Status: Active. (Based on the novel by Laurie Halse Anderson.)
Twisted
Thirty-Two
The explosion hit us as soon as I opened the door at four-thirty on Friday afternoon. Good thing I was in front. Aaron didn’t have the body mass to absorb that much punishment.
“OhmyGodwherehaveyoubeendon’tyouknowwhattimeitisyou’renotdressed!”
Mom was screaming so loudly she set off car alarms three streets over. She was decked out in black velvet pants, pearl earrings, a necklace of jingle bells, a sweatshirt covered with stoned-looking reindeer, and antlers.
Reindeer.
“Uh-oh,” Aaron whispered.
---
There was no nice way to say it: our mom was a Christmas freak.
Everystinkingthing about Christmas was holy. Not just the church stuff; you could understand that. But the rest of it- decorations brought down from the attic as soon as the Thanksgiving dishes were done, carols playing 24/7, candles with the choking stench of “Holiday Cheer”, cookies that were not for eating, but for “atmosphere”; it was nauseating.
Worst of all was the stupid family photo that always went on the front of our Christmas card. Seventeen years’ worth of those pictures were lined up with military precision on the walls of the living room. In the first one, I was two months old. I looked like a deformed vegetable swaddled in a Santa suit.
---
Aaron and I sprinted upstairs to change while Mom stomped around in the kitchen.
“Where is your father?” she yelled again as she slammed down the receiver of the kitchen phone.
If he was smart, on a plane to Tokyo.
I pulled the sweater over my head. “Why don’t we just Photoshop him in?”
“Only if we can give him an afro and cross his eyes,” Aaron called from the bathroom.
“I can hear you both,” Mom yelled up the stairs. “And you aren’t funny. Do you know how hard it is to get timed with David Gunnarson?”
I tugged at the bottom of the sweater, but it stayed at the level of my bellybutton. I looked in the mirror hung on the back of my door. Not cool.
“I’m not wearing this thing!” I shouted.
“Wear it or die,” Mom shouted back.
Aaron pushed my door open, almost smacking me n the face with it. “Let me- oh, snap!” He couldn’t say anything after that, because he was writhing on the ground, pointing at me, and laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
I pushed him out of my room and substituted the sweater for a Cannibal Corpse shirt.
---
Fifteen minutes after we walked in the front door, we were breaking the speed limit to get to the photography studio of Mr. David Gunnarson. Is there anything more embarrassing that being driven around by your mom? Yes- wearing a reindeer sweater that’s two sizes too small.
Mom didn’t approve of the Cannibal Corpse shirt. I had to wear a black tank top underneath this stupid thing so it would look even semi-decent.
“I left messages for your father on every number I have for him.” Mom accelerated to make it through an intersection as the light turned red. “I e-mailed him directions to Gunnarson’s, too.”
“Why can’t we just use your camera and take the picture in the kitchen?” I asked.
“Or use your studio?” Aaron added.
“Hell no,” I said. “It smells like dog shit.” (I was surprised Mom didn’t yell at me about my “colorful” language.)
Mom did most of her pet photography in clients’ homes, but she rented a small, climate-controlled garage for people who wanted to pose their pooch in front of a fake backdrop of a Hawaiian beach or the Egyptian pyramids. And no, I’m not making that up.
“The studio does not smell like dog poop.” Mom’s eyes darted left and right as she coasted through a stop sign as she unconsciously replaced my word of choice with one of hers. “It’s perfectly clean. But my equipment isn’t good enough. I’d need better lights, the right filters.”
I rolled down my window for some air. “You should buy them, then. You take good pictures. Better than this guy, I bet.”
“You think?”
“Hell yeah. It’s time to give up the puppies and kittens.”
“Don’t swear,” she said automatically. She hit the turn signal, checked the rearview mirror and sped past a taxi cab. “I’ve thought about it.”
“If you don’t kill us in the next five minutes, I’ll help you find the space.”
“That would be nice.” Mom made a hard turn left into a parking lot and hit the brakes. “We’re here.”
---
Dad wasn’t.
We waited an hour, but he didn’t show.
Mom had a fit, then rescheduled.
---
If Dad ever explained why he didn’t show up or call, I didn’t hear about it. When the mail arrived the next day, it had interim notices from all of my teachers. He came out of his lair long enough to ground me until the end of time. Again. He also confiscated the power cord to my PS3.
I spent Sunday combing through the real-estate listings and found two properties for Mom to look at. She didn’t sign a lease for either one, but she asked me to please work a little harder at bringing my grades up, and bought me a new power cord.
---
“OhmyGodwherehaveyoubeendon’tyouknowwhattimeitisyou’renotdressed!”
Mom was screaming so loudly she set off car alarms three streets over. She was decked out in black velvet pants, pearl earrings, a necklace of jingle bells, a sweatshirt covered with stoned-looking reindeer, and antlers.
Reindeer.
“Uh-oh,” Aaron whispered.
---
There was no nice way to say it: our mom was a Christmas freak.
Everystinkingthing about Christmas was holy. Not just the church stuff; you could understand that. But the rest of it- decorations brought down from the attic as soon as the Thanksgiving dishes were done, carols playing 24/7, candles with the choking stench of “Holiday Cheer”, cookies that were not for eating, but for “atmosphere”; it was nauseating.
Worst of all was the stupid family photo that always went on the front of our Christmas card. Seventeen years’ worth of those pictures were lined up with military precision on the walls of the living room. In the first one, I was two months old. I looked like a deformed vegetable swaddled in a Santa suit.
---
Aaron and I sprinted upstairs to change while Mom stomped around in the kitchen.
“Where is your father?” she yelled again as she slammed down the receiver of the kitchen phone.
If he was smart, on a plane to Tokyo.
I pulled the sweater over my head. “Why don’t we just Photoshop him in?”
“Only if we can give him an afro and cross his eyes,” Aaron called from the bathroom.
“I can hear you both,” Mom yelled up the stairs. “And you aren’t funny. Do you know how hard it is to get timed with David Gunnarson?”
I tugged at the bottom of the sweater, but it stayed at the level of my bellybutton. I looked in the mirror hung on the back of my door. Not cool.
“I’m not wearing this thing!” I shouted.
“Wear it or die,” Mom shouted back.
Aaron pushed my door open, almost smacking me n the face with it. “Let me- oh, snap!” He couldn’t say anything after that, because he was writhing on the ground, pointing at me, and laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
I pushed him out of my room and substituted the sweater for a Cannibal Corpse shirt.
---
Fifteen minutes after we walked in the front door, we were breaking the speed limit to get to the photography studio of Mr. David Gunnarson. Is there anything more embarrassing that being driven around by your mom? Yes- wearing a reindeer sweater that’s two sizes too small.
Mom didn’t approve of the Cannibal Corpse shirt. I had to wear a black tank top underneath this stupid thing so it would look even semi-decent.
“I left messages for your father on every number I have for him.” Mom accelerated to make it through an intersection as the light turned red. “I e-mailed him directions to Gunnarson’s, too.”
“Why can’t we just use your camera and take the picture in the kitchen?” I asked.
“Or use your studio?” Aaron added.
“Hell no,” I said. “It smells like dog shit.” (I was surprised Mom didn’t yell at me about my “colorful” language.)
Mom did most of her pet photography in clients’ homes, but she rented a small, climate-controlled garage for people who wanted to pose their pooch in front of a fake backdrop of a Hawaiian beach or the Egyptian pyramids. And no, I’m not making that up.
“The studio does not smell like dog poop.” Mom’s eyes darted left and right as she coasted through a stop sign as she unconsciously replaced my word of choice with one of hers. “It’s perfectly clean. But my equipment isn’t good enough. I’d need better lights, the right filters.”
I rolled down my window for some air. “You should buy them, then. You take good pictures. Better than this guy, I bet.”
“You think?”
“Hell yeah. It’s time to give up the puppies and kittens.”
“Don’t swear,” she said automatically. She hit the turn signal, checked the rearview mirror and sped past a taxi cab. “I’ve thought about it.”
“If you don’t kill us in the next five minutes, I’ll help you find the space.”
“That would be nice.” Mom made a hard turn left into a parking lot and hit the brakes. “We’re here.”
---
Dad wasn’t.
We waited an hour, but he didn’t show.
Mom had a fit, then rescheduled.
---
If Dad ever explained why he didn’t show up or call, I didn’t hear about it. When the mail arrived the next day, it had interim notices from all of my teachers. He came out of his lair long enough to ground me until the end of time. Again. He also confiscated the power cord to my PS3.
I spent Sunday combing through the real-estate listings and found two properties for Mom to look at. She didn’t sign a lease for either one, but she asked me to please work a little harder at bringing my grades up, and bought me a new power cord.
---
♠ ♠ ♠
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