Harper G Collins: Road to Slutdom

“Harper, stop staring out the window and help your little sister for a moment, will you?” Sharon’s southern sounding voice creeps up on me, tensing my shoulders and bringing me back from fantasy land. You know, that comfy place where you’ve got a boyfriend, a best friend who isn’t a social pariah, and clothes that Stacey Markus would ask to borrow?

“She’s not my sister.” I dismissively say in a jaw clenched mumble as I rest my face on one propped up arm. I hear Sharon sigh.

Its 8:45 on a Friday night and I have no plans other than window-watching and ignoring Sharon.

“Will you just help your stepmother out? It’s not like you’re doing anything over there except for staring out that window like you always seem to these days.” My father says in his usual monotonous voice as he sits on the couch reading the paper, like he always seems to be doing these days.

“Not. My. Problem” I annunciate each word, making it clear that I don’t give a damn about that thing in her arms that she insists somehow shares genetic material with me. It doesn’t.

“Do it or I’m nailing plywood over that window you love so much.” His voice doesn’t change as he casually turns the page of his beloved newspaper. That’s the thing about my dear, old dad. He’s consistent, to a point of annoyance, methodical and-

“Oh, by the way? You have drool all over your face. Not an attractive look for someone who’s only attempt at love is staring into the neighbor’s house.”

-brutally honest.

“Fine!” I unfold my legs off of the window seat, tearing my eyes away from the doorway to a so-much-better place.

“What do you need?” I say with my I’m-only-doing-this-because-I-have-to voice that I had created just for the maliciously malignant Sharon. She looks up from a crying Creature Called Anne to see me and my hands lightly resting on the kitchen table, a permanent glare on my face.

“I hate it when you’re like this, Harper. It is not a healthy environment for a child to be raised in.” She uses her therapist voice, the one that my aforementioned tone was made for.

“I hate it when you talk to me like that; it makes me want to punch you in the face, and that’s not a healthy environment for a child to be raised in.” I give her a nearly sincere smile, dipping my voice in sarcasm and sweetness.

“Can you just hold her while I go change? I don’t have time to argue with you. Our reservation is in 40 minutes.” She plops the still crying Thing in my then open arms, and rushes up the stairs. I give a glance to my father, who, unbeknownst to me, was actually sitting there reading his newspaper in a suit and tie. And cologne, if my nose is in the working order I hope it is.

“Reservations?” I turn to face him, child in on arm and the other sitting on my hip with as much attitude as I can muster.

“It’s Friday, and Sharon has had a long week with Anne. I wanted to take her out to dinner, and your surly attitude is kind of a buzz kill.” He finally sets that damn paper in his lap, his blue eyes looking at me through thick framed glasses. I glance up to his receding hair line and salted brown hair, then down to the strain around the tummy of his dress shirt. Here this was, my father, completely happy on a second wife and a second child.

“Well there’s no way in hell, I’m babysitting. Especially since I have plans of my own!” I give him a little half lie, knowing I can easily drag Mina to The Local Diner, A.K.A that one place in every town that teens go to hang out on Fridays at.

“No you don’t.” He says as I reach my free hand into my butt pocket and send a text to Mina, informing her of our new Friday plans.

“And I already counted on you saying something like that, so I arranged that boy from next door to come and babysit for us. You know the house you always stare at?” I glare, my face scrunching up as I debate between cancelling with Mina to ogle the hot-boy-next-door or just get a glimpse before I ditch this stuffy place.

“I’ll stick around long enough to make sure he knows what he’s doing. Don’t want to come home to a house in flames…” I mumble, taking the not so desperate route.

“Good. You ready yet, hun?” He yells up to Sharon, her “yeah” faintly swirling down to us. She drifts down the stairs, slow enough to make my father stand up and stare as I try recovering from his term of endearment.

“Dear Lord, please save me from this hell…” I grimly mutter, quickly looking over her formfitting blue satin-silk-or-whatever dress, little black heels and fancy crystal earrings. I’m not a fashion kind of girl, but even through my disgust of her I can admit she looks good.

“What’s that Harper?” She says through a tight smile.

“Nothing Sharon, you look fantastic…” I use my favorite voice on her, her smile twitching just a bit as a result, but she didn’t miss a beat and just grabbed the keys, her coat and my father’s hand.

“Dear Satan, please smite her…” I mutter once more as soon as her back is turned. They’re out the door, my father turning back one last time.

“You can manage till the sitter gets her, right? If you don’t I will ground you.” And then he’s off. I set The Creature Called Anne down in her bouncy chair, and mimic my father’s snide voice, oh so maturely.
Just as I walk over to see what the big deal in the newspaper was, a knock on the door reaches me.

“Hang on!” I holler out, a tingle in my stomach anticipating the-nameless-boy-next-door’s arrival. I had been lurker-status staring out my window into his kitchen’s window for a month and a half, but I didn’t know anything except that his favorite afternoon snack was Captain Crunch, my favorite cereal. I skid on my rainbow knee high socks all the way across the hard wood floored entryway, and snap back the lock.

“Hello?” I manage, as my head pokes through the door.
 

“Er, hi? I’m Erin, the sitter?” All his sentences ending with questions, a cute trait for a cute face. I open the door the rest of the way, putting on my best flirty smile. Its game time.