Fire with Fire
Page 81
I turn on the TV, and it’s A Christmas Story again. It’s the end of the movie, where they’re at the Chinese restaurant and the waiters are singing “Deck the Halls” and they can’t say their l’s. It’s racist as shit, but it’s still a good movie.
Then Dad and Pat come in, and Dad says, “Katherine, I think there might be one more gift for you under the tree.”
“Get your eyes checked, old man!” I tell him, pointing to the bare rug.
“Pat!” Dad barks. “You were supposed to put it under the tree this morning.”
“Chill out, chill out,” Pat says, and he goes to his room and comes back with a box wrapped in Santa Claus paper. He hands it to me. “Here.”
I look from Dad to Pat. “What is this?”
Dad’s grinning. “Open it.”
I tear into it—it’s a new laptop. My jaw drops. “No way.”
“It’s for college, Katherine.”
There’s a huge lump in my throat and tears are pricking my eyelids. “How—how did you even afford this?”
“I finished that canoe last week,” Dad says, beaming at me proudly. “And Pat helped.”
I stare at Pat, who is standing against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. “For real?”
“Yeah, dude. I worked my ass off to kick in on this, so you better not fail out of Oberlin.” Pat shakes his finger at me.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my arm. “I haven’t even been accepted yet.” I should tell them about the whole earlydecision beat-down I suffered, but I don’t have the heart.
“You’re getting in,” Pat says.
“Even if I do get in, it’s so far away. . . . Maybe I’d be better off going to school somewhere nearby, so I could still come home and help out around here.”
“No way,” Dad barks. “You’re out of here as soon as you graduate. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”
I can barely see him through my tears. “Thanks a lot.”
Pat leans forward and says, “Dad and I can fend for ourselves. Your ass is going to Oberlin. You’re gonna get straight As, and then you’re gonna get rich at some fancy job, and when you do, you’re gonna send lots of dough home to us.”
I laugh. “You’re still gonna be living at home in five years? Loser.” Then I stand up, and on shaky legs I hug them both.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Christmas day passes in a blur. We go to church in the morning like always; then we come back, and my dad makes a Korean rice-cake soup and my mom bakes frozen cinnamon rolls she ordered from Neiman Marcus. We eat them as we open presents. I get a new laptop and a mintand-lavender cashmere sweater and new riding boots and little things like my favorite perfume and the sugarplum face cream from New York.
I should be happy, because I love presents and I’m getting everything I asked for and more. Nadia is squealing over every one of her gifts, hugging our mom and dad each time she opens something, taking her time getting through her pile so she can make it last longer. I can barely muster up smiles and thankyous. I’m the worst daughter ever.
My parents definitely notice. They keep shooting each other concerned looks. At one point my mom sits next to me on the chaise and puts the back of her hand to my forehead to check if I have a fever.
I didn’t think it would be this bad. That I’d hurt this much over something that was supposed to be fake.
When all the presents have been opened, Mom gives a nod to my dad, and he steps out of the room. When he comes back, he has two huge boxes in his arms. Nadia jumps up and tries to take one of them, but Dad says, “These are both for Lillia.”
I open them. It’s a brand-new luggage set from Tumi, both hard shell in gleaming white. One large roller bag, one smaller roller that will fit in the overhead.
“For college,” my dad announces. “Wellesey has some amazing study-abroad programs, you know.”
I don’t even have the energy to say anything back to that. That I’m still not totally sold on Wellesey. I just nod and click the suitcase latch open and closed a few times.
“Your father picked the set out himself,” Mom says. “He figured you’d like the white.” She rests her hand on my knee and gives it a hard squeeze.
I automatically look to my dad. “I love it.”
“Merry Christmas, princess,” he says.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
It’s finally New Year’s Eve, and my family will be here soon. I expected them earlier, but the weather must have delayed them. Snow is coming tonight, a few inches. And the wind is howling. But it’s fine, because there was a lot to do. Aunt Bette’s been cooking up a storm and I’ve been finishing packing. Also, trying to get the house looking at least somewhat presentable, because if my mom saw the place in the state it’s been in, she’d whip out her rubber gloves and peroxide and clean all night. I don’t want her to do that. I want her and my dad to enjoy the meal, and then I’ll give them the good news—I’m coming back with them. I’m leaving Jar Island.
I go upstairs to shower and get ready. I want to look beautiful and mature when they see me again for the first time. I’ve been through so much since I’ve been back; I want them to see that, see how I’ve grown. They mean well, but they’ve always babied me so much. When I go back with them, I want them to treat me like a teenager and not a kid.
I take my time in the shower, steaming up the bathroom and shaving my legs. Then I do my hair and makeup. I paint my lips ruby red and put my wet hair in a bun so it will dry wavy. I put on a dress I found in my closet—it’s white with gold bangles and beads and a drop waist. Downstairs, I hear my mom and Aunt Bette come inside the house, and I scramble around for the gold slingbacks I found in the back of my closet.
I step into the shoes and I hurry down the stairs to greet my parents. I stop short when I hear Aunt Bette say, “I don’t know how to tell Mary about Jim.”
Jim’s my dad. “Bette . . . please stop it,” my mother says, and her voice sounds pained. “Stop talking about her.”
I freeze.
“I’m sorry.” Aunt Bette says something I don’t quite catch, and then, “She’s going to be angry, Erica.”
Angry over what? What’s going on? Did they have a fight? Did they get separated in the time that I’ve been gone—is that why they haven’t been back to visit? I can feel the heat and the panic rising up inside me. The picture frames on the staircase walls start to shake, and I have to tell myself to calm down, just calm down.
Then Dad and Pat come in, and Dad says, “Katherine, I think there might be one more gift for you under the tree.”
“Get your eyes checked, old man!” I tell him, pointing to the bare rug.
“Pat!” Dad barks. “You were supposed to put it under the tree this morning.”
“Chill out, chill out,” Pat says, and he goes to his room and comes back with a box wrapped in Santa Claus paper. He hands it to me. “Here.”
I look from Dad to Pat. “What is this?”
Dad’s grinning. “Open it.”
I tear into it—it’s a new laptop. My jaw drops. “No way.”
“It’s for college, Katherine.”
There’s a huge lump in my throat and tears are pricking my eyelids. “How—how did you even afford this?”
“I finished that canoe last week,” Dad says, beaming at me proudly. “And Pat helped.”
I stare at Pat, who is standing against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. “For real?”
“Yeah, dude. I worked my ass off to kick in on this, so you better not fail out of Oberlin.” Pat shakes his finger at me.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my arm. “I haven’t even been accepted yet.” I should tell them about the whole earlydecision beat-down I suffered, but I don’t have the heart.
“You’re getting in,” Pat says.
“Even if I do get in, it’s so far away. . . . Maybe I’d be better off going to school somewhere nearby, so I could still come home and help out around here.”
“No way,” Dad barks. “You’re out of here as soon as you graduate. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”
I can barely see him through my tears. “Thanks a lot.”
Pat leans forward and says, “Dad and I can fend for ourselves. Your ass is going to Oberlin. You’re gonna get straight As, and then you’re gonna get rich at some fancy job, and when you do, you’re gonna send lots of dough home to us.”
I laugh. “You’re still gonna be living at home in five years? Loser.” Then I stand up, and on shaky legs I hug them both.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Christmas day passes in a blur. We go to church in the morning like always; then we come back, and my dad makes a Korean rice-cake soup and my mom bakes frozen cinnamon rolls she ordered from Neiman Marcus. We eat them as we open presents. I get a new laptop and a mintand-lavender cashmere sweater and new riding boots and little things like my favorite perfume and the sugarplum face cream from New York.
I should be happy, because I love presents and I’m getting everything I asked for and more. Nadia is squealing over every one of her gifts, hugging our mom and dad each time she opens something, taking her time getting through her pile so she can make it last longer. I can barely muster up smiles and thankyous. I’m the worst daughter ever.
My parents definitely notice. They keep shooting each other concerned looks. At one point my mom sits next to me on the chaise and puts the back of her hand to my forehead to check if I have a fever.
I didn’t think it would be this bad. That I’d hurt this much over something that was supposed to be fake.
When all the presents have been opened, Mom gives a nod to my dad, and he steps out of the room. When he comes back, he has two huge boxes in his arms. Nadia jumps up and tries to take one of them, but Dad says, “These are both for Lillia.”
I open them. It’s a brand-new luggage set from Tumi, both hard shell in gleaming white. One large roller bag, one smaller roller that will fit in the overhead.
“For college,” my dad announces. “Wellesey has some amazing study-abroad programs, you know.”
I don’t even have the energy to say anything back to that. That I’m still not totally sold on Wellesey. I just nod and click the suitcase latch open and closed a few times.
“Your father picked the set out himself,” Mom says. “He figured you’d like the white.” She rests her hand on my knee and gives it a hard squeeze.
I automatically look to my dad. “I love it.”
“Merry Christmas, princess,” he says.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
It’s finally New Year’s Eve, and my family will be here soon. I expected them earlier, but the weather must have delayed them. Snow is coming tonight, a few inches. And the wind is howling. But it’s fine, because there was a lot to do. Aunt Bette’s been cooking up a storm and I’ve been finishing packing. Also, trying to get the house looking at least somewhat presentable, because if my mom saw the place in the state it’s been in, she’d whip out her rubber gloves and peroxide and clean all night. I don’t want her to do that. I want her and my dad to enjoy the meal, and then I’ll give them the good news—I’m coming back with them. I’m leaving Jar Island.
I go upstairs to shower and get ready. I want to look beautiful and mature when they see me again for the first time. I’ve been through so much since I’ve been back; I want them to see that, see how I’ve grown. They mean well, but they’ve always babied me so much. When I go back with them, I want them to treat me like a teenager and not a kid.
I take my time in the shower, steaming up the bathroom and shaving my legs. Then I do my hair and makeup. I paint my lips ruby red and put my wet hair in a bun so it will dry wavy. I put on a dress I found in my closet—it’s white with gold bangles and beads and a drop waist. Downstairs, I hear my mom and Aunt Bette come inside the house, and I scramble around for the gold slingbacks I found in the back of my closet.
I step into the shoes and I hurry down the stairs to greet my parents. I stop short when I hear Aunt Bette say, “I don’t know how to tell Mary about Jim.”
Jim’s my dad. “Bette . . . please stop it,” my mother says, and her voice sounds pained. “Stop talking about her.”
I freeze.
“I’m sorry.” Aunt Bette says something I don’t quite catch, and then, “She’s going to be angry, Erica.”
Angry over what? What’s going on? Did they have a fight? Did they get separated in the time that I’ve been gone—is that why they haven’t been back to visit? I can feel the heat and the panic rising up inside me. The picture frames on the staircase walls start to shake, and I have to tell myself to calm down, just calm down.
