Read Online Pink Slip Party by Cara Lockwood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cara Lockwood
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insist on living there.”
I send Todd a McGregor Look of Death, a skill that I’ve inherited from my mother, who has the ability to drop a charging rhino in its tracks at a hundred paces with one severe look. I wish Todd a sudden onset of laryngitis. He’s mucking up my plot to ask for a loan. If he gets Dad in a frenzy about my apartment, there’s no way I can make a case for rent money.
“I am not moving,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. I refuse to be the first one to shout this time.
“Well, it’s your life, if you want to throw it away,” Dad grumbles, peering at me over his reading glasses. I am possessed by the desire to poke him in the eyes, Three Stooges style, but I doubt that would win me a loan.
“Dad…” I say, my voice close to shouting level.
“I mean, it’s just such a waste. Girl of your brains,” he says. He’s speaking as if I’m fifteen and pregnant. Not as if I’m twenty-eight — er, twenty-nine — now, and living in a bigger-than-average apartment. I find myself wishing I was there now.
“I don’t see that my apartment is anyone’s business,” I feel the need to say. Dad, I can tell, will be hopeless. I can’t ask him for a loan. I’m going to have to start working on Mom.
“We’re just trying to help,” Dad sighs. He throws up his hands.
“Yeah, Jane, we care, ” Todd says. His gift, I see, noticing his empty hands, is an intervention.
“Dinner’s ready,” chimes Mom happily from the kitchen.
The spread on the dining-room table is impressive. There’s a giant pot roast in the middle that looks like it came straight from a grocery-store circular. Half a dozen plates of vegetables and side dishes — including two casseroles and a giant plate of creamy mashed potatoes. A huge, homemade white rose and tulip topiary centerpiece. Martha Stewart couldn’t have done better.
I wonder why I don’t invite myself over to my parents more often. My stomach, shrunken on a strict ketchup-and-mustard sandwich diet, rumbles and I realize it’s been days — if not weeks — since I last ingested animal protein or green vegetables. It’s a wonder my hair hasn’t started falling out.
Mom insists Dad say grace, which is ironic because since I was nine, Dad has made a regular habit of falling asleep during Sunday service. This does not stop him, however, from confidently addressing the Lord.
“Lord, bless this grub,” Dad says with bowed head and his usual eloquence. “Now let’s eat.”
I load up on everything, and I feel like a sailor who’s been out to sea and forced to eat a diet of dried fish and crackers. I inhale my food.
Deena, Todd’s girlfriend, picks at hers, and keeps sending furtive glances at the mashed potatoes, as if worried that they might leap off the plate and attach themselves to her hips when she isn’t looking. I have a second helping of them, and she looks at me as if I’m about to bungee jump off the top of the Sears Tower.
“Don’t choke,” whispers Kyle, who has been strategically placed next to me (no doubt by Matchmaking Mom), so that I might not be able to enjoy a single moment of my own birthday.
“Thanks for the tip,” I mumble, mouth full.
Mom waits until we have dessert in front of us, the cherry pie and the cheesecake, before dropping the bomb.
“I have news,” Mom says, glancing around the table. She’s nervous, I can tell, because she’s licking her lips.
Dad does not stop eating. Few things, short of a gunshot or the announcement of the NBA draft, can interrupt his shoveling of food into his esophagus. He is even worse than I am. He eats at such an alarming rate that I think he bypasses his tongue and teeth altogether. While Dad is attempting to eat a whole piece of pie in one bite, the rest of us look at Mom expectantly. She takes a deep breath and presses her hands into her lap.
“I have been thinking about a change,” she said. “And, well, you know I’ve always been interested in cooking.” She
I send Todd a McGregor Look of Death, a skill that I’ve inherited from my mother, who has the ability to drop a charging rhino in its tracks at a hundred paces with one severe look. I wish Todd a sudden onset of laryngitis. He’s mucking up my plot to ask for a loan. If he gets Dad in a frenzy about my apartment, there’s no way I can make a case for rent money.
“I am not moving,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. I refuse to be the first one to shout this time.
“Well, it’s your life, if you want to throw it away,” Dad grumbles, peering at me over his reading glasses. I am possessed by the desire to poke him in the eyes, Three Stooges style, but I doubt that would win me a loan.
“Dad…” I say, my voice close to shouting level.
“I mean, it’s just such a waste. Girl of your brains,” he says. He’s speaking as if I’m fifteen and pregnant. Not as if I’m twenty-eight — er, twenty-nine — now, and living in a bigger-than-average apartment. I find myself wishing I was there now.
“I don’t see that my apartment is anyone’s business,” I feel the need to say. Dad, I can tell, will be hopeless. I can’t ask him for a loan. I’m going to have to start working on Mom.
“We’re just trying to help,” Dad sighs. He throws up his hands.
“Yeah, Jane, we care, ” Todd says. His gift, I see, noticing his empty hands, is an intervention.
“Dinner’s ready,” chimes Mom happily from the kitchen.
The spread on the dining-room table is impressive. There’s a giant pot roast in the middle that looks like it came straight from a grocery-store circular. Half a dozen plates of vegetables and side dishes — including two casseroles and a giant plate of creamy mashed potatoes. A huge, homemade white rose and tulip topiary centerpiece. Martha Stewart couldn’t have done better.
I wonder why I don’t invite myself over to my parents more often. My stomach, shrunken on a strict ketchup-and-mustard sandwich diet, rumbles and I realize it’s been days — if not weeks — since I last ingested animal protein or green vegetables. It’s a wonder my hair hasn’t started falling out.
Mom insists Dad say grace, which is ironic because since I was nine, Dad has made a regular habit of falling asleep during Sunday service. This does not stop him, however, from confidently addressing the Lord.
“Lord, bless this grub,” Dad says with bowed head and his usual eloquence. “Now let’s eat.”
I load up on everything, and I feel like a sailor who’s been out to sea and forced to eat a diet of dried fish and crackers. I inhale my food.
Deena, Todd’s girlfriend, picks at hers, and keeps sending furtive glances at the mashed potatoes, as if worried that they might leap off the plate and attach themselves to her hips when she isn’t looking. I have a second helping of them, and she looks at me as if I’m about to bungee jump off the top of the Sears Tower.
“Don’t choke,” whispers Kyle, who has been strategically placed next to me (no doubt by Matchmaking Mom), so that I might not be able to enjoy a single moment of my own birthday.
“Thanks for the tip,” I mumble, mouth full.
Mom waits until we have dessert in front of us, the cherry pie and the cheesecake, before dropping the bomb.
“I have news,” Mom says, glancing around the table. She’s nervous, I can tell, because she’s licking her lips.
Dad does not stop eating. Few things, short of a gunshot or the announcement of the NBA draft, can interrupt his shoveling of food into his esophagus. He is even worse than I am. He eats at such an alarming rate that I think he bypasses his tongue and teeth altogether. While Dad is attempting to eat a whole piece of pie in one bite, the rest of us look at Mom expectantly. She takes a deep breath and presses her hands into her lap.
“I have been thinking about a change,” she said. “And, well, you know I’ve always been interested in cooking.” She
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