The manicurist went to work on her nails using glues and files and tips and an airbrush. Arielle watched the manicurist’s skilled little hands go as they created tiny pieces of art upon her fingertips. She loved the salon, the smell of the acrylic and how it made her a bit dizzy when she inhaled its fumes. Once the nails were finished and just about dry, Arielle ran over to present them to Lucia. “Goodness gracious!” remarked her adoptive mother as she began to laugh merrily, nudging Ava to check them out. Ava glanced up from her magazine and stared at Arielle’s unstylishly long, squaretipped manicure puzzlingly. “Those look fast,” she said in a tone of mock adulation. “You look like an eighties metal groupie,” she laughed. “Seriously though, those nails are more vicious than a Puerto Rican drag queen.” Arielle wasn’t sure what any of those things meant, but she shrugged off the remarks because she knew her nails were mind-blowingly amazing and it didn’t matter what Ava thought. But as embarrassed as Ava was to be seen with the clueless little urchin with the questionable fashion sense, she was beginning to appreciate Arielle’s strangeness - if for nothing but comic relief.
“Well I think they’re an excellent choice,” said Lucia, holding back a giggle and speaking in the tone mothers use when praising their kids for things like macaroni jewelry. While Lucia settled up with the receptionist, Arielle wandered around the salon admiring her hands. Over by the retail racks, she noticed a life-size cut-out of a sun-kissed model next to a stand full of bronze bottles. The cutout had skin like Erica’s, all taut, dark and glowing, and the bottles seemed to promise the effect. Turning to glance at herself in a big mirror, all she could notice was her light white skin and ultra-fair hair. Appalled at how she literally paled in comparison, she swiped a bottle from the rack, dropped it casually down into her rain boot and backed away towards the door.
The whole way home she held back a devilish smile. She was excited to start working on her come-hither glow, planning to stop only when hers would finally rival that of Erica’s. Once they got home, she wasted no time in dashing upstairs to be alone.
She popped open the bottle and spread the lotion across her face, carefully applying it in thin, even strokes. But after a thorough application and several minutes of waiting, her skin showed no change and it baffled her. So she squeezed a big dollop into her palms, slathered it thick across her little arms and again she waited. Still, no change.
Growing impatient, she rubbed handfuls of it up and down her legs but still it left nothing to show for itself but faint yellow streaks, and the lotion she slopped onto her forehead and cheeks just didn’t seem to be working at all. Rattled, she threw herself across her bed. Cursing her pallid, ashen skin, Arielle fell angrily asleep.
Out in the driveway, Gabriel and his father applied final coats of wax on the cars they’d spent all day babying. It was something the two men enjoyed together, bonding as they buffed, and it was often during such bonding sessions that many of their clichéd father-son chats had found a natural stage. Sometimes Cliff shared pearls of wisdom that were sprung from his own initiative, and sometimes Gabriel had questions on his mind that a guy can really only ask his dad. Over the years, many topics had come up, from drugs to investments to pubic hair. Now that he was grown, his investments were solid. But for the odd marijuana fix, his life was pretty much drug-free, and it had been a long time since they last had to discuss pubic hair, although nothing would ever be gauche or taboo between the O’Faolain men.
On this day, this bright, sunny afternoon spent out in the driveway shining up the family’s fleet, Gabriel brought up a topic he had never raised before: he wanted to talk about love. So he asked his father, “Dad, when did you know that mom was the one for you?”
Cliff’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “I had a feeling you’d be asking me this stuff soon!” he said gleefully. “And I’ve been thinking about how I’d answer that since long before you were so much as a twinkle in my zippered fly.”
Gabriel laughed. “Nice one, Dad. Always reminding me I began down in your nuts . . .”
Cliff shrugged and said “I’m sorry, son. It just never seems to get old to me that my balls produced people. Anyway, back to your query . . . to give you an idea of how quickly she had my attention, I’ll start by telling you how she made me laugh within the first two minutes of meeting her,” he recalled happily. “And it wasn’t just a mild, half-hearted tee-hee; she had me loudly and embarrassingly busting a gut over a joke she made about Roman ‘vomitoriums’ which are not, as it turned out, actually auditoriums full of people puking to make room for more spaghetti . . .”
“I know that,” said Gabriel, looking sideways at his dad. “Did you think that’s what vomitoriums were?”
“We digress,” said Cliff, steering the conversation back. “Within the first ten minutes of talking to her, down in that tiny little cellar that was the only kitchen in our hostel, I could already appreciate how, even though she was so mellow and soft-spoken, she was such a passionate and commanding presence.
“By the end of our first date, I had already fallen in love with the way she seemed to walk and talk with such a gentle, well . . . lightness. She had this great kindness flowing through her, constantly showing itself in her cheerful observations and inspiring stories. And while we drank wine and ate pizza by drippy candle light, I saw an angel sitting across from me. She was so sweet and virtuous but at the same time, a real firecracker who was not afraid to tell it like it is, even if she had to be brutally honest. And I realized that night that there are two kinds of women in the world: ones who speak the truth, and ones who do not.”
Gabriel listened intently while polishing the rims on Ava’s coupe. Cliff continued:
“Mid-way through our second date, eating gelato under the stars and chatting easily about theories of creation and the reaches of infinity, I saw a side of her that made me finally understand why people pair off as they do. Suddenly, I understood the dream people are chasing when they decide to pledge themselves to another imperfect person. I barely knew Lucia, but already she seemed to bring out all that was best in me, but more importantly, she seemed to find all that was worst in me to be endearing and quirky. I can’t explain it . . . but from the day I met her, I knew she had my back. And I realized that night that there are two kinds of women in the world: ones who want to be on your team, and ones who just play for themselves.”
Gabriel nodded in thoughtful agreement, for his mother was undeniably awesome. Cliff continued: “By our third date, I knew something had definitely and irreversibly come over me. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember any girl before her, and I couldn’t imagine ever finding another who could even hold a candle. I had to have her, but even more, I had to be had by her. That night, I realized there are two kinds of women in the world: Your mother, and the wacky, clucking hen party that comprises all the rest of them.”
Gabriel smiled in gratitude, so glad to have been blessed with such solid people for parents. He always admired the way they spoke of each other; proudly, respectfully, and in a way that left no room for doubt that true love really exists. Cliff eyed his son curiously as he collected the scattered polishing cloths and sponges around their work area. It had been obvious to Cliff and Lucia in recent days that for the first time ever, their boy was falling in love and they couldn’t have been more proud of the girl he had chosen.
“Was any of that helpful?” he asked, rousing Gabriel from his daydream.
“More helpful than you’ll ever know,” answered Gabriel assuredly. And it had been.
“Was there anything else?” asked Cliff. Gabriel paused before answering, grappling for a moment with the reality of his next words before just blurting them out: “I’m proposing to Erica tomorrow!”
Both men stood in silence for several moments, absorbing his momentous announcement. Cliff knew that if his son said it, his son meant it, and he didn’t have to ask him if he was sure or truly ready or if he should sleep on it another night. His boy was a man now, a gentleman of his o
wn means who was grown enough to call his own shots. However, it still amazed Cliff to think his kid was about to ask a girl to be his wife.
“Have you picked out a ring?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.
“No need; I plan to give her Grandma Betts’s ring,” said Gabriel decisively. Cliff was charmed by the notion but asked his son whether he really thought the antique half-carat teardrop diamond flanked by mossy little emeralds would meet the bling expectations of the modern bride. “Erica isn’t one of those girls,” Gabriel assured him. “She doesn’t want a massive, sparkly conflict diamond from some store so she can brag about how much I spent . . . she’ll love Betts’ for what it means to our family.” So Cliff congratulated his son on a choice well made, and promised to have the ring polished by the following afternoon.
“Oh, and son,” he continued, sounding choked up with emotion, “on the off-chance that Erica shoots you down, you have my blessing to pawn the ring and buy yourself a second-hand Japanese sports car, or some other moderately-priced consolation because, while the ring is indeed a handsome piece, I don’t think it’s worth all that much.”
Gabriel was touched. “Thanks big guy!” he said while shaking his father’s hand with genuine revere.
“Any time, son,” replied Cliff, flicking a tear from the corner of his eye.
Demetra crept down the hall on her tip-toes, approaching Ava’s door quietly while it stood slightly ajar. She stopped to listen. Silence inside, followed by a bit of shuffling. When all fell silent again, she flung the door and jumped in with a “Hiiiiiii!”
Ava didn’t even flinch from where she sat on a little footstool in the middle of her newsprint-covered floor. She had her pottery wheel out, and her hands were currently massaging a large chunk of moistened clay into a smooth column that was beginning to resemble a vase. “What’s up?” she asked flatly.
“Do you have any candy?” asked her little sister, getting right to the point.
“Not usually.” replied Ava.
“Today though?” asked Demetra. “Negative. Why?” replied Ava.
Demetra sighed. “I saw your Facebook status. It says ‘call me, I have candy’.”
“So?” asked Ava.
“So why would you post that if you don’t actually have any candy?” replied Demetra, growing impatient. Ava didn’t bother to look up from her clay as it rotated atop its spinning disc. “It was a social experiment,” she answered.
Demetra raised an eyebrow. “Testing what theory?” she asked, annoyed with her sister’s short answers but at the same time, interested.
“Well, two days ago,” began Ava, “I posted ‘as I lay here dying, screeching demons haunt my wretched soul’.” She paused for a moment, allowing the dark, miserable depth of the statement to sink into her sister’s young head. “One person private messaged me to make sure I wasn’t feeling suicidal,” she said. “And three people clicked ‘Like’.”
Demetra scrunched up her face. “Yeah I saw that, you Goth. Were you feeling fed up with life or something?”
“No more than usual,” replied Ava casually. “But then, just for fun, and just to test my theory that people are inherently selfcentered, I posted ‘call me, I have candy’ to see how many of my friends would respond then. And, just as I suspected, already today I’ve received thirteen text messages and seven calls from people wanting to know what kinds of recreational drugs I’m trying to unload before the weekend.”
Demetra was confused, then it clicked: “Oh yeah. I forgot the words ‘candy’ and ‘drugs’ are interchangeable amongst your set.”
Ava nodded. “Well, apparently, the regular guy in these parts is bone dry. Even Rourke called me, asking if I carried Spanish Fly.”
“Tell me you messed with his head!” shrieked Demetra. Rourke had been the butt of their pranks and the subject of their ridicule for as long as they both could remember.
“Obvi!” replied Ava. “I told him I was holding a couple grams of gangster-crafted jarhyphenyl trip rocks from Leningrad.”
“What’s ‘jarhyphenyl’?” asked Demetra.
“I made it up,” answered Ava. “I said it gave the user passionate hallucinations with little to no comedown . . . our boy came over about an hour ago and gave me sixty bucks for a sparebutton baggie full of Turbinado sugar.”
Demetra laughed. “I thought Gabe dropped him off at the bus station with ferry fare and some lunch money, like, yesterday?”
“He did, and I just got it back. I guess Rourkie’s been camping out!”
“But won’t he know you ripped him off when the candy fails to get him high?”
“Well, he asked me if the drug was Chardonnay-soluble so I have to assume he was planning to use it on someone else,” answered Ava.
“Eww, that is so bleak,” said Demetra, beginning to dread her twenties. “So there never was any candy in here?”
“Never was. Unless you count Rourke’s sugar.”
“Devastating,” she said, leaning on Ava’s bedpost and thinking about Popeye sticks. “In other news, I think Gabriel’s going to propose to Erica!”
Ava finally looked up at her little sister. “What makes you say that?”
“I heard mom and dad talking about how he asked for Grandma Betts’s ring! I wonder how Arielle’s going to like that . . .”
“What do you mean?” asked Ava, confused. “Arielle will be stoked for the party, and yet another chance to hog the dance floor.”
“No way,” said Demetra assuredly. “Kids my age aren’t even holding hands yet, but I know a girl infatuated when I see one!” Ava argued that if Arielle really was into him, she’d have made a move on him long before Erica came along. “Arielle had been playing a slow hand until Erica swooped in and foiled it!” insisted Demetra. “Just take one look into her true blue eyes whenever he walks into the room; she sparkles for him! Take note of the ear-toear smile she brandishes whenever she’s spending time with him . . . I’ve yet to see anything else make her that happy.”
Ava considered what her sister was saying and was beginning to see her point. “Now that you mention it,” she concurred, “she really has been Gabe’s pet since she got here. Wow,” she said, staring off, “imagine how soul-crushing it must be for her to see him fall for someone else right in front of her!” They both paused, empathetically imagining Arielle’s heartbreaking, pitiable position.
“Can’t win ‘em all,” said Demetra softly and realistically. “I wonder if she’ll stay if he marries Erica.”
“I wonder,” said Ava. “But do you think she has anywhere else to go anymore?”
Arielle woke up an hour later to the sound of something pinging her window. She sat up.
“Arielle! Come out here!” called Gabriel from out in the yard. It was raining, but the whole family was out there with him and they appeared to be waiting for her.
“Wake up, Abe Simpson, naptime is over!” called Erica. Another pebble pinged her window so she stood up and walked over.
“Careful, kids, you’ll chip the glass!” said Lucia. It was beginning to come down hard out there, and the wind was picking up, blowing leaves and things around. Arielle stayed far enough away from her open windowpane that she didn’t get splashed.
“Come out!” yelled Demetra. “We invented a new team sport and we need you to be referee!” Ava muttered something about dragging Arielle out and forcing her to face her water aversion head-on. She said it just loud enough that Arielle could hear her. Arielle gulped.
“You’re going to love it, Arielle!” called Cliff. “What other game combines football and pugs? We’re calling it Mud Dog Football!” The pugs ran loose around the ‘court’ they traced with their heels across the wet sand. Arielle peered out, wishing she could join them. Lucia, the only one close enough to see her face clearly, took a few steps towards Arielle’s window to see that her skin looked oddly jaundiced. Concerned, she asked her, “Dear, what happened on your face?”
Suddenly remembering the copious amou
nts of self-tanning lotion she had applied just before falling asleep, Arielle rushed over to the mirror and gasped in horror as she discovered that her desired effect had not been achieved, and in fact the lotion had left her face streaked and blotched in an unnatural orange hue. Paired with her ultra-long flaming fingernails, she looked like a thing from the swamps of that fabled old ‘hell’ she’d once read about on a church billboard. She ran to the bathroom and splashed her face with water, but it didn’t help. She dampened a facecloth and scrubbed her skin vigorously, and while it stained the towel, the streaks wouldn’t budge. Even the palms of her hands were a deep, dark orange!
The family kept calling to her while she frantically searched through drawers and cupboards for a solution to her blunder. The pungent chemical smell of the lotion stung her nostrils while she pumiced, but to no avail. All the while, the family refused to let up, continually calling to her from outside.
“Arielle!” yelled Gabriel passionately. “Don’t make us beg! Come play, it’s a beautiful evening!” But Arielle, already unable to go out where it’s wet, was now unable to go anywhere there might be people who’d see the result of her vanity. Staying low, she crept over and peeked out at them, praying they’d give up and leave her alone. No luck there.
“Good evening Pacific North-Westerners,” said Erica in her best weather girl voice, “It’s a beautiful day if you favor high winds and torrential downpour and by the look of that green sky, I would say that a hurricane is indeed fast-approaching.”
“It sure is, Joyce,” replied Gabriel, channeling the deep booming voice of an anchorman. “Big systems moving in and we are seeing waves cresting above the twenty-foot mark so we are advising all persons, without further delay, to get out to their nearest beach and enjoy this force of nature as it lashes over the Mud Dog arena.” The pugs barked happily, excited by all the commotion. Olive sneezed out all the sand in her nose.
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