Food, Cats, and Being Lazy

My feet couldn’t reach the floor when I sat at the dining room table. It was really irritating to be sixteen years old and still have to swing my feet back and forth at the table. The conversation was boring too. It was supposed to be Easter dinner. We were supposed to have things like egg hunts and baskets overflowing with candy. Instead, we were sitting at the table talking about my mom’s candles and how my dad won over some ketchup company for a new client or something. Like I said, super boring and not worth paying attention to.

The other side of the table was supposed to be more fun. But my sister and her boyfriend were flirting and whispering and being dumb. My brother was sitting across from me, eyes glued to the Gameboy in his lap. He was smart. I should have brought mine too. But my mom probably would have sniffed it out in a second.

My only friend, Sir Reginald, was locked upstairs in my bedroom. I wondered if my mom would even notice if I slipped away to get him. But, no—he’d probably just try to get to the food again. I sighed heavily and slouched. I needed something to entertain myself with. I’d emptied my plate forever ago. My mom said I still had baby fat. But really, that was just a nice way of saying I was chubby. Which was a nice way of saying I was fat. But the truth was that if I could marry food, there’d be no reason for me to ever get a boyfriend. Not like I could ever get one of those either.

Unfortunately.

I picked up the shiny silver spoon my mom set on the table even though we didn’t need spoons. It was smooth against my fingers, only brought out for special occasions. I could see my own inverted reflection on the surface. I quickly glanced up and down the table, but everyone seemed preoccupied with their conversations. So I brought the spoon to my lips and gently licked it.

Then I stuck it on the tip of my nose. Delicately. Carefully. There was a trick to this. It took me a while to master. I’d done it a million times, but only because I was already a master at it. If there was an Olympic sport for hanging spoons on your nose, I’d bring home the gold. I crossed my eyes and sat very still when I let it go. The spoon balanced. Perfect.

“Piper, what are you doing?” my mom asked. I jumped and hit my knee against the underside of the table. The spoon dropped into my lap, and I winced from the bump. That was, unfortunately, louder than I would have liked. Which, of course, drew the attention of every single person at the table.

“Ouch,” I said. “Sorry. I was just….”

“Playing with your food?”

“No. Playing with my spoon.” She sighed and set her napkin down.

“Are you determined to embarrass me?” She spoke quietly, but it was obvious everyone could hear. And it was obvious she was embarrassing me more than I was her.

“No—I’m just bored.”

“Then go play with the kids.”

“I don’t want to play with the kids.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m sixteen.”

“Then start acting like it.” I glared. She was going to play that card. Because at sixteen, I was supposed to be interested in candles and ketchup company sales pitches. But she kept her baby blue eyes on mine—her expression stern aside from the slight raise of her eyebrow. I tossed my napkin onto the table, leaving it in a crumpled mess on my dirty plate.

“Fine,” I grumbled. Then I dragged my chair out as loudly as I could, let the spoon fall with a clang onto the floor, and stomped into the other room. The kids were all playing with a bunch of cheap Easter toys and fake plastic eggs. “Alright,” I said, smacking my hands together. “Who wants to make a fort?” They immediately scrambled to their feet.

“Me! Me! Me!” they shouted.

So together, we pulled the couch apart and started building the fort. I could hear my mom laughing in the dining room, so I figured we were safe as long as she didn’t get wise. And while the kids were busy lining up cushions, I went to the closet to get an extra set of sheets to throw over the fort.

“This is one of the best forts I’ve ever made,” I decided as I followed the kids into the fort.

“Yay!”

They were still running around, knocking into the walls of the fort and making things fall over. But I figured that was kind of the fun of it. My mom would kill me if she found out I was the one who did it. Better to let it get ruined before she noticed the cushions were missing.

“When are the Denvers coming? I thought you invited them,” I heard one of my mom’s friends ask. I froze solid for a moment and then struggled to get out of the pile of cushions and sheets and small bodies.

“I did invite them,” my mom replied. “They said they’d be running a bit late and to start without them. I believe they had to pick up their son first.”

“Mom!” I shrieked, climbing to my feet. She turned and looked at me through the archway. “You invited the Denvers? As in Collin Denver?”

“Yes, is that a problem? Should I start running the guest list past you before I make plans?”

“Oh god!” I flipped onto the floor and thumped my head against the polished wood. My mom clacked her tongue on the roof of her mouth in disgust.

“Piper, get off the floor.”

“I think she’s dead!” said one of the kids. Then they all began to poke me with their feet. I stayed limp.

“She’s had a crush on Collin since like eighth grade,” Paige informed the table. Then I finally lifted my head.

“Paige!” I wailed. “You said you wouldn’t say anything.” She shrugged as she reached out for her wineglass. It only had grape juice in it, as per my mother’s instructions, but it gave her the impression that she was as old and fancy as the rest of them.

“I forgot,” she replied, obviously not caring.

“Oh god. This is it. My life is over. Kill me, Tiny Minions. Make it fast.”

“Kill! Kill! Kill!” they declared.

“So dramatic,” my mother muttered to herself.