My Parents Are Sex Maniacs...

by Robyn Harding

  I give her a small smile and my heart surges with gratitude. With Sienna around, I never feel left out for long.

  As if on cue, our future hostess approaches the table, a nearly ubiquitous lollipop held in her manicured hand. “Ladies,” Audrey says, taking a seat next to Kimber, “can you tell me—what comes before Part B?”

  “Partaaay!” my three companions cry in unison. Luckily, they drown out my questioning “Part A?”

  “We were just talking about it,” Sienna says, taking a bite of her carrot stick.

  “It’s going to be sooo fun,” Kimber gushes. “I don’t think I can wait three whole weeks.”

  “You’ll have to,” Audrey says. “My parents aren’t going away until then.” She puts the lollipop in her mouth rather suggestively. “Besides, I’m not having a party until I get my highlights done.”

  I look at her auburn hair. I’d never noticed before, but there are definitely some copper tones there.

  “I want to get highlights too,” Sienna says, although her hair is already made up of several shades of blonde: honey, caramel, and wheat. I swear every strand of my hair is the same mousy brown.

  “But your hair’s so gorgeous already!” Kimber says.

  “I know!” Jessie agrees. “I totally hate you!”

  Everyone laughs, but then Audrey wisely counsels. “It’ll have a lot more body once you get it done.”

  “Yeah, I just have to ask my mom if she’ll shell out two hundred bucks for it,” Sienna replies.

  For the second time in three minutes I feel out of my element. Whenever Sienna and her cohorts talk about beauty, fashion, or dieting, my contributions are few and far between. It’s not that I don’t care about my looks; I’m just not consumed by them. I could blame my mother for this. You can’t be constantly bombarded with female empowerment messages without some of them sinking in. But more likely it’s because I’m not really in the same league as these girls in the looks department. It’s not like I’m a complete ogre, but all four of them are utterly gorgeous. Okay, Kimber isn’t quite as pretty as the rest of them, but she makes up for it by spending hours flat-ironing her pale blonde hair. But since I will one day be one-half of the straight female version of Dolce & Gabbana, I should probably make more of an effort.

  “I’m going to ask my mom about getting highlights too,” I say.

  There is a moment of surprised silence, broken by Audrey. “That’s good, Louise.” There is something slightly condescending in her tone. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  “It would brighten up your face, for sure,” Kimber adds.

  Sienna nods. “It would.”

  “And while you’re at it,” Jessie contributes, “you should get some layers around your face.”

  “It definitely needs some shaping,” Audrey says, picking up a dull strand of my shapeless hair.

  Kimber furrows her brow. “I’d normally recommend a flat iron, but with the shape of her face, I think she needs more body.”

  “There’re always hot rollers,” Jessie says.

  The conversation continues in this manner for the entirety of the lunch hour. Really, they have all become quite passionate about my hair makeover. I know I should feel flattered. I’ve never had this much attention from Sienna’s friends. But while their comments are all well intentioned and constructive, they’re making me feel even more insecure about my looks. By the time the bell rings, I realize that if my parents won’t pay for some highlights and shaping, I will have to commit suicide! Either that or join a convent, where my hair will be safely covered by one of those nun hats.

  As we head to our next class, Sienna walks beside me. “Good for you,” she says. “I’m glad you’re making more of an effort with your hair and stuff.”

  “Oh … well …” I laugh awkwardly, unsure how to respond.

  She gives my arm a squeeze. “See you after school.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I wouldn’t say I stewed about the state of my hair for the entire weekend, but it was definitely on my mind. Everywhere I looked, I saw highlights, lowlights, and layers—from the video store clerk to the middle-aged woman who served us at Boston Pizza. But when I went to stagecraft club after school today and noticed that several of the so-called drama nerds had nicer hair than I did, it was the last straw. As soon as I got home, I went to my mom, who was making dinner in the kitchen.

  “My hair desperately needs some highlights and shaping.”

  She cocks an eyebrow, amused. “Desperately?”

  “It’s true!” I say, going to the fridge to search for a snack. “It’s limp and drab and doesn’t have enough body for the shape of my face.”

  My mom stops chopping carrots and looks at me. “You’re a beautiful girl and you have beautiful hair. Who’s putting these ideas in your head?”

  I rip the top off a Jell-O pudding cup and say, “No one. It’s just that everyone’s hair looks way better than mine.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true!”

  “Like whose?”

  “Sienna, Audrey, Kimber, Jessie.”

  “I don’t think Jessie’s hair is all that fantastic,” my mom says, resuming her chopping.

  “Oh, okay. Everyone else’s hair is better except Jessie’s. See? You agree with me.”

  She turns to face me, knife in hand. “What’s this really about?”

  “My hair. It needs highlights and shaping.”

  “How many times have we discussed not trying to look like the girls in magazines? Those supermodels don’t look like that when they get up in the morning, you know.”

  “I know, I know. And they all have eating disorders and drug problems.” I roll my eyes.

  “That’s right.” Suddenly, my mom gets a twinkle in her eye. “I think I know what this is really about. Is there a boy you’re interested in?”

  “MOM!” God, she is so embarrassing. Despite the fact that we’re alone in the house, I can feel my cheeks turning red. I mean, what does she think I am? Twelve? It’s not normal to be having this conversation for the first time eight months before my seventeenth birthday. I’m sure Sunny talked to Sienna about boys five years ago!

  Unfortunately, my mom takes my embarrassment as an admission. “What’s his name?” she prods, looking positively gleeful.

  “There’s no one,” I snap, “probably because my hair is so hideous.”

  “Honey,” she says, and I know what’s coming, “if a boy only likes you because you have nice hair, that’s not really much of a relationship, is it? You have so many other great qualities: you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re tall …”

  “No boy’s even going to look at me with this hair,” I grouch.

  “Your dad fell in love with the person inside me,” she continues, tapping her chest. “It wasn’t about my hair or my body or my breasts …”

  God! Make her stop!

  “And that’s why our love has endured, through pregnancies and weight gain, good times and bad.”

  “Yeah, I get it,” I say, “but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to look your best. It will boost my self-confidence and make me more outgoing.”

  She returns her attention to the carrots. “How much do highlights cost?”

  “Well … Audrey goes to this really great salon and there are really nice people there and they do a really great job and the highlights last a super long time—like, six months.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred.”

  My mom bursts into laughter like this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Really, she is so out of touch. She lives in some weird, ancient reality where men fall in love with the person inside and you never need to spend more than nineteen dollars at Magicuts on your hair. “It’s not that much,” I grumble.

  “Right!” she laughs. “Try telling that to your father.”

  “I’m sure Sunny will pay for Sienna’s highlights.”

  “Well, that’s Sunny’s prerogat
ive, but in our household we watch our spending, and there’s no way on God’s green earth that I’m going to pay two hundred bucks for you to dye your hair.”

  I bite my tongue before I say something spiteful like, You’re just lucky you met Dad in the olden days when guys weren’t so picky.

  As I’m about to stomp off in a pout, my mom says, “Maybe you should consider getting an after-school job?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I worked when I was your age,” she says, scooping a handful of chopped carrots into a large metal pot.

  “I have a job. It’s called school.”

  “It’s really nice to have your own money,” my mom says. “You can spend it on anything you want—even highlights.”

  “Yeah, but I’m already so busy …” But I trail off to consider the suggestion. Having my own money would open a whole new world to me, a world of shapely, highlighted hair that could lead to increased popularity and possibly even boyfriends.

  “And it’s great to have an after-school job on your résumé,” my mom continues. “It’ll show that you’re a responsible girl on your college applications …”

  That’s true. And if I got a job at a clothing retailer, it could even help my fashion design career. Of course, Sienna is the fashionista in our partnership, but it wouldn’t hurt for me to brush up on some of the basics. I’m sold! It’s the answer to all my hair problems. Now, I’ll just have to concoct a résumé of my nonexistent work experience and I can start applying. “That’s a great idea, Mom.” I kiss her cheek. “I’m going to start on my résumé right away.”

  “That’s the independent young woman I’m raising,” she says, giving me a wink. “But I’m really going to need your help this week. It’s your dad’s fortieth birthday party on Saturday.”

  “Well, I’ll be kind of busy looking for a job …”

  “We’re all going to have to pitch in,” she says in a tone not open for debate. “I’ve got so much to do before Saturday. Troy needs new soccer cleats, and I’ve got to pick up the food, prepare it, buy all the decorations …”

  “Okay,” I say, mentally adding freelance catering and event planning to my résumé.

  “I’ll need to get the liquor, and sort out some kind of music …”

  Bartender and DJ.

  “… and all of this without your dad catching on. Although, with the hours he’s been keeping lately, I don’t think we have to worry. By the time he gets home from work, he’s so exhausted, I’m sure we could set up a ten-piece orchestra in the living room and he’d walk right by.”

  “Okay.” I give in. I guess I can live with the drab, limp hideousness of my hair for a little while longer.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” she says. “Can you set the table for three? Your dad won’t be here for dinner. He’s got to take some papers over to a buyer tonight.”

  My mom, my brother, and I have just tucked into our meal of homemade chicken stew and whole wheat focaccia bread when we hear the whir of the garage door opening. “Oh!” my mom says, sounding pleased. “Your dad made it home after all.” She moves to meet him at the door and then turns back to us. “Ixnay on the artypay.”

  “What?” Troy asks, confused.

  I look at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No!” he snaps. “I don’t speak French!”

  “Oh my god!” I cry, nearly helpless with laughter. “It’s pig latin, you dork!”

  “You’re the pig!” he yells at me.

  At this precise moment, my parents enter the room. “Well, isn’t this nice,” my dad says sarcastically. “I finally get to have dinner with my family and this is what I walk in on.”

  My mom says, “Troy, enough with the name calling.”

  “Yeah,” I yell at him. “I’m probably going to get an eating disorder because of you!”

  “Good!” Troy says and then under his breath, “Maybe you’ll die from it.”

  “What’s that, Troy?” I say loudly. “You hope I die from an eating disorder? Well, that is really sweet.”

  My mom whirls on him. “That’s a horrible thing to say! Apologize right now.”

  This is the point when my dad loses his temper. Maybe it’s because he’s not around us as much, but he seems to find our harmless sibling bickering unbearable. “That’s enough!” he booms. “Troy, go to your room until you’re ready to apologize to your sister.”

  My brother jumps out of his chair, nearly upending it. As he storms out of the dining room, he mutters quietly, “Fat bitch.”

  “Did you hear that?” I ask. “Did anyone hear that?”

  “You can go to your room too,” my dad grumbles, walking to the counter and placing his briefcase on it.

  “Why? What did I do?”

  “I just need some peace and quiet,” he says, closing his eyes and massaging his temples.

  “Let me make you a drink,” my mom says, kneading his shoulders. “Louise, take your stew into the other room.”

  When I’m done eating, I take the cordless phone to my room and call Sienna. “Did you ask your mom about your hair?” I ask. “What did she say?”

  “She said she’ll think about it, which basically means yes. I mean, it’s not like she doesn’t spend a fortune on her own hair. And I think she’s feeling guilty because she’s been working so much lately.”

  “That’s great,” I say. While I’m sincerely happy for Sienna, I can’t help feeling a slight twinge of envy. Everything just seems to come so easy for her. Of course, Sunny Lewis-Marshall would never think to make her only daughter toil like a slave to pay for highlights. Sunny obviously gets what it takes to be popular these days. Or maybe she’s just too busy selling real estate to teach her daughter about boys liking you for your sense of humor and personality instead of your looks. It’s just my luck to have a mother who’s chosen to make her children her life’s work.

  Sometimes it amazes me that my mom and Sunny are best friends. They’re just so different. Sunny is all about real estate and fitted skirt suits and chemical peels. My mom is all about feminism and keeping your maiden name and hairy armpits. Okay, she doesn’t take it that far, but compared to Sunny, she’s practically a hippie! They’re an odd pair, but I guess when you’ve been friends as long as they have, differences don’t matter. It’s not like Sienna and I are exactly twins, and I know we’ll be best friends forever.

  Before I can tell her about my mother’s excellent plan to have me earn the money for highlights by devoting all my free time to some minimum-wage job at the mall, Sienna says, “I’ve got to go. My mom’s going out, and I need to ask her if I can use her car tomorrow.”

  When I return the phone to the kitchen, I search for my parents. I plan to guilt-trip them by relaying the fact that Sunny’s going to fork over the money for Sienna to enhance her already beautiful hair. While my mom won’t fall for it, my dad is a little less savvy and could maybe be convinced. But I find my mom and Troy in the living room, watching a rerun of The Simpsons.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  She looks up at me. “Oh, there was an emergency at one of his spec homes. A pipe burst or something.”

  “That’s a drag,” I say.

  “Yeah.” She pats the couch beside her. “Come watch TV with us.”

  Settling in next to her, I stare at the bratty antics of Bart Simpson. While I question my mom’s judgment in letting my disturbed brother watch a show so brimming with ideas to get him into trouble, I no longer resent her suggestion for an after-school job. Even if her parenting is a little too hands-on, I know she means well.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The week is a flurry of school, stagecraft (Rent is going to be so awesome!), and birthday party preparations. Somehow, I manage to hide myself away in my dad’s basement home office for a few hours. In that time, I fabricate—I mean, create—a fairly impressive résumé. The objective line alone should be enough to get me hired.

  Objective: To contribute to the success of your company through my hard wor
k, enthusiasm, creativity, and excellent manners while gaining valuable work experience to help me reach my higher education and long-term career goals.

  The résumé-building website I checked out said to keep your objective to one line, but that’s simply not possible for someone with as much to offer as I have.

  On Saturday morning, I take my mom’s car to Willowbrook Mall. The only reason I’m allowed to escape on “surprise party day” is that my mom has given me a list of last-minute errands to run for her in between submitting job applications. Brimming with confidence, I enter the rather dated shopping center. I’m wearing black pants, a cropped, beige blazer, and a colorful scarf. This exact outfit (or a more expensive designer version) was featured in ELLEgirl magazine. Apparently, this outfit says hip and stylish without going overboard into trendy, fashion-junkie territory. The magazine assures me that most employers prefer a conservative look, conveying responsibility, trustworthiness, and a lower probability of showing up at work hung over.

  When I have delivered résumés to virtually every clothing retailer (except Selena’s, which everyone knows is a grandma store) and most of the outlets in the food court, I tackle the list of chores my mom gave me.

  Two hours later I arrive home, weighed down with bags full of party supplies and snack food. “Thank god!” my mom says, like I’ve been missing for weeks. “Let’s get that food into the fridge and put the banner up on the feature wall. “Troy!” she calls at the top of her lungs. My hyperactive brother pitches himself off the top stair, hurtling his puny body into the kitchen. “Carry those cases of beer and wine into the garage. Louise, go put the hand towels out in the guest bathroom.” I start to move in that direction. “What are you doing?” my mom snaps. “I asked you to put the food away and the banner up! Will you listen, please?”

  Thank god the party starts in a few hours. I’m afraid my mom might collapse under the stress of all this covert event planning.

  The guests begin to arrive at 4:30 p.m. Sunny, Sienna, and Brody are the first (Keith has had my dad at the driving range since 10:00 a.m., and then they went to shop for a digital camera Keith was interested in). Sunny is carrying an enormous bunch of helium-filled balloons with “Life begins at 40” written on them. “Louise, would you tie these to one of the dining room chairs?” she asks me as she shrugs out of her rabbit fur coat.