Blue Sunflowers

I sighed, “Umm, bye Frank”. I gave him a look I knew he understood and nodded, “Later.” He turned to dad, “Goodnight, Mr. Saco.” He offered his hand and my father reluctantly accepted it. They shook and he waved to me with a smile I tried not to return but slipped, and failed.

We watched him cross our yards and go into his home. It was still early, only about 6 pm on a Friday. The sky was seven different shades of oranges, yellows, and reds. My father gestured for me to follow him inside, and I did so, without rebellion. He held the door open for me and I saw my mother and sisters at the kitchen, irritating her. She hated having people in the kitchen.

Even if it wasn’t necessarily her kitchen, goddammit.

My parents were terribly old-fashioned and it had always bothered me. A family was a man, woman, and their spawn, with no variation.

The man is a God- equivalent, the woman a slave, the children seen but not heard. Dinner at the dinner table discussing the day’s events or a war story form my father, and church on Sundays. Liberals were an assortment of God’s mistakes.

I hated it with the burning passion of a thousand suns, but I always kept quiet. Out of my sisters, I always the “quiet one”. They all had attitudes and were just as opinionated, maybe even less than I, but they were always outspoken. My parents only ever seemed to have a problem with my voice. They used to joke I was a robot because I was always stone-faced, even after being yelled at for my devil’s music or after a beating as a result of a bad grade. I was dead inside, long before.

On account of opinions, my parents were diehard. My father, more so. My mother took her place behind him and catering to him, like a woman should.

They were so narrow-minded; I once drew a pair of racehorses with blinders, labeled “Mutter und Vater”. I entered in a church art fair and won, because around there, it was strange to know proper English, much less German. And they were morons.

What Father said was the truth, period. I never bothered to tell them what little shits they were. I mean, my sister wasn’t as bad, but still something awful. She was their perfect clone, and Sophia was hers. I made it a point, very early on, that I wasn’t going to be like them. Home videos they had never displayed any change in my personality. In fact, they hardly ever bothered to have me on camera. I was so fucking boring.

When I would get fed up, all that pent up emotion would spill out so furiously and uncoordinated, it sounded as if I was some whiny brat. They would get pissed off, I mean really.

How dare I show emotion? How dare I feel? I am not human. I am not like them. I am different in the worst possible way. I was a bad egg, a tainted sheep. No one buys black wool. Only creeps.

When they would be upset at something that either one of us would do, my sisters would both talk back. They would yell, frown, stomp their feet, fight back. I would stare back, making sure they could see their reflection in my cold and empty eyes.

Which method worked best? My sisters’.

I flashed back to my father in front of me; I sat down on our couch, covered in paint stains I bestowed upon them. My father’s name was Juan, and he had permanent frown lines. He was a tanned colour, originally a lot paler – but he used to work in manual labor. He was a tough built guy, not Arnold Schwarzenegger, but toned. He had a head covered in gray hair but you could never tell, he shaved it close and far too often. I had his ears, only in miniature, they stuck out at the sides of my head. He spoke with a slight accent, and every time I corrected him at his insistence, he’d get upset and tell me that I lived off of those mispronunciations.

“What were you doing out so late?” he asked. He never yelled, he was a quiet man. Silent, but deadly.

I responded just as quietly, “I gave Frank his graduation present.” I could’ve sworn I saw a smile flicker there, even if just for a second.

Then he frowned.

“What’d you get him?” his brow furrowed even further.

“Umm,” I hesitated. “I’d been saving up, because, you know, I work at the book store. And, umm, I always drove Frank and I around and-“ he cut me off.

“You got him a car?” he looked as if I’d just punched in the face or told him I was pregnant.
At this point, I don’t know which would’ve been worse.

“Yeah, I mean, he’s really wanted one for a while. He’s worked his way around the music scene but the occasional gigs don’t necessarily add up. You know?” I shrugged innocently.
His thick, dark brown eyebrows rose and his thin lips disappeared into a tight line, “I wish I’d had, had a girlfriend who’d get me a car.” I smiled.

“But you know, I’ve told your sisters this before, the man gets the woman gifts”, my smile fell – helter skelter. “Not the other way around.” He shook a disappointed finger and got off the chair to berate my mother on dinner.

I sighed, and went up the stairs into my room. As I opened the door, I noticed it even smelled differently. It usually smelled like my perfume, paint, and Frank’s Irish Spring. Now it smelled like a pink death. Sophia had moved in all her shit. I never knew sixteen year old girl would need so much to stay over for three weeks. She’d made herself at home, I was sleeping on an inflatable bed and she took mine. She’d changed the sheets and lay down to read the latest edition of Captain Underpants.

I groaned silently and went over to my armoire. I took my stereo and blindly groped for CDs.