“Look at this blowout. Are you stoned?” Declan puts his hand on my shoulder and kisses my cheek roughly.
“No drugs for my Farrah,” Ling makes it clear. She glares at me, though. I put my hands up. No drugs for me either. At least, not tonight.
“No drugs, just adrenaline.” She fixes the blue sparkly crown on top of her head. I’m already convinced she’s going to sleep in it.
“Adrenaline is okay, princess.” Ling gives Farrah her blessing.
“When Mrs. Shields was here, she taught me how to make this awesome grilled cheese. She would always call it her hangover cure. I just liked it as a midnight snack.”
“I think she used to make me the same one. And I remember her liking her vodka sours, too.” I reminisce about the older woman who was always nice to me and always no-nonsense.
We all watch Farrah move around the kitchen in her formal gown. Pulling out a cast-iron skillet and all the ingredients she needs. She tasks each one of us with a responsibility. I have ham. Declan has turkey. Ling the Munster cheese. March just sits on the countertop and watches. We place the layers on the bread when Farrah tells us to, and by the time we’re done, there is a stacked sandwich gooey with cheese cooking in the skillet.
“That looks damn delicious.” Declan’s mouth waters.
“Mrs. Shields was a damn good cook.” Farrah uses the spatula to scrape the sandwich out of the pan. When she turns to place it on a plate on the kitchen island, she perks up and smiles. “Daddy.”
Everyone stops what they're doing and brings their attention to the two new people standing in the kitchen. I lose my appetite instantly and refrain from grabbing the closest kitchen knife.
My parents. Both of them, just there, stagnant, gawking at us. I want to smack the surprise off my mother’s refurbished face. It’s pulled so tight now, it looks like a celebrity plastic surgery gone wrong.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I break the silence.
“I should be asking you the same thing.” My father sounds much less hostile than me.
“I thought you were away all weekend.”
“That was the plan, but Farrah told us you were here.”
I look at Farrah, flames shooting out of my eyes. “Why the hell would you do that?”
She stammers a reply. “Ling told me they knew. Daddy checked in, and I just told him the truth. That we were hanging out.”
Fuck.
“Who exactly are all you people?” my mother asks. Of course, appalled strangers are in her house. Using her things. Making themselves at home.
“My friends. You have a problem with that?”
“I have a problem with you disappearing twelve years ago and then just suddenly showing up and throwing a party in my kitchen.”
“You don’t even use it. So why do you care?”
That same acidic, begrudging, hateful look is still alive and well in her cold, icy-blue eyes. The eyes Farrah unfortunately inherited.
“Enough,” my father puts the kibosh on the bickering. “Farrah, go to bed.”
“What? Why?” she argues like a typical teenager.
“Because I said so. I need to have a word with your sister. Ling, please take her.”
“But I’m not ready to say goodnight.” Farrah looks at me with the biggest, bluest, puppy-dog eyes. “Are you mad at me?”
“No.” I pull myself together. “I’ll come up and say goodnight when we’re done here.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
