meals, like… well, I didn’t know any swankier meals, but someday I would. And those would be served on a pretty table with folded napkins and matchingplates.
My baby sister burst into the kitchen, her shiny blonde hair trailing her like a cape. Before I knew what was happening, she’d latched onto my leg like a blood-suckingtick.
“Grace,” I said, mumbling as I shook my leg in irritation and attempted to unfasten her. “Getoff.”
“No. I love you!” My sister squished her defiant little face harder into my flesh. Love was not why she was clinging to me now. Gracie was just being her insufferable five-year-oldself.
I tried to pry her off me, but the pint-sized brat wouldn’t detach. “Let go! MOM! Tell her togetoff.”
“Grace, leave your sister alone,” Mom said, but not with the urgency the situation clearlycalledfor.
“No, I love her. I won’t letgoEVER.”
Oh, but you will.Maybe Mom didn’t think it was imperative to act swiftly to extinguish such bratty behavior, but I, for one, wouldnotstandforit.
“Get off,” I hissed, before grabbing a handful of my sister’s soft, silky baby hair and yanking. Grace screamed and instantly disengaged. Bolting to safety, she buried her head in Mom’s leg instead of mine.Goodriddance!
