Maybe I'll Get It Right Someday

Tilly is a fast learner. I taught her eight chords in one week, and it wasn't long before she could play the opening riff of "Everything Is Alright." I think all of my friends (or the ones that showed up) were impressed with her at the New Year's party. Now, that wasn't my idea. I don't throw little domestic parties for my friends. Lori wanted to have a party. And with the way we've been bickering lately, you'd think we're an old married couple.

"It can be a sober party," Lori said, standing behind my chair at breakfast and rubbing my shoulders. "Nobody has to drink. We'll just have some pop and chips and stuff."

"A sober cocktail party?" It was more of a statement, and I scrunched up my eyebrows. "There's no such thing."

"A sober New Year's Eve party. I never said cocktail," she snapped. Her hands left my shoulders and she sat next to me. "Who do you want to invite?"

"I don't want to have a party!" Billie came meowing over by me. "I'm pretty sure he's trying to tell me to clean his litter box. We'll talk more about a party later, if you still think we have to have one."

If I can digress from what's going on right now, I'd like to talk about my kitty. Billie has designated me to be the litter box cleaner, the bed fluffer (even though he kneads it to his liking anyway), and just in general his favorite person to meow at. Which is why I didn't want a cat. Cats love me too much. Random cat tangeant over.

It seemed my present to Matilda made her more reclusive. She'd stay in her room for hours upon hours, listening to music and playing that shiny new guitar. But having it, and especially being able to play it, would make her ten times cooler than even the coolest kids at school. I think she liked the idea as much as she resented it. Since she started her cute little Goth phase, Tilly had begun to reject what society called "cool." But just the thought of gaining more friends had her giddy. I mean, who doesn't want to be liked? I burned her some more selections from my own collection: Braid's The Age of Octeen, Brainiac's Smack Bunny Baby, and Sonic Youth's Washing Machine to name a few. It feels weird saying this, and I don't want to jinx anything good, but she started treating me almost like a father. Or maybe I was imagining things. But the respect was finally there.

A few days after Christmas, Matilda's best friend like ever in the whole world returned from her grandmother's house and wanted Tilly to visit. Lori was at work, so it was my job to get Matilda packed up to go to her friend's house, and then to actually drive her there. I made her a quick snack before we left: tuna salad and whole-wheat crackers. "What's this?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "Smells like mayo."

"It's cat food on crackers," I said sarcastically. "It's tuna salad, just eat it. I'm not taking you over there on an empty stomach." I brushed snow off of my car and scraped the windshield while Matilda sat in the front seat, waiting for me to finish so we could get going already (dramatic sigh). Her black bag was on her lap, containing her Nintendo DS Lite, some game cartridges for it, pajamas, an extra set of clothes, typical domestic stuff, and whatever else she absolutely couldn't live without for a night. I finished de-snowifying my car and sat in the driver's seat. "We're going, finally?" Tilly sighed.

"Yes, we're going," I said in the same tone, but with a smile so she knew I was joking around. I shifted the car into drive and we were off.

"There's this boy in my class named Sam," Matilda started, then cut herself off.

"And?" I persisted.

"He's kinda cute."

"Shut up," I laughed. "You're nine. You've got your whole life ahead of you to be looking at cute boys."