THIS BLOG HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Talk About Being Busy!
Okay, so you know that excuse everyone uses? The business factor? When you haven't gotten emails from a friend in months, and out of the blue, they answer one of your month-old ones right when you actually don't have the time to reply--"Hey, sorry I haven't been answering your emails, but I've just been so busy!"
Or when you've asked your brother or sister to do something for you, and half a year later, it finally gets done? Only after you've berated the living daylights out of him or her, of course. "Ease off, will ya'?" the sibling might say. "I've been really busy!"
"I've been busy" is that really lame excuse everyone knows is most often false.
It's also the number one excuse used in emails, phone calls, texts, conversations, or letters.
Alright, fine, I can't say that for sure (avoiding lawsuits and all that, you know)--there are no statistics in front of me--but I'm fairly certain that's the case.
However, you guys have to believe me when I say that I truly have been extremely busy over the summer. My family and I went to California for two weeks to visit family in early June, and I drove four and a half hours with my youth group to attend a church camp called The Edge (fabulous place, by the way) a week after we got back. Then, before I'd even had a chance to unpack the bottom layers of my suitcase from that trip, I traveled in a car packed with brothers (to "see me off") up to Converse College in Spartanburg, South Carolina for a two week writing program with the Governor's School for the Arts and Humanities.
It seemed almost as soon as I'd escaped the hamburger-smelling car (we'd stopped by McDonalds--Mom had given in to my brother's pleas) of the ride back from the Governor's School, than I was launched onto a hospital bed, stuffed in a gown that itched the back of my neck insanely. My combined tonsilectomy and adenoidectomy (adenoids are a tissue in the back of your nose, and in some cases, like mine, they swell up and have to be removed to enable proper breathing) went smoothly, but the aftermath of the surgery is forever stuck as a haze of pain, applesauce, plain vanilla ice cream, and pain medications in my memory.
Phew. Running out of typing "breathe" here.
Anyhow--oh snap. Never mind. Sorry, I've got to run. Ballet starts in half an hour, and it takes just about that to drive there. Bye! I'll post later.
Or when you've asked your brother or sister to do something for you, and half a year later, it finally gets done? Only after you've berated the living daylights out of him or her, of course. "Ease off, will ya'?" the sibling might say. "I've been really busy!"
"I've been busy" is that really lame excuse everyone knows is most often false.
It's also the number one excuse used in emails, phone calls, texts, conversations, or letters.
Alright, fine, I can't say that for sure (avoiding lawsuits and all that, you know)--there are no statistics in front of me--but I'm fairly certain that's the case.
However, you guys have to believe me when I say that I truly have been extremely busy over the summer. My family and I went to California for two weeks to visit family in early June, and I drove four and a half hours with my youth group to attend a church camp called The Edge (fabulous place, by the way) a week after we got back. Then, before I'd even had a chance to unpack the bottom layers of my suitcase from that trip, I traveled in a car packed with brothers (to "see me off") up to Converse College in Spartanburg, South Carolina for a two week writing program with the Governor's School for the Arts and Humanities.
It seemed almost as soon as I'd escaped the hamburger-smelling car (we'd stopped by McDonalds--Mom had given in to my brother's pleas) of the ride back from the Governor's School, than I was launched onto a hospital bed, stuffed in a gown that itched the back of my neck insanely. My combined tonsilectomy and adenoidectomy (adenoids are a tissue in the back of your nose, and in some cases, like mine, they swell up and have to be removed to enable proper breathing) went smoothly, but the aftermath of the surgery is forever stuck as a haze of pain, applesauce, plain vanilla ice cream, and pain medications in my memory.
Phew. Running out of typing "breathe" here.
Anyhow--oh snap. Never mind. Sorry, I've got to run. Ballet starts in half an hour, and it takes just about that to drive there. Bye! I'll post later.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
GRRRRR!!!!!!!
Why do parents always pick the most inconvenient days and times to do stuff??? I mean, seriously, you could just as easily go grocery shopping fifteen minutes later instead of feeling the need to do it right then and picking your daughter up from a get-together at the pool early. Or taking away your daughter's computer privileges just because she had an essay to write that was due--get this--four days away. Like I can't write an essay in four days. An essay, you say? In the middle of summer? Yeah right. But, no, it's true. Sadly. My mom is insisting that I enter this contest thing advertised in the newspaper. I really don't like writing of any sort, but I had to admitt, the prize looked pretty sweet. One of those high-tec-looking, gleaming silver stereos, complete with a slot to put your ipod in. But, thanks to my control freak of a mom, I'm going to be lucky to ever see my ipod again. Yep, meet me, Dylan Mcaphee (that's pronounced mc*A*phee), and my totally-out-of-line Mom.
"Dylan, you get down here this instant!" My mom yelled angrily. Sure, I had ignored her the other two times, but what did she expect from a kid who was banned from all electronic devices, got detention on the last day of school (you'd think she'd be over it by now, but nooooo), and had to write a totally boring (sense the rolling of eyes now, wi?) composition on--I still don't believe it--a day in the life of your dad's job? Great. It was perfect. Wonderful. Absolutely the worst, most boring, boring, boring essay subject in the world! I mean, my dad didn't even have a cool job! It sucks because all my friends' dads have neat jobs, like Lila's dad is a lawyer and Sarah's is the CEO of some air conditioning company, and even Emma's is pretty decent, but mine is...well, I guess I'm making to big of a deal over it...but he works for this company that makes drills. I know, I know, you're thinking "that's not too bad" and it's true. But in my opinion, it IS a boring job. How the heck am I supposed to make that essay interesting?
"DYLAN MARIE MCAPHEE, YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS!"
There goes my mom. I heard her counting at the top of her voice.
"ONE!"
Scowling heavily, I swung off my bed and stormed out of my room, arms knotted tightly. Deliberately going slowly down the stairs, making sure to bang as heavily as I could, I planted myself in the doorway of the living room. Mom whirled around from writing something on our refrigerator notepad. The fruit-patterned table cloth covering the kitchen table was barely visible beneath piles and heaps of papers. She placed her hands on her hip and cocked an eyebrow at me.
"Missy, when your mother calls you," she said, a dangerous gleam in her eye, "you come."
I stared at the floor stonily, my lower jaw jutted out. Okay, maybe I was being a bit of a brat, but whatever. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Mom sigh and shake her head.
"I wanted to talk to you about that essay," she said, moving a stack of papers off a chair to sit down at the table. Oh, here we go again, I thought, struggling to keep my already flipping temper in check.
"I've arranged it with Dad for him to take you to his work on Wednesday," she said, burying her fingers in her thin, strawberry-blonde hair and staring at a particularly thick mound of papers. "That's not a very busy day for him, so you won't be in the way, but you'll still find out what it's like."
I nodded, refusing to reply. She glanced at me and then back at the humongous piles of papers. I felt a tiny bit of sympathy stir inside me. Poor Mom, I thought. It's got to be hard, overseeing the testing of a bunch of new drugs and medical equipment. For those of you sitting clueless out there, my mom just started a new job a couple months ago, and has been swamped with documents and papers ever since. She says it'll calm down once this new job thing settles down, but for right now, I can tell it's plain exhausting for her.
I mentally hit myself. Dylan, here you are being a brat while Mom's hair is practically turning white, I chided myself, it's got to be stressful for her. My pride wouldn't let me drop my huffy attitude immediately and rush over and apologize to Mom, but I did make an effort to sound cheerful as I said,
"That's good. Thanks."
Mom gave a faint smile, and I walked back up the stairs to the second-floor landing. Then, right when I was about to turn in to my room, the door burst open in front of me and with the force of a bullet, my fair-haired, angelic-looking younger sister raced out of the room. Jenny and I, however unfortunate, share a bedroom, and you have no idea how many times I've pleaded with my parents to let me have my own room, but to no avail. Now, that little terror ran in circles around me, screeching at the top of her lungs.
"Away, Jenny!" I yelled in exasperation and anger. You'd think I'd get used to this, considering the oh-so-sweet Jenny tortured me with fifty times a day. And note the sarcasm when I say oh-so-sweet. Jenny's the exact opposite of what she looks like. She has a perfect, heart-shaped face with faint, rosy cheeks that would touch the heart of even the most crustiest of elderly people, sleek hair so blonde it's almost white, and big, baby-blue eyes. Not to mention she almost always has that deceiving, innocent, puppy-dog stare on her face, especially when she's trying to get something out of Mom or Dad. Yeah, forget your stories about the happy teenager surrounded by loving brothers and sisters, living a perfect life with a perfect family. That story is so totally false I crack up laughing every time I think of it. The reality is my brothers and sisters are a pain. I don't even have a cute little baby brother like Sarah. I have the most annoying toddler who sucks his thumb all the time, a holy terror of a seven-year-old sister on the loose, twin mischief-making brothers, and one heck of a jerk for a sixteen-year-old brother. Sometimes I really wish I had Emma's brother, Jason, as an older brother instead of Tyler.
A particularly loud scream of Jenny's brought me out of my reverie.
"Go, Jenny! Get away!" I shouted, catching her by the wrist as she circled me. I pulled her to the stairs and yelled, one hand clasping the the railing of the stairs to keep Jenny from running away.
"MOM!" I shrieked downstairs. "Get Jenny AWAY from me!"
"Jenny, baby," Mom's voice floated up from the kitchen, "come here to Mama. You were going to help me make ice cream, remember?"
Ice cream. Gosh. What a way to show discipline, Mom, I thought as Jenny freed herself from my grasp and whooshed down the stairs like a blonde cannonball, making sure to bump into me. I stumbled and grabbed the stair post to keep from tumbling down the stairs. I heard Jenny talking down in the kitchen.
"I want vanilla ice cream, Mommy," she said, now as angelic as could be. Oh great, I rolled my eyes.
Cue a la brothers.
"Ice cream?" Two identical heads poked around the bedroom door next to mine. Terrence and Thomas (funny, did you know the literal translation of Thomas is 'twin'? Just thought you'd like to know), called Tom, looked at me questioningly. I shrugged and wordlessly pointed downstairs. In a matter of seconds, they were gone, disappearing into the kitchen right as my two-year-old brother, Josh, toddled out of the open door on chubby legs, a thumb stuck in his mouth.
"Terrence, Thomas," I shouted irritably, "just leave me to deal with Josh, will you?"
"Yeah, thanks!" Terrence yelled back. I stomped over and scooped up Josh before he could fall down the stairs or something. I gasped at his weight. He was definitely getting heavier.
"You feel like a fifty-pound bag of flour," I told Josh, who turned Jenny's (or should I say Dad's) big blue eyes on me, "what've you been eating? Rocks?" Josh continued staring at me, small sucking sounds coming from his mouth. I sighed and walked carefully down the stairs to the kitchen.
I winced as I entered the room. It looked like the whole of the Ye Olde Ice Cream Shoppe had exploded in here. Fluffy, half-mixed ice cream lay in pools all over the counter. A hassled-looking Mom was hastily sponging up a spill of milk that had already soaked a quarter of her precious documents. Tom and Terrence were having fun with the blender, and Jenny was calmly adding pounds of blueberry yogurt to a container of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I rolled my eyes and set down Josh by the refrigerator.
"Terrence! Tom! Stop!" I yelled over the grinding sound of the blender. "Stop!"
They grinned evilly at me, and Terrence increased the power. My mouth set in a firm line, I marched over and punched the 'off' button. The blender's whirring ceased with a throaty gluck. I treated the twins to a glare before turning to help Mom mop up the milk.
"No, no," she said distractedly as I approached the table with some paper towels, "get a wet cloth. Milk sticks."
I wheeled around and opened a drawer by the sink of dish towels. Just as I was soaking the cloth in cold water, I heard the front door open and close.
"Dad! Dad!" Tom and Terrence yelled immediately, whisking into the living room faster than I could say "dead." I growled deep in my throat. I was so going to kill them. Things with Mom and Jenny never got out of hand unless the twins were there. They had probably wanted to "experiment" again. Thanks to them, the kitchen was a mess, a bunch of Mom's files ruined, and tonight's desert being sabatoged by Jenny and her yogurt cups. My dad lumbered into the kitchen, and I say lumbered because Terrence had his arms slung around Dad's neck, riding piggyback style, and Tom was stuck like static cling to his leg.
"Did you bring it, Dad?" Terrence asked excitedly, unsticking his face from the back of Dad's shirt. "Did you?"
"I sure did, boys," Dad smiled, fishing around in his pocket for something. "Aha! There's the little bugger." He held up a shiny, metal screw a little thicker than a sewing needle.
"Excellent!" said Tom keenly, getting off Dad's leg. He took the screw from Dad and held it up for closer inspection. Terrence scrambled down from Dad's back and leaned over his twin's shoulder.
"Great, this is just what we need," he muttered to Tom. Without another word, the two turned and ran across the kitchen and pounded up the stairs. After their banging had subsided, I heard a slam and the unmistakable click of a door being locked. I heaved a quiet sigh. Being the geniuses they were, they'd probably turn up a few days from now with an atomic bomb. Well, maybe not something that drastic, they wouldn't have the materials, but I'm willing to bet they'll be the first ever people to market a robot when they're grown up. And not just one of those black and white, astronaut-looking robots that can walk at about two inches per minute. A real one like in that old TV show, The Jetsons.
For the first time, Dad took in the sight of the kitchen and stopped.
"Whoa," he whistled, "what happened here?"
"The boys," Mom panted, scrubbing hard at the table, "decided to see what would happened when you blended baking soda, vinegar, and ice cream together."
Have any of you ever done the baking soda and vinegar in a water bottle experiment? For science or something? Well, basically you get a small bomb, and water explodes everywhere. I stared at her. Then I slowly dropped to my knees to wipe up a puddle of milk on the floor, a grin inching unwillingly up my face.
"Yikes," I said, "I bet that was something to see."
"Those boys," Mom sighed in exasperation. She straightened up, holding a sopping cloth. She trotted over and dropped it in the sink quickly, before it had time to drip. As my dish towel wasn't in danger of dripping, I walked to an alcove under the stairs and opened the door. A musty, sickly sweet scent almost knocked me off my feet. Coughing, my hand felt in the air above my head and fumbled with a string. I blinked as the harsh, white light from a lightbulb dangling from the ceiling filled our laundry room. I glanced at the washing machine and dryer, crammed together, and at the laundry hamper tucked in the smallest end. I only had to take half a step to drop my wet cloth on top of the washer. Clicking off the light and stepping out of the room, I took a deep breathe, enjoying the fresh air. I don't know about you, but I really can't stand the smell of dish detergent.
~dYlaN~
"Dylan, you get down here this instant!" My mom yelled angrily. Sure, I had ignored her the other two times, but what did she expect from a kid who was banned from all electronic devices, got detention on the last day of school (you'd think she'd be over it by now, but nooooo), and had to write a totally boring (sense the rolling of eyes now, wi?) composition on--I still don't believe it--a day in the life of your dad's job? Great. It was perfect. Wonderful. Absolutely the worst, most boring, boring, boring essay subject in the world! I mean, my dad didn't even have a cool job! It sucks because all my friends' dads have neat jobs, like Lila's dad is a lawyer and Sarah's is the CEO of some air conditioning company, and even Emma's is pretty decent, but mine is...well, I guess I'm making to big of a deal over it...but he works for this company that makes drills. I know, I know, you're thinking "that's not too bad" and it's true. But in my opinion, it IS a boring job. How the heck am I supposed to make that essay interesting?
"DYLAN MARIE MCAPHEE, YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS!"
There goes my mom. I heard her counting at the top of her voice.
"ONE!"
Scowling heavily, I swung off my bed and stormed out of my room, arms knotted tightly. Deliberately going slowly down the stairs, making sure to bang as heavily as I could, I planted myself in the doorway of the living room. Mom whirled around from writing something on our refrigerator notepad. The fruit-patterned table cloth covering the kitchen table was barely visible beneath piles and heaps of papers. She placed her hands on her hip and cocked an eyebrow at me.
"Missy, when your mother calls you," she said, a dangerous gleam in her eye, "you come."
I stared at the floor stonily, my lower jaw jutted out. Okay, maybe I was being a bit of a brat, but whatever. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Mom sigh and shake her head.
"I wanted to talk to you about that essay," she said, moving a stack of papers off a chair to sit down at the table. Oh, here we go again, I thought, struggling to keep my already flipping temper in check.
"I've arranged it with Dad for him to take you to his work on Wednesday," she said, burying her fingers in her thin, strawberry-blonde hair and staring at a particularly thick mound of papers. "That's not a very busy day for him, so you won't be in the way, but you'll still find out what it's like."
I nodded, refusing to reply. She glanced at me and then back at the humongous piles of papers. I felt a tiny bit of sympathy stir inside me. Poor Mom, I thought. It's got to be hard, overseeing the testing of a bunch of new drugs and medical equipment. For those of you sitting clueless out there, my mom just started a new job a couple months ago, and has been swamped with documents and papers ever since. She says it'll calm down once this new job thing settles down, but for right now, I can tell it's plain exhausting for her.
I mentally hit myself. Dylan, here you are being a brat while Mom's hair is practically turning white, I chided myself, it's got to be stressful for her. My pride wouldn't let me drop my huffy attitude immediately and rush over and apologize to Mom, but I did make an effort to sound cheerful as I said,
"That's good. Thanks."
Mom gave a faint smile, and I walked back up the stairs to the second-floor landing. Then, right when I was about to turn in to my room, the door burst open in front of me and with the force of a bullet, my fair-haired, angelic-looking younger sister raced out of the room. Jenny and I, however unfortunate, share a bedroom, and you have no idea how many times I've pleaded with my parents to let me have my own room, but to no avail. Now, that little terror ran in circles around me, screeching at the top of her lungs.
"Away, Jenny!" I yelled in exasperation and anger. You'd think I'd get used to this, considering the oh-so-sweet Jenny tortured me with fifty times a day. And note the sarcasm when I say oh-so-sweet. Jenny's the exact opposite of what she looks like. She has a perfect, heart-shaped face with faint, rosy cheeks that would touch the heart of even the most crustiest of elderly people, sleek hair so blonde it's almost white, and big, baby-blue eyes. Not to mention she almost always has that deceiving, innocent, puppy-dog stare on her face, especially when she's trying to get something out of Mom or Dad. Yeah, forget your stories about the happy teenager surrounded by loving brothers and sisters, living a perfect life with a perfect family. That story is so totally false I crack up laughing every time I think of it. The reality is my brothers and sisters are a pain. I don't even have a cute little baby brother like Sarah. I have the most annoying toddler who sucks his thumb all the time, a holy terror of a seven-year-old sister on the loose, twin mischief-making brothers, and one heck of a jerk for a sixteen-year-old brother. Sometimes I really wish I had Emma's brother, Jason, as an older brother instead of Tyler.
A particularly loud scream of Jenny's brought me out of my reverie.
"Go, Jenny! Get away!" I shouted, catching her by the wrist as she circled me. I pulled her to the stairs and yelled, one hand clasping the the railing of the stairs to keep Jenny from running away.
"MOM!" I shrieked downstairs. "Get Jenny AWAY from me!"
"Jenny, baby," Mom's voice floated up from the kitchen, "come here to Mama. You were going to help me make ice cream, remember?"
Ice cream. Gosh. What a way to show discipline, Mom, I thought as Jenny freed herself from my grasp and whooshed down the stairs like a blonde cannonball, making sure to bump into me. I stumbled and grabbed the stair post to keep from tumbling down the stairs. I heard Jenny talking down in the kitchen.
"I want vanilla ice cream, Mommy," she said, now as angelic as could be. Oh great, I rolled my eyes.
Cue a la brothers.
"Ice cream?" Two identical heads poked around the bedroom door next to mine. Terrence and Thomas (funny, did you know the literal translation of Thomas is 'twin'? Just thought you'd like to know), called Tom, looked at me questioningly. I shrugged and wordlessly pointed downstairs. In a matter of seconds, they were gone, disappearing into the kitchen right as my two-year-old brother, Josh, toddled out of the open door on chubby legs, a thumb stuck in his mouth.
"Terrence, Thomas," I shouted irritably, "just leave me to deal with Josh, will you?"
"Yeah, thanks!" Terrence yelled back. I stomped over and scooped up Josh before he could fall down the stairs or something. I gasped at his weight. He was definitely getting heavier.
"You feel like a fifty-pound bag of flour," I told Josh, who turned Jenny's (or should I say Dad's) big blue eyes on me, "what've you been eating? Rocks?" Josh continued staring at me, small sucking sounds coming from his mouth. I sighed and walked carefully down the stairs to the kitchen.
I winced as I entered the room. It looked like the whole of the Ye Olde Ice Cream Shoppe had exploded in here. Fluffy, half-mixed ice cream lay in pools all over the counter. A hassled-looking Mom was hastily sponging up a spill of milk that had already soaked a quarter of her precious documents. Tom and Terrence were having fun with the blender, and Jenny was calmly adding pounds of blueberry yogurt to a container of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I rolled my eyes and set down Josh by the refrigerator.
"Terrence! Tom! Stop!" I yelled over the grinding sound of the blender. "Stop!"
They grinned evilly at me, and Terrence increased the power. My mouth set in a firm line, I marched over and punched the 'off' button. The blender's whirring ceased with a throaty gluck. I treated the twins to a glare before turning to help Mom mop up the milk.
"No, no," she said distractedly as I approached the table with some paper towels, "get a wet cloth. Milk sticks."
I wheeled around and opened a drawer by the sink of dish towels. Just as I was soaking the cloth in cold water, I heard the front door open and close.
"Dad! Dad!" Tom and Terrence yelled immediately, whisking into the living room faster than I could say "dead." I growled deep in my throat. I was so going to kill them. Things with Mom and Jenny never got out of hand unless the twins were there. They had probably wanted to "experiment" again. Thanks to them, the kitchen was a mess, a bunch of Mom's files ruined, and tonight's desert being sabatoged by Jenny and her yogurt cups. My dad lumbered into the kitchen, and I say lumbered because Terrence had his arms slung around Dad's neck, riding piggyback style, and Tom was stuck like static cling to his leg.
"Did you bring it, Dad?" Terrence asked excitedly, unsticking his face from the back of Dad's shirt. "Did you?"
"I sure did, boys," Dad smiled, fishing around in his pocket for something. "Aha! There's the little bugger." He held up a shiny, metal screw a little thicker than a sewing needle.
"Excellent!" said Tom keenly, getting off Dad's leg. He took the screw from Dad and held it up for closer inspection. Terrence scrambled down from Dad's back and leaned over his twin's shoulder.
"Great, this is just what we need," he muttered to Tom. Without another word, the two turned and ran across the kitchen and pounded up the stairs. After their banging had subsided, I heard a slam and the unmistakable click of a door being locked. I heaved a quiet sigh. Being the geniuses they were, they'd probably turn up a few days from now with an atomic bomb. Well, maybe not something that drastic, they wouldn't have the materials, but I'm willing to bet they'll be the first ever people to market a robot when they're grown up. And not just one of those black and white, astronaut-looking robots that can walk at about two inches per minute. A real one like in that old TV show, The Jetsons.
For the first time, Dad took in the sight of the kitchen and stopped.
"Whoa," he whistled, "what happened here?"
"The boys," Mom panted, scrubbing hard at the table, "decided to see what would happened when you blended baking soda, vinegar, and ice cream together."
Have any of you ever done the baking soda and vinegar in a water bottle experiment? For science or something? Well, basically you get a small bomb, and water explodes everywhere. I stared at her. Then I slowly dropped to my knees to wipe up a puddle of milk on the floor, a grin inching unwillingly up my face.
"Yikes," I said, "I bet that was something to see."
"Those boys," Mom sighed in exasperation. She straightened up, holding a sopping cloth. She trotted over and dropped it in the sink quickly, before it had time to drip. As my dish towel wasn't in danger of dripping, I walked to an alcove under the stairs and opened the door. A musty, sickly sweet scent almost knocked me off my feet. Coughing, my hand felt in the air above my head and fumbled with a string. I blinked as the harsh, white light from a lightbulb dangling from the ceiling filled our laundry room. I glanced at the washing machine and dryer, crammed together, and at the laundry hamper tucked in the smallest end. I only had to take half a step to drop my wet cloth on top of the washer. Clicking off the light and stepping out of the room, I took a deep breathe, enjoying the fresh air. I don't know about you, but I really can't stand the smell of dish detergent.
~dYlaN~
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Chapter Three Part I
Ding, ding! The countdown has officially started, people! In exactly 7 days and 23 hours Dylan, Sarah, Lila, and I are going to New York!!!!! Boo-yah!!!!! I'm soooo excited!! I've downloaded seven new songs on my ipod (four of which are from Jason's), and rented this movie called Stardust. Dylan says it's really good, but, I mean, come on--the guy falls in love with a star?
I lay flopped on my back, outstretched on my bed, the earphones to my ipod in my ears. I rotated my thumb, scrolling through my songs on my ipod. May I mention that its a totally sweet ipod nano? Sky-blue, eight gigs, and still not a scratch on it! Which is pretty good considering its been lost twice, dropped once, and been slobbered on by Sarah's baby brother.
Humming along with "I'm A Believer" by Smashmouth, I got up and walked to my computer. I jiggled the mouse to exit the screen saver, and pulled up my email. A quick glance showed me that I had four new messages in my inbox. A reasonable amount, considering I check it pretty often. I opened my inbox. Two of the messages were from Dylan, another one from Sarah, and the remaining was a spam email from hotmail.com. After deleting the spam mail, I clicked on Sarah's message. It was a reply to an email I'd sent a couple days earlier.
From:kittyluvr4@hotmail.com
To:sarahldolphinluverr@gmail.com
hey, wat up Sarah? im SO excited about NY aren't u!!!! i took dylan's advise and rented stardust on my ipod. though i must say, it doesnt look very promising. ttyl!
To: kittyluvr4@hotmail.com
From: sarahldolphinluverr@gmail.com
help!!!!!! emma you've gotta help me!!! i forgot!! my grandparents aniversary is the day we leave for nyc! and my parents are talking about not letting me come!!! AAAAH!!! call me first chance u get!
ur bff
I stared, dumbfounded, at Sarah's message. What? Her parents were talking about not letting her come to New York? No! She had to come! Emma bolted into action and opened a fresh email.
To: sarahldolphinluverr@gmail.com
From: kittyluvr4@hotmail.com
guys (I could practically sense the exasperation)! we're at the other end of the library!!!!!
Lila and I stared gultily at each other.
I lay flopped on my back, outstretched on my bed, the earphones to my ipod in my ears. I rotated my thumb, scrolling through my songs on my ipod. May I mention that its a totally sweet ipod nano? Sky-blue, eight gigs, and still not a scratch on it! Which is pretty good considering its been lost twice, dropped once, and been slobbered on by Sarah's baby brother.
Humming along with "I'm A Believer" by Smashmouth, I got up and walked to my computer. I jiggled the mouse to exit the screen saver, and pulled up my email. A quick glance showed me that I had four new messages in my inbox. A reasonable amount, considering I check it pretty often. I opened my inbox. Two of the messages were from Dylan, another one from Sarah, and the remaining was a spam email from hotmail.com. After deleting the spam mail, I clicked on Sarah's message. It was a reply to an email I'd sent a couple days earlier.
From:kittyluvr4@hotmail.com
To:sarahldolphinluverr@gmail.com
hey, wat up Sarah? im SO excited about NY aren't u!!!! i took dylan's advise and rented stardust on my ipod. though i must say, it doesnt look very promising. ttyl!
To: kittyluvr4@hotmail.com
From: sarahldolphinluverr@gmail.com
help!!!!!! emma you've gotta help me!!! i forgot!! my grandparents aniversary is the day we leave for nyc! and my parents are talking about not letting me come!!! AAAAH!!! call me first chance u get!
ur bff
I stared, dumbfounded, at Sarah's message. What? Her parents were talking about not letting her come to New York? No! She had to come! Emma bolted into action and opened a fresh email.
To: sarahldolphinluverr@gmail.com
From: kittyluvr4@hotmail.com
sarah--don't worry--im working on it. can u meet me at the library in 15 minutes? my family is going and ill c if dylan and lila can meet us there 2. if ur not there, ill assume you werent able to come, but try!! we gotta figure something out!! u HAVE to come! =)
I punched send and jumped out of my chair. Racing to my doorway and gripping the frame, I shouted down the stairs, in the direction of my parent's bedroom.
"Mom," I yelled, ears perked for an answer, "can we make it to the library in fifteen minutes?"
"Fifteen minutes?" Mom's shout sounded muffled behind the closed door. "Have you rounded up all your library books?"
"What?" I'd missed the latter part.
"I said have you rounded up your library books!" Mom yelled a bit louder.
"Oh," I called back, "yes!"
"Then put them in the car with the others!"
"What?" I said again.
"COME DOWN HERE AND QUIT SHOUTING!"
I thundered down the stairs and turned the corner, reaching my Mom and Dad's bedroom. Opening the door, I saw Mom at her computer desk, typing so fast I couldn't distinguish the individual clicking sounds the keys made as she pushed them. She was sharing glances between the monitor and some sheets of paper.
"What did you say?" I repeated, walking closer and leaning against her desk. I picked up a clay dish full of paper clips. Selecting a green clip and a pink one, I hooked them together.
"I said to put your books in the trunk with the other books," she half-laughed, shaking her head.
"Ah," I said, connecting two more paper clips. "Okay."
I started walking toward the door, when Mom's voice stopped.
"Emma?"
I turned around to face her amused look.
"Yes, ma'm?"
"I'll need those paper clips," she smiled.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I was slouched in one of the library's comfortable arm chairs, reading a book I'd found. From my position, I could barely see Mom, browsing through the shelves in the adult section, and Jason, checking out the young adult shelves. Andrew was out of sight among the kid books, and Dad was on the other side of the building on the library computers. I sighed and wondered what time it was. I didn't have a watch, as my cell phone usually served the purpose of telling me the time (I'd left my purse at home), but I was pretty sure it was about the time Sarah, Dylan, and Lila were supposed to show up. I'd texted Lila and Dylan, so they knew what was going on.
Suddenly, I spotted Lila walking through the automatic doors at the front of the library. I stifled a shout, remembering where I was, and quickly got up and weaved through the many shelves. I reached Lila, who jumped when I said her name.
"Lila!"
Startled, she looked around and spotted me.
"Oh, hi, Emma, I didn't see you," she said, grinning at me. I motioned for her to follow me, and we made our way back to my chair. Plopping down in the chair next to me, she pulled out her cell phone.
"I guess Dylan and Sarah aren't here?" she asked.
"Nope," I shook my head, "but they should be here any minute."
"Well, I'm still going to text Sarah," Lila said, and a second later I heard a rapid series of beeps as she sent a text message to Sarah's phone.
"There," she stated a second later, flipping her phone closed with a snap, "I've asked her where she is."
"Hopefully on her way here," I said anxiously. "We really need to get a plan together."
"Don't worry," said Lila matter-of-factly, "we'll figure something out."
A few minutes passed by while Lila got up and meandered over to the book shelves. Idly glancing at the rows of books, she pulled out a thin novel and read the back. I heaved a sigh and picked up the book I was reading, a completely uninteresting story about a group of talking field mice. The only reason I'd taken it off the shelf was because I thought the author sounded familiar. Now I knew I had been wrong. Just as I was leafing through the first chapter, I heard a beep-da-beep from Lila's phone, a slim bulk in her pocket. She hurridly tried to shove the book she was looking at back on its place on the shelf, gave up, placed it on top of some books, and dug her cell phone out of her pocket. In a flash, I had dropped my book and was looking over her shoulder. Lila went to the 'view now' option from the new text message screen and we both read Sarah's text.
guys (I could practically sense the exasperation)! we're at the other end of the library!!!!!
Lila and I stared gultily at each other.
"Oops," I said. We didn't bother to read the rest of the message. Instead, we walked as quickly as we could, past the ends of numerous shelves, to the very last set of armchairs and a table. Slouched in the armchairs, looking thoroughly annoyed, were Dylan and Sarah.
"You're kidding me!" I almost shouted as Lila and I reached them. "We've been waiting and waiting for who knows how long, and here you are cooling off in chairs at the other end of the room!"
I was ticked.
"Hey," said Dylan, her arms crossed, "we walked around looking for ya'll, but didn't see you. We thought you weren't here yet."
"There is no way you could have missed us!" I snorted. "We were right there!"
Dylan shrugged, looking bad-tempered, and turned her back to me.
"Guys," Lila rolled her eyes, irritated, "let's just sit down and figure something out. Please?"
Still slightly vexed, I sat down with the others at the light-wooded table. The stiff, high-backed, uncomfortable chairs weren't helping my mood. I struggled to shake off my exasperation and glanced around at everyone. Well, maybe I didn't quite look at Dylan, but you get the point.
"Okay," began Sarah in her crisp british accent, looking, as usual, unruffled, "so, uh, you all know that my grandparents' anniversary is the day of the New York trip. Now that would all be posh and all (I know--posh? It's a british thing) if it weren't for the fact that my mum and dad are planning a surprise thingmabobby for them."
"A surprise thingmabobby?" I inquired.
"Like, they're planning this fancy dinner, and they even called up all my grandparents old friends who are still, you know, alive."
Lila, Dylan, and I nodded. Sarah continued, looking thoroughly depressed.
"They say their granddaughter should be there to celebrate with them, and I agree with them, but--" Sarah broke off, looking lost.
"It's New York," finished Dylan quietly. Sarah nodded miserably. I sighed.
"Well, this is quite a pickle," contemplated Lila.
"You can say that again," I said dully. A hundred crazy ideas were racing through my head, like hiding Sarah at my house and telling her parents she'd been kidnapped, then sneaking off to New York. Or having Sarah pretend to fall into a depression, and telling her parents with a casual, hopeless sort of sadness, that the only way to cure her would be to let her go to New York. Or we could always pretend to be unknown people living in Alaska, and blackmail Sarah's parents until they relented. Even as these insane thoughts filed through my head, I knew they were ridiculous and no good.
"Why don't we just march into Sarah's house and ask her parents to call off the party," said Dylan. Normally, I would have rolled my eyes at her, but in the light of recent events, I contented myself with staring at her stonily before facing Lila and Sarah.
"We need to come up with a plain, sensible plan," I said professionally.
"No, duh," whispered Lila, giggling. I glared at her before continuing.
"Which, I'm afraid to say, does not including storming into Sarah's house and demanding her parents call off foreplanned parties." I said this pointedly to Dylan, who stuck her tongue out at me. Sarah cleared her throat.
"What we need," she looked meaningfully at all of us, "is to come up with a little something of our own. A surprise something," she added, seeing the blank looks on our faces.
"Er--what did you have in mind?" Dylan asked. Sarah looked like she was restraining herself from rolling her eyes with difficulty. Lila giggled, and I looked at her.
"It's just," snickered Lila, "that we were the ones who were going to try and help Sarah. Now who's coming up with the ideas?"
Dylan and I both whacked her at the same time.
"Ow!" She cried, laughing.
"Sarah, I think I know where you're going, but how?" I said.
"Yeah, and what in the world would we do?" Dylan snorted, spreading her hands out.
"Well, here's what I thought..." Sarah leaned forward, lowering her voice...
To Be Continued (it's long enough)...
§Emma§
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Chapter Two, Continued:
Okay, so getting back to Chapter Two. (May I remind you of what I just said. "M'kay." Alright?)
"I want you to send out an email to Dylan, Sarah, and Lila--they are who you're inviting right?" My mom paused. I nodded in comformation.
"Yep!"
"Okay," she said, "send out an email with all the New York information."
I had spotted a flaw.
"But--" I began. Not surprisingly, she guessed what I was going to say.
"I'm going to right down all the info," she smiled. "Here, come into the kitchen where I can find something to write with." I skipped into our bright, cheery kitchen behind my mom. I lounged against the table, observing the perfect, overcast day outside. My mom was rustling through various drawers, muttering to herself.
"Goodness gracious, those boys never put anything back...Where is that pencil? Aha! Here's a pen--nope, all dry...should have known...those boys...oh, there's that card...why in the world that was in there...Ha! Here we go!" She emerged triumphantly, clutching a jagged piece of notebook paper and a pencil. "Let's see, Emma..." I waited patiently as her hand flew across the paper, filling it with her neat, precise handwriting. After another minute, she snatched the paper up and handed it to me, flinging the pencil back in the drawer. "Everything's on there. Departure dates and times, a general agenda, pick-up times...It's all there."
"Coolio," I grinned, glancing at the sheet. Whoa, I thought. She really did put everything in there. The whole sheet was crammed top to bottom with writing. Good thing I was a fast typer. I started to walk out of the kitchen, still looking at the paper, but almost ran into Jason, my seventeen-year-old brother.
"Whoa," he held up his hands, grinning, "watch it, little sis." I stuck my tongue out at him and darted around his lean frame.
"Emma?"
I halted and wheeled around to face Mom.
"Please give your room a quick pick-up before dinner," she said, brushing a strand of thick, brunette hair out of her face. I groaned.
"Young lady," she began sternly, "if it's that bad I don't know why I let you have a slumber party."
I shrugged sulkily, immediately sensing the two things beneath her words. One, that my room shouldn't have been that messy in the first place. Two, she just let me have a slumber party. I chewed my tongue and nodded reluctantly. Busy at the counter behind Mom, Jason heaved an exagerated sigh, tsking.
"Ah, if only you'd cleaned up your room Thursday instead of bugging me about downloading your ipod songs," he said, shaking his head. "Too bad."
I treated him to a glare.
"It's not that bad, honest," I wheedled, turning my attention back to Mom.
"Nontheless," she said in a voice that invited no argument, "make sure it's cleaned by dinner."
Chewing my tongue to keep from growling, I whirled around and marched past the living room, up the stairs, and into my white-carpeted bedroom. Ignoring a lump of laundry by the door, and crossed over to my desk and sat down. Spinning on the office chair to face the monitor, I shook the mouse to wake the computer up and opened internet explorer. I went to gmail.com and signed in, tapping my finger impatiently on the mouse as it loaded. After I entered my email and password, I clicked 'New.' I stared at the blank email, thinking.
I glanced around my room for inspiration. My full-sized bed with a heather-green comforter, a small nightstand supporting my digital alarm clock and a lava lamp, a large chest of drawers with a hamster cage, lamp, tissue box, and several framed pictures placed on it, my puppy calendar hanging on the wall over my bed, the sliding door to my closet, and the furry, turqoise turtle chair with the third book to my all-time favorite series, Maximum Ride, thrown in the middle of it. The Maximum Ride book series is A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. Totally. Once I'd discovered what an absolute sensation it was, I'd persuaded Dylan to read it. She was on the first book, The Angel Experiment, while I had finished the most recent book, The Final Warning, and was waiting for the fifth to come out. I stared absentmindedly at the book's glossy cover. To restrain myself from blackmailing the author to hurry up with the fifth book, I was rereading the third book, Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports. I shifted in the swively chair and started typing, watching the inky black letters appear on the fresh email like rows of little ants.
Hi Everybody, I typed,
I'll have told you about this already, but here's the official invitation and information.
For my 14th b-day, I'm going to New York, New York for a week. My parents and my younger brother are going. You should all be at my house at 11 o'clock on June 12th. Pack for a seven day trip, and make sure to bring a swimsuit (and swimming stuff), as we'll be swimming at the hotel pool. It's about a 9 hour flight to NY, so I suggest you bring something to entertain yourself on the plane. I'm bringing my ipod, and you might want to bring yours if you have one, and we'll have some games and stuff. The hotel we're staying at is the Roosevelt Hotel New York located on the corner of East 45th St. and Madison Ave., room 709. On June 19th, plan to have your parents pick you up at 3 o'clock. We will call on the way back if we are going to be earlier or later than that time. Hope ya'll can come!!
I'm inviting Dylan, Sarah, and Lila.
Contact #s:
My mom's cell: 864-567-9872
My dad's cell: 864-525-0434
My home phone: 864-922-6745
Can't wait!!
I sat back in my seat with a satisfied sigh. After quickly rereading it for errors, I punched 'send' and glanced around at my clock. Almost dinner time. Already, I could smell the apetizing scent of lasagna. I drew in a deep breathe through my nose, savoring the warm, meaty odor.
I leaned back and stretched my hands before me, yawning. Giving myself a shake, I heaved off my comfortable desk chair and loped across the floor to the laundry pile. T-shirts, jean shorts, a forlorn sock here and there, and several other items of clothing lay scattered in a dissaray. Shaking my head slightly, I leaned over and scooped as much laundry as I could carry into my arms. I toddered to my bathroom and dumped the whole thing into the laundry hamper. Then I went back for the remaining clothes.
After twenty more minutes off picking up clothes, straightening trinkets and knick-knacks on my dresser, picking up a fallen potted plant, arranging my bookshelves, and sweeping up the hamster sawdust off my dresser, I finally finished just as my mom's shout made me jump.
"Dinner!" I heard her yell from in the kitchen. With an anticipating grin, and dashed out of my room and took the stairs three at a time. Sweeping past the living room, I skidded in my socks on the linoleum kitchen floor. Behind me, Andrew, my dark-haired, blue-eyed, eleven-year-old brother trundled to the kitchen table. Unlike Jason and I, who took after our tall father, Andrew had inherited my mother's stockiness to his secret regret. Andrew absolutely loved basketball, but was greatly miffed that he was always one of the last to pick for teams at his school. For those of you out there with question marks written all over your face, basketball generally requires tall people. That's why you always see those ten-foot tall people on the professional teams. Pretty sad that I know that, huh? I know. I try to block out his voice whenever Andrew starts chattering about basketball, the rules, the regulations, the players, the ball, even different team's uniforms, but sadly, I apparantly picked up something.
Walking to the table, I sat down between Mom's place and Andrew.
"Jason," my mom said quickly, looking over her shoulder from her position at the stove, "don't hold it like that. Here, use an oven mitt and put a hand under it."
Jason applied the oven mitt and carried the lasagna pan to the table. Setting it down, he went back for cuttlery. Jason was Mom's undisputed kitchen helper. Though Andrew and I loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the counters, and Dad cooked sometimes, I could tell that Jason and Mom did not fully appreciate us getting under their feet in the kitchen. Usually, next to Mom's main dishes, Jason cooked a side dish of unique look and taste. Sometimes it was an unknown soup with chunks of eggplant amid the thick broth. Other times, it was an equally disgusting-sounding casserole that, despite its looks, topped the family's list of favorite foods. Once, Jason even spent all afternoon cooking bouillabaisse, a French fish stew. I have to admit, the bouillabaisse definitely did not top our list, although Dad ate four helpings. Someday, I am convinced, Jason's favorite hobby would make him the best cook in the world.
"Soup's on," Jason said cheerfully as he sat down to Dad's left, eyeing a pan of cornbread. Seeing him looking at it, I glanced at is also before taking a drink of ice water. Then I took a second look at the cornbread, which, I realized, was not cornbread, but some other type of bread. The telltale chunks of--what were those--penetrating the steaming, golden-brown crust told me it was another one of Jason's bound-to-be-delicious dishes.
When Mom had hastily wiped her hands a dishtowel, and everyone was seated comfortably around the cherrywood table, Dad bowed his head and we followed suite. He prayed, thanking the Lord for the meal and asking Him to bless it, asking for guidance and wisdom from Him in our lives, and thanking Him for the opportunity of the New York trip and praying for safety. He also prayed for Andrew's finger, which had been trapped between our car's sliding door, and was now infected. As he prayed, I felt a sense of calm and peace steal over me. I felt my heart lift two ribs, swelling in my chest for no reason other than the presence of the Holy Spirit. Thank you, Lord, I prayed silently.
"Amen," my father finished solemnly. I opened my eyes and looked up at him. His blue eyes, a lighter, brighter shade than mine, met mine. The tanned skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at me. He drew in a deep breathe, closing his eyes momentarily. Then they snapped open, his eyes twinkling.
"What is that delicious smell?" He said, rubbing his hands and glancing around the table. His eyes fell on Jason's dish. Again, his eye wrinkles showed as he exchanged a look with Jason.
"I haven't come up with a name for it yet," Jason said half-apolegitically. "I just know there's a name for it somewhere, but everytime I get close to finding it--poof! It's gone."
I giggled, looking at Jason. Jason's face cracked into a grin, and he dug a serving spoon into the mealy bread.
"Want some, Emma?" He held up an appetizing (note, that's sarcasm, people) chunk of the bread. I could see part of a long, green thing dangling out of its yellow side.
"Not that much, thanks," I laughed, holding up my plate. "I'll take a smaller piece. Then we'll see if this unknown dish is worth anything."
Jason lobbed a hunk of it on my plate, but before eating it, I served myself some of everything on the table except the green beans. I can't stand green beans. Period. I picked up my fork and cut off a corner of my lasagna square, popping it into my mouth.
"Mmm..." I mumbled, chewing luxiriously with my molars, immediately hungry for more. Swallowing, I scooped up another piece. Then I tried out Jason's unnamed bread. Placing the piece cautiously on the middle of my tongue, so I would get the full flavor, I let my saliva seep through the crumbly piece before chewing it slowly. As my taste buds recieved the full taste of it, I stopped chewing momentarily. Wow. I started chewing again, grinding the moist piece into miniscule grains and swallowing. It was good. Trying not to be hasty, I cut myself a larger bite and shoved (not that I'm a pig or anything) it into my mouth. The moist, crumbly bread had a slight tang of onion, and the mysterious green things contrasted appropriately with the bread texture, making a small crunch. Around me, my family conversed pleasantly amid the occasional sound of a fork hitting a plate and the tinkle of ice being shook in glasses.
"Jim," Mom addressed Dad, "what did Doctor Ralph say about Andrew's finger?"
Dad cut deep into a wedge of Jason's bread. "He said it was amazing the finger hadn't been broken and he's to be very careful. Andrew's been postponed on all sports and he's not to bang around in case he damages it more."
Andrew groaned and jutted his lower lip out in a pout. Dad ignored him.
"On the way back from the appointment, I got the prescription he advised," he said, nodding toward a lumpy CVS bag laying on the counter.
"Oh?" said Mom.
"Yes," Dad mumbled through a mouthful of bread. He swallowed. "Some sort of salv. 'To be rubbed on injury every night.'"
"It's gross, Mom," Andrew piped up, "it looks like like a cross between avacado dip and brown sludge. Do I really have to wear it?" he wheedled.
"You will if you want that finger to heal," said Mom sternly. "Now eat those beans; they're good for you."
"Why?" Andrew demanded. "Why do you always say that the yucky things are good for me?"
"Because I put special growth hormones in them," quipped Jason, looking up at his younger brother, his grey eyes twinkling. Andrew's eyes widended. Mom shot Jason a look and turned back to Andrew,
"Lots of things are good for you," she smiled, looking at my dad for help.
"That's right, young man," said my father in his deep voice, "you eat those good beans."
Andrew kicked his feet under the table, but ate his green beans without complaint. I, on the other hand, absolutely refused to eat those despised, twig-like green things my mom had wordlessly put on my plate. I wrinkled my nose at them, feeling Mom's gaze on me. I shot a hasty glance at Mom. Then I defiantly ate another bite of lasagna, staring stonily past Mom's shoulder. I saw her sigh and shake her head, moving her fork over her peaches.
"Hey," I said to Jason a few minutes later, waving a forkful of his bread toward him, "I have an idea for a name."
"Oh, yeah?" said Jason in mild curiosity. "What's that?"
"You'll need a perfect name for it because the dish is absolutely perfect, right?" I said, hiding a smile. The rest of the family glanced up in various stages of interest.
"Yeah..." Jason peered at me, unsure of where I was going. "Spit it out."
"Well, why don't you name it after me?" I said brightly. "Fantabulous Emma Bread (ah, my ability for creative names just keeps showing, doesn't it?)!"
"Fantabulous?" said Andrew skeptically.
"Emma Bread?" snorted Jason. A hint of a scowl crossed my face. Dad quickly hid his grin in his cup of icewater. Mom glanced between me and my brothers, a smile on her face.
"Why not?" she said calmly. Jason and Andrew stared at her as though she'd sprouted whiskers.
"Fantabulous Emma Bread?" Jason said, looking between Mom and I like this was some kind of joke. "Come on--you've got to be kidding me. I mean, it's--it's--" He waved his hands, obviously searching for a phrase to describe its horridness.
"It's what?" said my dad, and I could tell he was holding back a laugh with difficulty. "It seems a perfectly reasonable name to me."
Jason let out a derisive sound through his nose.
"I refuse to have any of my cooking named something like Fantabulous Emma Bread," Jason said stormily. "If you ever make an unnamed dish, she can name it Emma's-Beautimosity-of-a-Dish for all I care. But no way am I having a masterpiece like that made into a laughing stock," he finished, motioning to his "masterpiece."
"Suite yourself," I said disdainfully. "Dad, can you pass me the Fantabulous Bread?"
"Certainly, honey," Dad chuckled, handing me Jason's bread.
Jason looked ready to explode.
§Emma§
"I want you to send out an email to Dylan, Sarah, and Lila--they are who you're inviting right?" My mom paused. I nodded in comformation.
"Yep!"
"Okay," she said, "send out an email with all the New York information."
I had spotted a flaw.
"But--" I began. Not surprisingly, she guessed what I was going to say.
"I'm going to right down all the info," she smiled. "Here, come into the kitchen where I can find something to write with." I skipped into our bright, cheery kitchen behind my mom. I lounged against the table, observing the perfect, overcast day outside. My mom was rustling through various drawers, muttering to herself.
"Goodness gracious, those boys never put anything back...Where is that pencil? Aha! Here's a pen--nope, all dry...should have known...those boys...oh, there's that card...why in the world that was in there...Ha! Here we go!" She emerged triumphantly, clutching a jagged piece of notebook paper and a pencil. "Let's see, Emma..." I waited patiently as her hand flew across the paper, filling it with her neat, precise handwriting. After another minute, she snatched the paper up and handed it to me, flinging the pencil back in the drawer. "Everything's on there. Departure dates and times, a general agenda, pick-up times...It's all there."
"Coolio," I grinned, glancing at the sheet. Whoa, I thought. She really did put everything in there. The whole sheet was crammed top to bottom with writing. Good thing I was a fast typer. I started to walk out of the kitchen, still looking at the paper, but almost ran into Jason, my seventeen-year-old brother.
"Whoa," he held up his hands, grinning, "watch it, little sis." I stuck my tongue out at him and darted around his lean frame.
"Emma?"
I halted and wheeled around to face Mom.
"Please give your room a quick pick-up before dinner," she said, brushing a strand of thick, brunette hair out of her face. I groaned.
"Young lady," she began sternly, "if it's that bad I don't know why I let you have a slumber party."
I shrugged sulkily, immediately sensing the two things beneath her words. One, that my room shouldn't have been that messy in the first place. Two, she just let me have a slumber party. I chewed my tongue and nodded reluctantly. Busy at the counter behind Mom, Jason heaved an exagerated sigh, tsking.
"Ah, if only you'd cleaned up your room Thursday instead of bugging me about downloading your ipod songs," he said, shaking his head. "Too bad."
I treated him to a glare.
"It's not that bad, honest," I wheedled, turning my attention back to Mom.
"Nontheless," she said in a voice that invited no argument, "make sure it's cleaned by dinner."
Chewing my tongue to keep from growling, I whirled around and marched past the living room, up the stairs, and into my white-carpeted bedroom. Ignoring a lump of laundry by the door, and crossed over to my desk and sat down. Spinning on the office chair to face the monitor, I shook the mouse to wake the computer up and opened internet explorer. I went to gmail.com and signed in, tapping my finger impatiently on the mouse as it loaded. After I entered my email and password, I clicked 'New.' I stared at the blank email, thinking.
I glanced around my room for inspiration. My full-sized bed with a heather-green comforter, a small nightstand supporting my digital alarm clock and a lava lamp, a large chest of drawers with a hamster cage, lamp, tissue box, and several framed pictures placed on it, my puppy calendar hanging on the wall over my bed, the sliding door to my closet, and the furry, turqoise turtle chair with the third book to my all-time favorite series, Maximum Ride, thrown in the middle of it. The Maximum Ride book series is A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. Totally. Once I'd discovered what an absolute sensation it was, I'd persuaded Dylan to read it. She was on the first book, The Angel Experiment, while I had finished the most recent book, The Final Warning, and was waiting for the fifth to come out. I stared absentmindedly at the book's glossy cover. To restrain myself from blackmailing the author to hurry up with the fifth book, I was rereading the third book, Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports. I shifted in the swively chair and started typing, watching the inky black letters appear on the fresh email like rows of little ants.
Hi Everybody, I typed,
I'll have told you about this already, but here's the official invitation and information.
For my 14th b-day, I'm going to New York, New York for a week. My parents and my younger brother are going. You should all be at my house at 11 o'clock on June 12th. Pack for a seven day trip, and make sure to bring a swimsuit (and swimming stuff), as we'll be swimming at the hotel pool. It's about a 9 hour flight to NY, so I suggest you bring something to entertain yourself on the plane. I'm bringing my ipod, and you might want to bring yours if you have one, and we'll have some games and stuff. The hotel we're staying at is the Roosevelt Hotel New York located on the corner of East 45th St. and Madison Ave., room 709. On June 19th, plan to have your parents pick you up at 3 o'clock. We will call on the way back if we are going to be earlier or later than that time. Hope ya'll can come!!
I'm inviting Dylan, Sarah, and Lila.
Contact #s:
My mom's cell: 864-567-9872
My dad's cell: 864-525-0434
My home phone: 864-922-6745
Can't wait!!
I sat back in my seat with a satisfied sigh. After quickly rereading it for errors, I punched 'send' and glanced around at my clock. Almost dinner time. Already, I could smell the apetizing scent of lasagna. I drew in a deep breathe through my nose, savoring the warm, meaty odor.
I leaned back and stretched my hands before me, yawning. Giving myself a shake, I heaved off my comfortable desk chair and loped across the floor to the laundry pile. T-shirts, jean shorts, a forlorn sock here and there, and several other items of clothing lay scattered in a dissaray. Shaking my head slightly, I leaned over and scooped as much laundry as I could carry into my arms. I toddered to my bathroom and dumped the whole thing into the laundry hamper. Then I went back for the remaining clothes.
After twenty more minutes off picking up clothes, straightening trinkets and knick-knacks on my dresser, picking up a fallen potted plant, arranging my bookshelves, and sweeping up the hamster sawdust off my dresser, I finally finished just as my mom's shout made me jump.
"Dinner!" I heard her yell from in the kitchen. With an anticipating grin, and dashed out of my room and took the stairs three at a time. Sweeping past the living room, I skidded in my socks on the linoleum kitchen floor. Behind me, Andrew, my dark-haired, blue-eyed, eleven-year-old brother trundled to the kitchen table. Unlike Jason and I, who took after our tall father, Andrew had inherited my mother's stockiness to his secret regret. Andrew absolutely loved basketball, but was greatly miffed that he was always one of the last to pick for teams at his school. For those of you out there with question marks written all over your face, basketball generally requires tall people. That's why you always see those ten-foot tall people on the professional teams. Pretty sad that I know that, huh? I know. I try to block out his voice whenever Andrew starts chattering about basketball, the rules, the regulations, the players, the ball, even different team's uniforms, but sadly, I apparantly picked up something.
Walking to the table, I sat down between Mom's place and Andrew.
"Jason," my mom said quickly, looking over her shoulder from her position at the stove, "don't hold it like that. Here, use an oven mitt and put a hand under it."
Jason applied the oven mitt and carried the lasagna pan to the table. Setting it down, he went back for cuttlery. Jason was Mom's undisputed kitchen helper. Though Andrew and I loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the counters, and Dad cooked sometimes, I could tell that Jason and Mom did not fully appreciate us getting under their feet in the kitchen. Usually, next to Mom's main dishes, Jason cooked a side dish of unique look and taste. Sometimes it was an unknown soup with chunks of eggplant amid the thick broth. Other times, it was an equally disgusting-sounding casserole that, despite its looks, topped the family's list of favorite foods. Once, Jason even spent all afternoon cooking bouillabaisse, a French fish stew. I have to admit, the bouillabaisse definitely did not top our list, although Dad ate four helpings. Someday, I am convinced, Jason's favorite hobby would make him the best cook in the world.
"Soup's on," Jason said cheerfully as he sat down to Dad's left, eyeing a pan of cornbread. Seeing him looking at it, I glanced at is also before taking a drink of ice water. Then I took a second look at the cornbread, which, I realized, was not cornbread, but some other type of bread. The telltale chunks of--what were those--penetrating the steaming, golden-brown crust told me it was another one of Jason's bound-to-be-delicious dishes.
When Mom had hastily wiped her hands a dishtowel, and everyone was seated comfortably around the cherrywood table, Dad bowed his head and we followed suite. He prayed, thanking the Lord for the meal and asking Him to bless it, asking for guidance and wisdom from Him in our lives, and thanking Him for the opportunity of the New York trip and praying for safety. He also prayed for Andrew's finger, which had been trapped between our car's sliding door, and was now infected. As he prayed, I felt a sense of calm and peace steal over me. I felt my heart lift two ribs, swelling in my chest for no reason other than the presence of the Holy Spirit. Thank you, Lord, I prayed silently.
"Amen," my father finished solemnly. I opened my eyes and looked up at him. His blue eyes, a lighter, brighter shade than mine, met mine. The tanned skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at me. He drew in a deep breathe, closing his eyes momentarily. Then they snapped open, his eyes twinkling.
"What is that delicious smell?" He said, rubbing his hands and glancing around the table. His eyes fell on Jason's dish. Again, his eye wrinkles showed as he exchanged a look with Jason.
"I haven't come up with a name for it yet," Jason said half-apolegitically. "I just know there's a name for it somewhere, but everytime I get close to finding it--poof! It's gone."
I giggled, looking at Jason. Jason's face cracked into a grin, and he dug a serving spoon into the mealy bread.
"Want some, Emma?" He held up an appetizing (note, that's sarcasm, people) chunk of the bread. I could see part of a long, green thing dangling out of its yellow side.
"Not that much, thanks," I laughed, holding up my plate. "I'll take a smaller piece. Then we'll see if this unknown dish is worth anything."
Jason lobbed a hunk of it on my plate, but before eating it, I served myself some of everything on the table except the green beans. I can't stand green beans. Period. I picked up my fork and cut off a corner of my lasagna square, popping it into my mouth.
"Mmm..." I mumbled, chewing luxiriously with my molars, immediately hungry for more. Swallowing, I scooped up another piece. Then I tried out Jason's unnamed bread. Placing the piece cautiously on the middle of my tongue, so I would get the full flavor, I let my saliva seep through the crumbly piece before chewing it slowly. As my taste buds recieved the full taste of it, I stopped chewing momentarily. Wow. I started chewing again, grinding the moist piece into miniscule grains and swallowing. It was good. Trying not to be hasty, I cut myself a larger bite and shoved (not that I'm a pig or anything) it into my mouth. The moist, crumbly bread had a slight tang of onion, and the mysterious green things contrasted appropriately with the bread texture, making a small crunch. Around me, my family conversed pleasantly amid the occasional sound of a fork hitting a plate and the tinkle of ice being shook in glasses.
"Jim," Mom addressed Dad, "what did Doctor Ralph say about Andrew's finger?"
Dad cut deep into a wedge of Jason's bread. "He said it was amazing the finger hadn't been broken and he's to be very careful. Andrew's been postponed on all sports and he's not to bang around in case he damages it more."
Andrew groaned and jutted his lower lip out in a pout. Dad ignored him.
"On the way back from the appointment, I got the prescription he advised," he said, nodding toward a lumpy CVS bag laying on the counter.
"Oh?" said Mom.
"Yes," Dad mumbled through a mouthful of bread. He swallowed. "Some sort of salv. 'To be rubbed on injury every night.'"
"It's gross, Mom," Andrew piped up, "it looks like like a cross between avacado dip and brown sludge. Do I really have to wear it?" he wheedled.
"You will if you want that finger to heal," said Mom sternly. "Now eat those beans; they're good for you."
"Why?" Andrew demanded. "Why do you always say that the yucky things are good for me?"
"Because I put special growth hormones in them," quipped Jason, looking up at his younger brother, his grey eyes twinkling. Andrew's eyes widended. Mom shot Jason a look and turned back to Andrew,
"Lots of things are good for you," she smiled, looking at my dad for help.
"That's right, young man," said my father in his deep voice, "you eat those good beans."
Andrew kicked his feet under the table, but ate his green beans without complaint. I, on the other hand, absolutely refused to eat those despised, twig-like green things my mom had wordlessly put on my plate. I wrinkled my nose at them, feeling Mom's gaze on me. I shot a hasty glance at Mom. Then I defiantly ate another bite of lasagna, staring stonily past Mom's shoulder. I saw her sigh and shake her head, moving her fork over her peaches.
"Hey," I said to Jason a few minutes later, waving a forkful of his bread toward him, "I have an idea for a name."
"Oh, yeah?" said Jason in mild curiosity. "What's that?"
"You'll need a perfect name for it because the dish is absolutely perfect, right?" I said, hiding a smile. The rest of the family glanced up in various stages of interest.
"Yeah..." Jason peered at me, unsure of where I was going. "Spit it out."
"Well, why don't you name it after me?" I said brightly. "Fantabulous Emma Bread (ah, my ability for creative names just keeps showing, doesn't it?)!"
"Fantabulous?" said Andrew skeptically.
"Emma Bread?" snorted Jason. A hint of a scowl crossed my face. Dad quickly hid his grin in his cup of icewater. Mom glanced between me and my brothers, a smile on her face.
"Why not?" she said calmly. Jason and Andrew stared at her as though she'd sprouted whiskers.
"Fantabulous Emma Bread?" Jason said, looking between Mom and I like this was some kind of joke. "Come on--you've got to be kidding me. I mean, it's--it's--" He waved his hands, obviously searching for a phrase to describe its horridness.
"It's what?" said my dad, and I could tell he was holding back a laugh with difficulty. "It seems a perfectly reasonable name to me."
Jason let out a derisive sound through his nose.
"I refuse to have any of my cooking named something like Fantabulous Emma Bread," Jason said stormily. "If you ever make an unnamed dish, she can name it Emma's-Beautimosity-of-a-Dish for all I care. But no way am I having a masterpiece like that made into a laughing stock," he finished, motioning to his "masterpiece."
"Suite yourself," I said disdainfully. "Dad, can you pass me the Fantabulous Bread?"
"Certainly, honey," Dad chuckled, handing me Jason's bread.
Jason looked ready to explode.
§Emma§
Hey!
Hey, wat up, peeps? Lila here! I'm gonna post a little something about me before I have to go to my Annie rehearsal. Like, I tried out for this play, Annie (and if ya'll don't know what Annie is then you guys are pretty stupid), and I got in! YAY!!! I'm an orphan! I don't have a name, like, I'm not a main orphan, but it's still a great roll to have! So anywhoo, I have rehearsal in a little bit; I've got fifteen minutes exactly.
"Ha ha ha!" I laughed, bouncing up and down on my bed. Up and down. Up and down. "No-o mo-ore scho-ooooooool! No-o mo-ore scho-oooooool!" I giggled madly, repeating my victory chant over and over. Up and down. Up and down. "Ha ha! Take that principal Montmoldy! No-o mo-ore scho-ooooool!" I snickered as I imagined Beechnut Academy's principal, Mr. Montmorty, if he could see Lila now. His already purple face would go blotchy and pinched until it couldn't be distinguished from a shriveled prune. Up and down. Up and down.
"Lila," my mom, a tall, middle-aged woman, poked her head around my door, holding a basket full of laundry, "please stop that bouncing; you'll wreck the bed. Grandma Georgina wouldn't like that."
I sighed and the bed springs creaked to a stop as I quit bouncing, my fun ruined.
"Don't forget you have rehearsal tonight," my mom said, balancing the laundry hamper on one knee.
"I know," I nodded. Tonight was the last regular Annie rehearsal. Next week, dress rehearsals would begin. Lila groaned and closed her eyes. As much as she loved being in musicals and plays, dress rehearsal week was always horrid. Cooped up in those hot, stuffy dressing rooms for hours on end, waiting for your cue, which often didn't come as soon as you thought it would due to some tiny mistake someone made. For instance, last year Lila had been in the South Carolina Children's Theater's production of Aladdin. Lila distintively remembered the whole cast having to wait an hour and a half while Aladdin and Jasmine sang 'A Whole New World' fifty cabillion times.
"Lila?" her mom's concerned voice broke through my thoughts. "Are you okay?" My eyes snapped open.
"Yeah," I grunted, "I'm fine."
"If you're feeling poorly you can always skip tonight--" she began in a worried voice.
"No, really, I'm fine," I repeated. "I was just thinking of dress rehearsal week. It's going to be a nightmare."
My mom clucked her tongue sympathetically.
"Yes, but think of all the fun you'll have once performances start."
"Yeah," I grinned at her. "It'll be awesome."
Giving me a smile, she continued past the hall, no doubt to wash a load of laundry.
K, peoples, that's all I have time for. I've gtg. Toodles!
~~~~~Lila~~~~~~~=) =D :) :D
"Ha ha ha!" I laughed, bouncing up and down on my bed. Up and down. Up and down. "No-o mo-ore scho-ooooooool! No-o mo-ore scho-oooooool!" I giggled madly, repeating my victory chant over and over. Up and down. Up and down. "Ha ha! Take that principal Montmoldy! No-o mo-ore scho-ooooool!" I snickered as I imagined Beechnut Academy's principal, Mr. Montmorty, if he could see Lila now. His already purple face would go blotchy and pinched until it couldn't be distinguished from a shriveled prune. Up and down. Up and down.
"Lila," my mom, a tall, middle-aged woman, poked her head around my door, holding a basket full of laundry, "please stop that bouncing; you'll wreck the bed. Grandma Georgina wouldn't like that."
I sighed and the bed springs creaked to a stop as I quit bouncing, my fun ruined.
"Don't forget you have rehearsal tonight," my mom said, balancing the laundry hamper on one knee.
"I know," I nodded. Tonight was the last regular Annie rehearsal. Next week, dress rehearsals would begin. Lila groaned and closed her eyes. As much as she loved being in musicals and plays, dress rehearsal week was always horrid. Cooped up in those hot, stuffy dressing rooms for hours on end, waiting for your cue, which often didn't come as soon as you thought it would due to some tiny mistake someone made. For instance, last year Lila had been in the South Carolina Children's Theater's production of Aladdin. Lila distintively remembered the whole cast having to wait an hour and a half while Aladdin and Jasmine sang 'A Whole New World' fifty cabillion times.
"Lila?" her mom's concerned voice broke through my thoughts. "Are you okay?" My eyes snapped open.
"Yeah," I grunted, "I'm fine."
"If you're feeling poorly you can always skip tonight--" she began in a worried voice.
"No, really, I'm fine," I repeated. "I was just thinking of dress rehearsal week. It's going to be a nightmare."
My mom clucked her tongue sympathetically.
"Yes, but think of all the fun you'll have once performances start."
"Yeah," I grinned at her. "It'll be awesome."
Giving me a smile, she continued past the hall, no doubt to wash a load of laundry.
K, peoples, that's all I have time for. I've gtg. Toodles!
~~~~~Lila~~~~~~~=) =D :) :D
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