for one of the look-alikes to answer. Anyone?
“Hey there Sunshine,” #2 said. “You sound like a commercial for old game shows.”
And she’s back. “I wondered how long it’d take you to surface.”
“All you had to do was ask,” #2 offered in her snarky tone. “Ready to serve.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Grace focused on the slow swirl of the ceiling fan and heard The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly theme song roll around in her head. “Okay, that does it.” She bounded off the couch. She couldn’t handle the mental jukebox thing, especially if #2 was going to play show tunes.
“It’s better than a game show,” #2 said. “And besides, I’m just warming up.”
“Go home.” Being in a horizontal position, fetal or otherwise, did not lead to productive thinking. New rule—no thinking while lying down.
“Shouldn’t be a problem there, since critical thinking doesn’t happen around you much anyway,” #2 said. “Besides, I am home.”
Grace ignored her alter ego. What a mistake it had been to think this crazy personality could help. Although, granted, #2 had snapped her off the couch.
“I think I’ll cook tonight,” Grace said. Hey…a decision .
“And all by your itty-bitty self.” #2 wasted zero time piping in on having the last word ritual.
“Shut up.” Grace opened the faux plantation blinds in the family room, allowing in the full glare of daylight. She squinted, realizing how dark she’d kept the house over the last month. Another point in the “being a drag” column. She stared out the window into the backyard. “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll cook.” She waited for what surely would be a sarcastic remark. None came. Good.
She grabbed the phone and pushed *1. Her family had survived on frozen entrees and fast food for weeks. Three rings later, Grace realized her mom wouldn’t answer. She let it ring until she heard the recorded disconnect message. Pushing end, she slumped onto a nearby bar stool, her shoulders dropped. The ‘surprise-I’m-cooking-tonight’ idea lost its punch. Pizza. Again.
“You wouldn’t be ordering pizza, would you, Mom?” Still clutching the phone, it rang, startling her. She cleared her throat. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon. May I speak to Grace Brookfield?” a female voice asked.
“This is Grace.”
“And how are you today?” Tele-marketer code for ‘I’m-going-to-try-my-damnedest-to-sell-you-something-you-don’t-need’.
Grace wrinkled her nose. “Fine.”
“My name is Ellen Lyons and I’m calling from the school district’s Deaf Education Department. I have your name on a list of possible interpreters. We’re looking for volunteers for our summer program.”
Silence.
“Hello? Mrs. Brookfield?”
“Yes.” Grace drew circle eights on the counter top.
“Wonderful,” the woman gushed. “All I need is your email address. I’ll send you the information.”
“No.”
Pause.
“No?”
“I mean, yes.” Grace squeezed her eyes shut. “Wait.” Heat flushed her cheeks. She rubbed her neck. “Can we start over?”
The woman fell silent for a moment, nothing but phone-fuzz coming from the receiver. Then finally, “At what part should I start over?”
Ouch. Word-slam. Good thing her mushy brain didn’t care. She waited for something intelligent to pop into her mind. Zilch.
“Big surprise,” #2 whispered.
“I’m sorry.” Grace stuck her finger in her free ear.
“Ri-ght,” the alter ego whispered. “Like that’s going to stop me.”
Grace gritted her teeth. “What I mean to say is yes, I’m the real Grace Brookfield.” Cringe. Images of the game show blurred her mind.
“Nice one,” #2 snickered.
“I mean…I’m Grace Brookfield.” She rolled her eyes. Lame.
“Ok-ay. Would you like to volunteer for our summer program?” Ms. Lyons spoke as if addressing someone mentally challenged.
Grace stuck her tongue out at the phone. A second grade playground maneuver, but still, she did not like this woman.
“Hey there Sunshine,” #2 said. “You sound like a commercial for old game shows.”
And she’s back. “I wondered how long it’d take you to surface.”
“All you had to do was ask,” #2 offered in her snarky tone. “Ready to serve.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Grace focused on the slow swirl of the ceiling fan and heard The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly theme song roll around in her head. “Okay, that does it.” She bounded off the couch. She couldn’t handle the mental jukebox thing, especially if #2 was going to play show tunes.
“It’s better than a game show,” #2 said. “And besides, I’m just warming up.”
“Go home.” Being in a horizontal position, fetal or otherwise, did not lead to productive thinking. New rule—no thinking while lying down.
“Shouldn’t be a problem there, since critical thinking doesn’t happen around you much anyway,” #2 said. “Besides, I am home.”
Grace ignored her alter ego. What a mistake it had been to think this crazy personality could help. Although, granted, #2 had snapped her off the couch.
“I think I’ll cook tonight,” Grace said. Hey…a decision .
“And all by your itty-bitty self.” #2 wasted zero time piping in on having the last word ritual.
“Shut up.” Grace opened the faux plantation blinds in the family room, allowing in the full glare of daylight. She squinted, realizing how dark she’d kept the house over the last month. Another point in the “being a drag” column. She stared out the window into the backyard. “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll cook.” She waited for what surely would be a sarcastic remark. None came. Good.
She grabbed the phone and pushed *1. Her family had survived on frozen entrees and fast food for weeks. Three rings later, Grace realized her mom wouldn’t answer. She let it ring until she heard the recorded disconnect message. Pushing end, she slumped onto a nearby bar stool, her shoulders dropped. The ‘surprise-I’m-cooking-tonight’ idea lost its punch. Pizza. Again.
“You wouldn’t be ordering pizza, would you, Mom?” Still clutching the phone, it rang, startling her. She cleared her throat. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon. May I speak to Grace Brookfield?” a female voice asked.
“This is Grace.”
“And how are you today?” Tele-marketer code for ‘I’m-going-to-try-my-damnedest-to-sell-you-something-you-don’t-need’.
Grace wrinkled her nose. “Fine.”
“My name is Ellen Lyons and I’m calling from the school district’s Deaf Education Department. I have your name on a list of possible interpreters. We’re looking for volunteers for our summer program.”
Silence.
“Hello? Mrs. Brookfield?”
“Yes.” Grace drew circle eights on the counter top.
“Wonderful,” the woman gushed. “All I need is your email address. I’ll send you the information.”
“No.”
Pause.
“No?”
“I mean, yes.” Grace squeezed her eyes shut. “Wait.” Heat flushed her cheeks. She rubbed her neck. “Can we start over?”
The woman fell silent for a moment, nothing but phone-fuzz coming from the receiver. Then finally, “At what part should I start over?”
Ouch. Word-slam. Good thing her mushy brain didn’t care. She waited for something intelligent to pop into her mind. Zilch.
“Big surprise,” #2 whispered.
“I’m sorry.” Grace stuck her finger in her free ear.
“Ri-ght,” the alter ego whispered. “Like that’s going to stop me.”
Grace gritted her teeth. “What I mean to say is yes, I’m the real Grace Brookfield.” Cringe. Images of the game show blurred her mind.
“Nice one,” #2 snickered.
“I mean…I’m Grace Brookfield.” She rolled her eyes. Lame.
“Ok-ay. Would you like to volunteer for our summer program?” Ms. Lyons spoke as if addressing someone mentally challenged.
Grace stuck her tongue out at the phone. A second grade playground maneuver, but still, she did not like this woman.
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