So the Season's Changed Your Face

By the time Rocky Horror Picture Show had ended, both of Mike’s parents had come home and joined us on the couch. I’ll admit that it was slightly awkward watching the pool orgy while sitting next to Mr. Carden, but it was short-lived – by six, they were off for Bunco.

“What the fuck did I just watch?” Mike asked me as he returned Rocky Horror Picture Show to its case, “And why did my parents start singing along?”

I chuckled. “Rocky Horror is my favorite musical, and therefore, it is the best musical.”

“It was disturbing,” Mike commented, now popping Young Frankenstein into the DVD player, “Never again.”

“You’re just upset that Tim Curry looks better in a corset than you do,” I joked, tossing a throw cushion at him.

“Yes, Vivi,” Mike said, throwing the pillow back, “That must be why a musical about a bisexual-transvestite-mad scientist-alien disturbed me.”

He was inches from sitting back down on the couch when I realized we were out of popcorn. “Mike, your dad ate all the popcorn,” I complained. I held up the metallic bowl, “Go make some more.”

Mike sighed, “You might actually be lazier than me,”

“I do believe you have actually said that to me before,” I said, nudging the bowl closer to him, “In fact, I believe you said that just a few hours ago.”

He shook his head and smiled, though I knew it was despite himself, “I’ll get the popcorn now, but when we finish this bowl in forty-five minutes, you’re definitely going to pop the third bag.”

“That’s fine,” I commented, selecting play. “Hey, Mike?”

“Yeah?” He asked, his voice slightly muffled (probably because he was eating a cookie).

“Wanna bring me one of those brownies your mom brought home when you get back over here?” I asked, attempting to sound as polite as I possibly could.

“Yeah, fine,” He answered, defeated. “Would you like me to bring you a glass of milk as well?”

“Actually,” I started, mildly surprised at his generosity, “That would be really nice. Thanks, Mike.”

He grunted his welcome, and the house fell silent, spare the sounds of popcorn popping and the opening credits of Young Frankenstein.


I arrived back home around nine to find my dad in the kitchen, making dinner. Two salmon fillets were smoking slightly in a pan on the stovetop. Dad was obviously trying to appease mom by making her favorite meal.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dad said to me as I passed the kitchen, “Been at Mike’s?”

“Yeah,” I answered, “His parents say ‘hi’. Um, what’s the occasion?”

“Felt like fish tonight,” he replied, shrugging, “I know you don’t like fish so I made you some chicken. It’s cooking right now. It should be out in a few minutes.”

I smiled. “Thanks, dad.”

I sat down on the couch and flipped on the news, just to have some noise in the background. It was awfully quiet in the house. “Dad, where’s mom?”

“She’s napping,” he answered, “Had a rough day at work.”

“Oh,” I said absently, staring mindlessly at the TV. “Wait, when did you guys get home?”

“Normal time,” Dad answered, flipping the fillets, “I told her to take a bath and then a nap and that I would make dinner tonight, you know, just to give her some time to unwind.”

The oven beeped loudly. “Your chicken’s done,” my dad said, “Could you get it, Vivi? My hands are kind of busy.”

I meandered into the kitchen and retrieved an oven mitt. Dad had made crispy chicken – my absolute favorite type of chicken. I picked a few pieces out of the pan and put them on a plate. My mouth watered – I had been eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner for the last three days. I was desperate for a real dinner.

I sat down at the table and ate my dinner, listening to the news with one ear and my dad hum with the other.

By the time I had devoured three large pieces of chicken, the salmon was cooked and Dad was setting the table around me. He had even pulled out a bottle of fine wine from the wine rack – I knew he meant business.

“I’ll just, um, be in my room then,” I said, turning off the TV and smiling at my dad, “Let you guys have a nice dinner by yourselves.”

“Thanks, Vivi,” he said, taking off his apron and oven mitts.

I headed off of to my room, and with literally nothing better to do, I pulled out my Trigonometry book and started my homework for the weekend.

One Hour Later

I had apparently fallen asleep while doing my math homework because I woke up using my textbook as a pillow and with my pencil still in my hand, posed for writing. I looked blearily at my alarm clock on my night stand.

It was eleven-thirty and they were screaming at each other. A lump formed in my throat quicker than I could persuade it not to. I willed myself not to start crying, though as I did, their voices grew louder and louder.

“Can’t you do anything fucking right, Tom?” my mom screamed, “You are the clumsiest – this is my grandmother’s tablecloth!”

“Erica, it’s okay,” my dad cooed, “It’ll wash out.”

“You damn well better hope it washes out, Tom,” my mom said, threateningly, “Or you will find me an identical antique tablecloth!”

“Yes, Erica, sweetie, I will buy you an identical tablecloth if this doesn’t wash out,” my dad said, trying to keep his voice calm and steady, though I could hear that his jaw was clenched.

“You better fucking hope this washes out,” she hissed. There was a sudden crash of breaking china and disrupted cutlery, and I could only assume that my mom had pulled the tablecloth off of the table without it being cleared yet.

“Erica,” my dad said, still trying to keep his voice flat, “I’ll take care of this. You just go to bed, and I’ll clean this all up.”

There was the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. “Damn fucking right you’re going to clean this shit up, Tom!”

She stormed past my room and slammed her bedroom door behind her. In his frustration, Dad threw something else at the wall. It clunked and fell to the floor with a ringing thud. “Fuck it,” I heard him murmur, and before I knew it, the garage door was opening and his car engine was running.

No sooner than he was gone, my mom began to throw a sizeable tantrum in her room; I could hear her throwing pillows and ripping clothing from their hangers, her screams loud and clear.

I was no longer able to contain my own feelings toward their altercation – I was crying freely, so irritated with their increasingly short tempers. I slipped on my shoes and grabbed my keys; I made the decision to high tail it on out of there when something crashed in my mom’s room.

I opened my window and popped out the screen as quietly as I possibly could. Without falling on my face, I climbed through my window and slid the screen back into my room, resting it against my bed. I suddenly remembered we had considered moving into a two story house, and was grateful we had decided on the single story instead.

Cold air filled my lungs as I closed my window as well as I could from the outside. Swiftly and silently, I made my way along the dirt path to the back gate. As the key to the padlock that locked the gate was in the kitchen, I was forced to vault the gate, and with much difficulty. Gracelessly, I fell to the ground, tearing my pajama pants and scraping my knees.

I could still hear my mom screaming, however, so I bolted to my car, which I had gratefully parked on the street, rather than in the garage.

Within ten minutes, I was parked outside of Mike’s house for the second time that day. Again, I vaulted the gate, even less gracefully than before, and silently thanked the Cardens for allowing Little Jack to sleep indoors. I crept soundlessly to the window I knew to be Mike’s.

His curtains were not drawn (“I like bathing in the moonlight”) and I could see him sleeping, his mouth wide open. It was so quiet on the street that I could hear him snoring, even though his window was closed.

I tapped on his window lightly, but he did not stir. I did so three more times, but as I my tears were being to freeze on my face, I threw my inhibition to the wind and pounded on his window.

Mike practically jumped out of skin. He looked wildly about his room before seeing me through his window, shivering and crying.

He hurried over to the window and opened it. “What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered, popping out the screen and setting it carefully aside. “It’s the middle of the night.”

My bottom lip quavered and I began to cry afresh. “Can I come in?” I asked, my voice trembling, “It’s f-freezing out here.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Mike said, helping me through the window. Once I was in his room, he put the screen back in place and shut the window. “What’s wrong, Vivi?”

I shook my head and used my sleeve to wipe my dripping nose. “My parents – they started fight-”

“They’ve been fighting for awhile though, right?” Mike asked, his voice barely audible.

I shook my head again. “Not like this. They started throwing things and – and-”

My throat grew tight and I couldn’t form words any longer. I gaped wordlessly at Mike, trying to explain to him that I couldn’t stay at home for the night, that I didn’t feel safe.

“Vivi,” Mike started, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

I took a deep breath, but it got caught in my lungs. I forced myself to exhale with a sputter, but began breathing erratically.

“Vivi,” Mike said quickly, leading me away from the window and into a chair next to his desk. “Put your head between your knees and try to calm down. Just breathe.”

Pathetically, I dropped my head between my knees and focused myself on bringing down my heart rate; my heart was beating as if I had just completed a mile. After a few minutes, my breathing eased up and my heart rate slowed down to an almost normal pace.

“Do you need to stay here for the night, Vivi?” Mike asked, rubbing my back soothingly.

I nodded my head (which was still between my knees) and sighed. I sat up and stared directly into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mike, coming here in the middle of the night-”

He shook his head and smiled genuinely at me. “You’re my best friend. That’s what I’m here for.”