by Jan Blazanin
How can a woman who looks so normal be pure evil?
Carmine pulls me down the sidewalk in his sled dog imitation. Every few feet he drags me onto the grass so he can sniff and pee. Some woman on TV referred to it as “reading the pee mail.” What’s he checking on—dog food brands, filtered or unfiltered water, neutered or sexually active? Since Carmine stacks up in the neutered column, that would be depressing.
As we reach Miss Simmons’s front porch, a dark cloud passes over the sun, and the birds stop singing. Carmine’s ears droop. He plops his rump on the sidewalk, stares at the House of Doom, and whines.
“I hear you, buddy. I’ll make this as quick as possible.”
Miss Simmons’s house is an old white two-story with a creaky front porch flanked on both sides by overgrown evergreen bushes. Cottonwoods and green ash trees shade the house and yard, and pink honeysuckle borders the cracked asphalt driveway. When I try to drag Carmine up the steps with me, he digs his toes into the sidewalk. I give up and hang his leash over the porch rail.
Miss Simmons’s front door jerks open as I’m reaching for her doorbell. “What do you think you’re doing?” she screeches. Her eyes blaze, her face is red, and she’s hanging on to a walker tricked out with a Velcro cup holder, an umbrella holder, and a blue canvas magazine sleeve. Gutted tennis balls cushion the bottoms of the walker’s two back legs. “Unhook that beast from my front porch before he rips out my railing!”
I look at my poor dog shivering on the sidewalk. To keep Miss Simmons from bonking me with her walker, I step down and move Carmine to a rusty fence post at the corner of what used to be a vegetable garden. I swear I can see gratitude in his eyes.
“Sorry,” I tell her. I walk back up to the house and hold out Manny’s invitation. “I just came to give you this.”
Miss Simmons throws her hands in front of her face, and her walker swishes past my bare shins. “I’m not subscribing to any magazines or buying any cookies!”
Now she’s pissing me off. I try to hand her an envelope, and she acts like I’m the Cottonwood Creek Strangler. “It’s just an invitation to—”
My tongue goes numb when a skunk waddles out from under the evergreen bushes on my left. I back against the wall and hold out my arm to keep Miss Simmons from stepping onto the porch. “Look out! That’s a skunk!”
Carmine jumps to his feet and lets out a string of high-pitched barks. His leash snaps tight. Ignoring him, the skunk waddles to the bottom of the steps.
I try to run for cover, but my flip-flops skid like Wile E. Coyote on a bad day. “Quick! Let me in and close the door!”
Miss Simmons uses her walker to hold me off. “Would you quit blocking the door? And stop yelling. You’re scaring Sammy Stripers.”
I freeze as the skunk toddles up the steps and stops at my feet. Holding my breath—for more than one reason—I slide away from the door as it wanders into Miss Simmons’s house.
“B-B-But, Miss Simmons. You just let a sk-skunk into your house.”
She levels a stern look at me. “Nonsense. That’s nothing but my old tomcat, Sammy.”
The old bat’s brain has flown out of its cave. “That was no tomcat; that was a skunk. You know, the wild animal that spreads rabies and distemper, not to mention the god-awful smell if it sprays you.”
Miss Simmons marches out of her house and into my face. “Listen to me, young lady. What you just saw was an old tomcat.” She sets a front wheel of her walker on my foot and puts enough pressure on it to get my attention. “And I’d better not hear that you’ve told anyone different. Do you understand me?”
Her face is deathly white, and her voice quivers underneath the tough talk. She’s really worried someone will find out she’s keeping a skunk for a pet. I used to wonder if Miss Simmons was crazy. Mystery solved.
“Seriously, I don’t care how many skunks you have.” I push her walker off my foot. “But I wouldn’t want them sneaking into our house through Carmine’s dog door.”
“Don’t get smart with me, miss, or I’ll give you a thrashing.” Miss Simmons shakes her walker so hard she has to hold on to the doorframe for support.
I imagine her chasing me around the yard, pushing her walker, and I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. “Sorry,” I finally manage. “Please just take this invitation to Manny’s graduation party, and I’ll go away.”
Miss Simmons eyes the envelope and finally takes it from my hand. “When and where is this party?”
“Our house next Saturday, from one to five.” Having done my duty—and nearly escaped with my life—I’m anxious to get away.
“Of course I’ll have to check my calendar, but I can probably come over for a little while,” she says, as if she’d be doing us a favor.
“That’s…good. Mom will be”—I wrack my brain for the right word—“thrilled.”
I scamper down the steps and free Carmine. “Well, I guess we’ll see you Saturday,” I call over my shoulder.
“Wait,” she says. I stop, and Carmine nearly jerks my shoulder from the socket. “Tell Manfred not to expect a gift from me. I believe a graduation card will be sufficient.”
“Okay,” I choke out. “I’ll be sure to tell him that.”
eight
SENIORS HAVE THEIR LAST CLASSES ON THURSDAY, MAY 19. On Friday, school dismisses early so families can prepare for the graduation ceremony at seven that night. Since the weather is clear, Cottonwood Creek holds graduation in the football stadium with seniors’ families and friends sitting in the bleachers. Laurel and I sit in the row behind Mom and Dad and watch Manny and the other 105 members of his class get their diplomas. I get a little misty-eyed when it sinks in that Manny will be gone in three months, and I’ll be able to store my extra stuff in his closet.
Mom has Dad and me up until almost midnight Friday putting the “finishing touches” on the house for the party on Saturday. Naturally, Manny is absent. Mr. Mattheson, the golf/track/softball coach and history/driver’s ed teacher, is holding an after-graduation open house for all his players/students. When Manny told Mom Friday morning that he felt obligated to go, I choked on the little marshmallow hearts in my cereal. I don’t know one person at Cottonwood Creek High who feels obligated to do anything Mr. Matt says. He’s such a personality powerhouse that his coaching stories put student drivers to sleep behind the wheel. But Manny laid the “senior year” card on the table, and Mom believed him for the thousand-and-first time.
Wait until next year, when I pull out the list I’m keeping of all the crap Manny’s getting away with because he’s a senior. If Mom needs help putting my senior party together, she’d better adopt Martha Stewart. I’ll be unavailable from April through June.
At three a.m. I wake to the peaceful rhythm of Manny puking his guts out in the bathroom across the hall. Before I pull the pillow over my ears, I set my alarm for nine o’clock. I’ve decided to prepare something extra special for his breakfast.
When Manny still hasn’t shown his face by nine thirty Saturday morning, I unlatch his door and send Carmine in to make a wake-up call. Soon I hear the thump of Carmine’s sixty pounds landing in the middle of Manny’s stomach.
This is followed by a series of gagging sounds and curses. “Carmine, you hairy turd! Get off me!” Although I hate to break up the happy reunion between a boy and his dog, I call Carmine off before Manny wakes up enough to do him any damage.
When I peek inside his room, Manny is sitting up in bed with the sheets tangled around his waist. His face is the color of wet cement, and his eyes are puffy. “What the hell are you doing, trying to kill me?”
The thought has crossed my mind.
“No, I’m trying to keep you from hurting Mom’s feelings. Even though she’s been up since dawn getting ready for your party—the one you haven’t helped with one bit,” I say, slapping down the whole deck of guilt cards, “she’s in the kitchen putting together a cheese omelet especially for you. So get your butt downstairs before it gets cold, or she’ll s
ee what a selfish, ungrateful brat you really are.”
While Manny’s—hopefully—writhing with guilt, I dash to the kitchen, switch on a burner, and dump in the eggs I’ve scrambled to a perfect froth. The preparation of this omelet must be carefully timed. As long as Manny does his usual ten-minute bathroom search for new whiskers and Mom stays outdoors ordering Dad around, I’m golden.
Speaking of golden, the smell of frying eggs is making my stomach growl. Too bad there were only three eggs left after Mom and I made a mountain of deviled eggs for the party.
I carefully lift the edges of the omelet with a spatula and let the raw egg run underneath. When it’s thick and puffy, I expertly flip it over to let the other side brown. Now comes the tricky part. From a bowl I’ve set aside, I pour in my secret ingredients: a quarter cup of crushed Tums lovingly blended into a half cup of a Pepto Bismol/ Tabasco sauce mixture. If this doesn’t cure Manny’s hangover, nothing will.
As I’m folding the omelet and pressing the edges together, the toilet flushes overhead. What timing! I lay three slices of cheddar cheese across the top and stand back to admire my masterpiece. Then I pull out my cell phone and snap a picture. I leave the phone in easy reach for more pictures to come.
I’ve just removed the pan from the burner when Manny walks in. His hair and face are wet, but he still looks like the mummy unwrapped. By the way his mouth is puckered, I can see he’s one gag reflex away from puking.
“God, Manny! What outhouse did you fall into last night? You look like a pile of crap!”
Manny pulls out a chair and falls into it. “Not so loud,” he groans. “My head hurts from the waist up.” He leans over the table and massages his eyes with the heels of his hands.
I set a glass of grapefruit juice in front of him. “Wait till I tell Mom and Dad that Mr. Mattheson throws drinking parties for the senior class. Mom’s head will do a complete three-sixty.”
“Don’t even joke about it. I spent ten minutes at Mr. Matt’s house last night, and it felt like a decade.” Manny takes a sip of juice and cringes. “I need to eat something solid before my stomach comes out through my nose.”
There’s my cue. I slide the omelet from the pan onto his plate. Even though I know what’s inside, it looks so delicious that my mouth waters.
“So what was that story you told Mom about ‘feeling obligated’ to attend the senior party?” I indulge my rising anger and grip the handle of the skillet more firmly. I can’t bash in Manny’s head, but fantasizing about it makes me feel better.
“Man, that smells great,” Manny says. “Where’s Mom, anyway?”
“Dad’s setting up the ‘in case of rain’ tent. She’s supervising.” Anticipation is making my palms sweat.
“Poor Dad.” Manny pokes the edge of the omelet with his fork.
Eat it already!
“Yeah. She’s had both of us working like dogs. So where were you last night?”
“A party at some farmhouse. At least half the senior class was there.” He cuts off a small piece, forks it into his mouth, and chews. “This tastes great! Just what the doctor ordered.”
You don’t know the half of it.
“So how come you’re not eating?” he asks.
“Mom, Dad, and I ate together hours ago,” I lie. “Mom wanted to let you sleep so you’d be rested for your party.”
“She’s the best.” Manny takes another bite. He has this weird habit of eating all the edges before he cuts into the center. All the more for him to hurl. “I need to do something nice for her, maybe a belated Mother’s Day card.”
“I don’t think Hallmark has come up with those yet.”
The back door opens and Dad heads straight to the coffee pot. The remains of his hair look like a helicopter landing zone. He fills his #1 DAD mug to the brim and gulps. “Ah! The fluid of life!”
I channel my mental powers into sending Dad back outdoors. “What smells so good?” He zeros in on Manny’s omelet. “Hey, where did that come from?”
“Mom made it for him—with the last three eggs.”
Dad thinks that over, probably trying to figure out when Mom quit nagging him long enough to throw an omelet together. Then he shrugs and pulls out the chair beside Manny. “How about splitting your breakfast with the old man?”
Manny shovels another bite into his mouth. “Aspen said you guys already ate.”
Dad cocks his head at me, no doubt wondering about the breakfast we didn’t eat together. Since I don’t know the signal for, “I’m playing a practical joke on Manny so don’t mess me up,” I just nod and smile.
“So what?” Dad finally says. “It won’t kill you to spare a few bites, seeing as how I’ve been busting my hump getting things ready for you.”
“Okay,” Manny says with a pained sigh. “After I take a couple more bites you can have the rest.” He digs his fork into the center of the omelet, chops off about half of it, and crams the huge chunk into his mouth.
How could I have doubted my brother’s greed?
As Manny begins to chew, my fingers tiptoe across the table to my cell phone. My first snap captures the moment when his eyes bug at the first hit of Pepto and Tabasco. And there’s the stomach-clutching and gagging that might or might not have come from the minty taste of Tums. Of course, I don’t miss the “I’ll kill you” glare in his eyes just before he dashes to the downstairs bathroom. I consider trying for a bathroom shot, but that might be taking it too far.
Dad laces his fingers across his stomach and studies Manny’s half-empty plate. “So I probably shouldn’t eat the rest of that omelet?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
He shakes his head. “That’s too bad. I was really hungry for one.”
“I’ll make you one next Saturday.”
“Same ingredients?” he asks.
“Not exactly.”
“Glad to hear it.” Dad goes to the coffeepot and refills his mug. “You’ll clean up the kitchen before your mother comes in?”
“Spic and span.”
“That’s one of the reasons you’re my favorite daughter.”
“And you’re my favorite dad.”
We both stop to listen to Manny retching in the bathroom.
Dad nods in that direction. “Senior parties are rough on the stomach. Might have to clean that up, too.”
I smile. “That’s okay.”
Dad smiles back. “Well, once more into the breach.” With a resigned sigh, he closes the door behind him.
As I dump the remains of Manny’s omelet into the disposal, I catch myself humming.
The afternoon weather is nauseatingly perfect—blue sky, gentle breeze, birds singing in three-part harmony. Any minute I’m expecting a carload of A-list celebrities to cruise by and decide to stop in for refreshments. That’s the kind of luck Manny has.
Speaking of which, he looks way too good for a guy who was blowing his intestines into the john three hours ago. Just before the party, he corners me in the upstairs hall. “That omelet was kick-ass. It knocked the alcohol out of my system in three minutes flat,” he says. “I’ve never felt this good after a night of drinking.”
“Naturally. It’s the number-one hangover cure on the Internet,” I bluff, keeping my arms crossed over my midsection. Experience has taught me never to leave my diaphragm unprotected. “I knew you’d want to feel good for your graduation party.”
“Is that so?” Manny straightens the collar of his favorite golf shirt. “I didn’t realize you were looking out for my health, Sis. Then it’s only fair for me to do something for you, too.” The creepy serial killer cadence of his voice makes my earlobes prickle. “I’m going to make sure you get lots and lots of healthful exercise by keeping you out of my car. For the entire summer.”
I have to cover my mouth to keep from spitting on the back of his neck as he saunters away.
nine
I’M LURKING ON A FOLDING CHAIR IN THE CORNER OF THE totally unnecessary tent Dad spent two hours setting up
and wishing Laurel would hurry up and get here. Our house and lawn are swarming with aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. I’ve wiped enough old-lady lipstick off my cheek to paint a mural. On the plus side, finals are over, Manny’s graduation ceremony wasn’t as torturous as I thought it would be, and I’m a free woman for the next eleven weeks.
Golden boy Manny is working the crowd, spreading rays of sunshine to one and all. His party has barely started, but he’s doled out enough hugs, kisses, and handshakes to be elected president. I’d be cheery, too, if an overflowing basket of graduation cards filled with money was waiting for me at the end of the day. But I notice Manny is doing frequent visual sweeps of our yard so he doesn’t miss the arrival of any of the dozens of girls he invited. I wonder how Cynthia likes sharing him with all those female friends.
“Aspen, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere.” Mom’s face is damp with sweat, and the peach-colored dress she bought especially for today is already wilting. “I need your help in the kitchen.”
I should have waited for Laurel behind the garage. “You look stressed, Mom. Is everything okay?”
“Your Aunt Sharon is driving me to the brink of insanity!” Mom dabs her forehead with a napkin. “Count your lucky stars that you have a brother instead of a sister.”
“I was just offering up a prayer of gratitude.”
But Mom is too frazzled to appreciate my wit. “If I hear one more time about how gifted her precious Jeremy is, I’ll pull her tongue out by the roots.”
And I thought that side of Mom’s personality was saved for me.
“And if that weren’t enough—” Her sentence ends in a yelp. “My stars! Why are the police here?”
Mom grabs my wrist and jerks. My left foot catches on the brace of the folding chair. It collapses around my ankle and sends me reeling into Mom. I snatch at the edge of the closest table for support, but it tips on the uneven lawn. And just that fast, Mom and I are sprawled on the grass, with lawn furniture piled on top of us.