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Authors: Jen Lancaster
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since he arrived home for Christmas break earlier this week.
“Who’s naturally gorgeous?” he asks. I swear, Ted’s always on the prowl. He can run into the Jewel for athlete’s foot powder and bulk toilet paper and he’ll
still
come out with some girl’s digits scribbled on a scrap of grocery bag.
Teddy cracks open the fridge, which contains a stack of near-empty pizza boxes, petrified containers of moo shu pork and Hunan beef, and fifteen crusty mustard jars that will eventually be used as drinking glasses. He has to move a lacrosse ball to get to the orange juice and then chugs straight from the carton.
“Dehydrated much?” Bobby chuckles to himself.
“Munchies much?” Teddy counters.
Sars clears her throat and blinks rapidly. Her throat must be scratchy and her eyes itchy. Makes sense, it
is
cold season. “Um, Jack’s naturally gorgeous, of course.”
From across the room, Bobby snorts so loudly that our other dog Mikita jumps up from her bed and trots out of the room, her fat rump undulating.
“Whassamatter, spaz? You don’t think your sister’s good-lookin’?”
Bobby snorts again and Teddy beans him right in the head with the now-empty Tropicana carton. Ted’s arm is still a lethal weapon. He was as skilled at football as he was at hockey in high school, which is why so many Big Ten colleges tried to recruit him. However, he had his heart set on Whitney’s architecture program, so that’s where he went.
I’m so bummed that our time on campus won’t overlap, despite his major taking five years. Sure, John’s at Whitney, too, but we probably won’t hang out much. He’s not as close as the rest of us are, likely because he’s a narcissistic jerkwad. He’s so different from Bobby that everyone forgets they’re twins. Fraternal, but still.
Teddy’s awesomeness makes up for John’s shortcomings. He’s very protective of me. (Maybe too protective?) Although Bobby and I are the best of friends, my relationship with Ted is almost more parental. He’s always tried to fill in for Dad’s logging such long hours to make partner.
Bobby rubs his temple, unwilling to admit defeat. “No, I’m concerned that
you
think she’s good-looking.”
Teddy pulls up a barstool next to Sars and me, flexing and preening. “’Course I do. We look exactly alike.”
Mimi, my mom’s mother, was half Japanese, so there’s a hint of something exotic in both our faces. Ted and I inherited the high cheekbones and stupid-thick, straight, dark hair from her side and freckles from Dad’s Scotch-Irish side. We all have the same small, straight nose and dimpled, determined chin, but John-John and Bobby are more fair, with wavy hair. Ironically, those two actually look like they could be Kennedy offspring, which is one of the many reasons Ted calls them chowderheads.
Teddy, Bobby, and I share a genetic abnormality called heterochromia iridum, meaning our eyes are these weird, multicolored patches of green and yellow with dark blue outlines. I don’t like them because the question “What’s your eye color?” requires an explanation. We inherited this trait from our mother. Her mutation was much more pronounced, with one eye of golden-green, and the other a smoky blue-gray. When my parents met in law school at Whitney in the early seventies, Dad would always sing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” because her name was Lucy and she had kaleidoscope eyes.
I hate that song now.
“I always thought you resembled Pierce Brosnan, Teddy,” Sars says in a rush, anxiously biting her bottom lip. Again, color flushes across her cheeks. What the hell, Sars? Does she seriously have a fever? She’s practically steaming up her glasses.
“Then that means Jack looks like Pierce Brosnan in drag,” Bobby crows.
Teddy bristles. “Stop hurting her self-esteem, you douche.”
“Make me.”
Teddy rises imperiously from his stool. “I will.”
Bobby considers his threat and backs down. “Good thing I’m a
“Who’s naturally gorgeous?” he asks. I swear, Ted’s always on the prowl. He can run into the Jewel for athlete’s foot powder and bulk toilet paper and he’ll
still
come out with some girl’s digits scribbled on a scrap of grocery bag.
Teddy cracks open the fridge, which contains a stack of near-empty pizza boxes, petrified containers of moo shu pork and Hunan beef, and fifteen crusty mustard jars that will eventually be used as drinking glasses. He has to move a lacrosse ball to get to the orange juice and then chugs straight from the carton.
“Dehydrated much?” Bobby chuckles to himself.
“Munchies much?” Teddy counters.
Sars clears her throat and blinks rapidly. Her throat must be scratchy and her eyes itchy. Makes sense, it
is
cold season. “Um, Jack’s naturally gorgeous, of course.”
From across the room, Bobby snorts so loudly that our other dog Mikita jumps up from her bed and trots out of the room, her fat rump undulating.
“Whassamatter, spaz? You don’t think your sister’s good-lookin’?”
Bobby snorts again and Teddy beans him right in the head with the now-empty Tropicana carton. Ted’s arm is still a lethal weapon. He was as skilled at football as he was at hockey in high school, which is why so many Big Ten colleges tried to recruit him. However, he had his heart set on Whitney’s architecture program, so that’s where he went.
I’m so bummed that our time on campus won’t overlap, despite his major taking five years. Sure, John’s at Whitney, too, but we probably won’t hang out much. He’s not as close as the rest of us are, likely because he’s a narcissistic jerkwad. He’s so different from Bobby that everyone forgets they’re twins. Fraternal, but still.
Teddy’s awesomeness makes up for John’s shortcomings. He’s very protective of me. (Maybe too protective?) Although Bobby and I are the best of friends, my relationship with Ted is almost more parental. He’s always tried to fill in for Dad’s logging such long hours to make partner.
Bobby rubs his temple, unwilling to admit defeat. “No, I’m concerned that
you
think she’s good-looking.”
Teddy pulls up a barstool next to Sars and me, flexing and preening. “’Course I do. We look exactly alike.”
Mimi, my mom’s mother, was half Japanese, so there’s a hint of something exotic in both our faces. Ted and I inherited the high cheekbones and stupid-thick, straight, dark hair from her side and freckles from Dad’s Scotch-Irish side. We all have the same small, straight nose and dimpled, determined chin, but John-John and Bobby are more fair, with wavy hair. Ironically, those two actually look like they could be Kennedy offspring, which is one of the many reasons Ted calls them chowderheads.
Teddy, Bobby, and I share a genetic abnormality called heterochromia iridum, meaning our eyes are these weird, multicolored patches of green and yellow with dark blue outlines. I don’t like them because the question “What’s your eye color?” requires an explanation. We inherited this trait from our mother. Her mutation was much more pronounced, with one eye of golden-green, and the other a smoky blue-gray. When my parents met in law school at Whitney in the early seventies, Dad would always sing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” because her name was Lucy and she had kaleidoscope eyes.
I hate that song now.
“I always thought you resembled Pierce Brosnan, Teddy,” Sars says in a rush, anxiously biting her bottom lip. Again, color flushes across her cheeks. What the hell, Sars? Does she seriously have a fever? She’s practically steaming up her glasses.
“Then that means Jack looks like Pierce Brosnan in drag,” Bobby crows.
Teddy bristles. “Stop hurting her self-esteem, you douche.”
“Make me.”
Teddy rises imperiously from his stool. “I will.”
Bobby considers his threat and backs down. “Good thing I’m a
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