(NOTE: The first part was in the third person. This part, and the rest of
the parts, except the last one, which will be back in the third person, are
in the first person. Confusing, eh? This story is written from Seth's POV.
And I'd like to apologize for my wonderful, terrific, lovely grasp of NOT
being able to write in the same tense throughout the entire story; these
apologies go to my high school English teachers, Christine Prater, Karen
Kreyeski, that one guy who became counselor, and Bill Beeson . . . oh,
sorry! I was writing a story . . . oh, by the way, if you see words with /
/ around them, it just means they should be italics. Just in case you
didn't know how weird I actually am. And I'm sorry for how far about these
parts were. I lost my computer access for awhile. And if you decide to
review (which I'm kinda hoping you do), just keep in mind there's a point
to what is going on, and I'll try to post the next part over the weekend.
It will actually not be boring by the next part!
CHARLES NELSON REILLY!!!!!
Oh, and popcorn really is yucky!) *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- *-*-*-*-*-*-* It's going to be a long weekend.
I knew it from when I walked in and Emma was mad at me. The way I see it, I hadn't done anything wrong. It's perfectly fine for a father to spend time with his daughter. His only child, nonetheless. Why does he need his mother- in-law's permission? Emma had given birth to three children herself, so why was it so hard for her to grasp this? Actually, even though I often asked myself that question, I think I sort of knew the answer. Alex had talked about it even before we had gotten married.
Saturday was hell. Emma cooked a great breakfast, but no one spoke through it. I was still angry at Emma and afraid of opening my mouth. Emma glared at me through her juice glass. Birdie just looked tired. Emma never let Birdie sleep in on Saturdays, which really made me angry. She always did what Emma told her: her bedroom was always immaculate, homework was done. Between schoolwork and housework, Birdie didn't have time for much else. I knew she desperately wanted to be on the softball team, which I thought would have been great for her, but Emma forbade it. Emma also wanted her to get a part-time job in some office when she turned sixteen. Sixteen year olds should not be forced to work. I told Emma that, too, and I got the bitching of a lifetime. For this reason, I couldn't stand Emma. Sure, she thought she was helping, but come on. My daughter, who had just turned sixteen on April 29th, worked way too hard as it was. She needed a break. A nice, long cigarette break. (I was just kidding about the cigarettes.) I remember when I was sixteen . . .
As soon as breakfast was over, Emma began bitching again. Something about the outfit I had decided to wear that day-a pair of my favorite old blue jeans, a white tee shirt, and a blue flannel shirt. I wasn't sure what was wrong with it, except for a hole in the left knee. Who cares? It was an appropriate outfit. Emma always wore a grey skirt, with an interesting color blouse.
After about an hour of that, Emma finally left. During her free time, she'd go to church and spend hours there. Another thing she often rubbed in our faces-I wasn't religious and Birdie didn't seem to be, either. (She did have the choice of going to church every weekend, and I've only seen her go twice aside from holidays.)
I turned to Birdie the second Emma's car left the driveway. "What do you feel like doing?"
"Sleeping," she said, smiling. I smiled back. "How long is she going to be gone?"
/Looking forward to it like I am?/ I thought to myself. "I don't know."
Birdie lit an incense which smelled of rain and put it down on the bar in the living room. "Don't you love this smell? I love this smell."
"It's really relaxing," I agreed. I had some good times in the rain, like the night Birdie was conceived.
She sat down on the couch, and put her feet up on the coffee table. I sat down next to her and looked at her. She immediately removed her feet.
"You can sit like that," I told her. "I don't care." As a matter of fact, I did the same thing.
She slowly put her feet back up. You see that? My child can't even be comfortable in her own home. Something had to change.
I loved her socks. They were neon blue with lighting on them. They didn't match her outfit at all (dark purple slacks and a matching velvet shirt), but that made them all the better. I looked at my own socks, which were just plain white. How . . . boring.
We sat there in silence until Birdie spoke up again.
"You never answered me last night."
I just looked at her.
"Well, you did, but it didn't make any sense."
"Didn't make any sense to me either," I agreed. Sighing, I said, "I don't know why she doesn't trust you, really. I mean, you do everything you're asked."
"You don't ask me to do anything," Birdie said. "Just Grandmother."
"I know, and it pisses me off."
Birdie looked at me with her icey blue eyes.
"Don't worry about my language," I told her. "If I want to curse, I'm damn well going to."
"No problem," Birdie said, shrugging.
"But don't you dare start," I said. "That's the one thing I agree with your grandmother on." Did I just say that? I should let her curse.
"May I have some popcorn, please?" she asked me, getting up.
"Go right ahead," I said, following her into the kitchen.
"Do you want some?" she asked.
"No, thanks." I sat down at the table.
She got out a bag of popcorn and popped it in the microwave. She joined me at the table.
"You can't let her get to you," I told her. "She gets to me, too."
"Why can't you just throw her out?"
"Birdie, she is your grandmother. Don't speak like that."
"I'm sorry."
/Not that it was a bad idea . . ./
"Don't worry about it. Hey, let's go through your mother's classic movie collection and watch one."
"Okay!" Birdie said. She loved those old movies, most of them made back in the 20th century. We still had one of those old VHS heads, and some people thought we were strange because of that. But we loved watching those movies.
I choose Cannonball Run II, because I knew that Birdie loved that one. (Actually, she loved any movie that Charles Nelson Reilly was in.) Birdie put the popcorn in a bowl, salted it, and got out diet sodas. We made ourselves comfortable on the couch. Birdie lay there with her head in my lap.
We had just gotten to the part where Burt Reynolds, Dom DeLuise, and Sammy Davis, Jr., had dressed in drag to get closer to Charles Nelson Reilly (known in the movie as Don Don, whose idea it was to kidnap the sheik), and suddenly, Birdie burst out laughing for no reason.
"What is it?" I asked her.
"I love this part! Look on Charles' face!"
/[For those readers who are not familier with the movie . . . go rent it. It's hysterical. In this particular scene, the three men mentioned above were wearing dresses and lip syncing to- oh, just go see the movie already!]/
That's when she did it.
One lonely piece of popcorn went flying across the room, hitting Don Don right in the forehead.
I couldn't help it. I laughed out loud and threw another piece. I completely missed the TV.
"You missed!" Birdie cried out. Then she threw a piece at me, which hit me square in the forehead.
But instead of yelling at her, I simply said, "You're a good aim." And I threw a piece back at her.
She giggled, so I grabbed a handful and rubbed it in her face.
"Yuck!" she cried out, dropping a fistful into my hair. I didn't care. It needed washing, anyway.
Birdie grabbed the bowl from me.
"Don't do it!" I teased.
She spun around, and popcorn went flying everywhere. I tried to catch as much as I could with my mouth.
Then, as suddenly as the popcorn party had started:
"What are you two doing?!"
Birdie and I turned at the same time. A piece of loose popcorn fell at that moment and hit Birdie in the nose, causing her to giggle again.
"Look at this mess!" Emma cried out. "Birdie Elisabeth, clean this mess up now."
Birdie looked at me. "Don't worry," I told her, "I'll help you."
"Like hell you will!" Emma said. "I can't even leave you along for a simple hour! And the baby trashes the place!" Emma turned to her granddaughter. "You will not go with me on Monday to take your father to the shuttle."
"But, Grandmother-" "Don't 'But Grandmother' me." Emma headed upstairs.
Birdie looked over at me again, and I could see her out of the corner of my eye , but I didn't look back. Instead, I just quickly began to pick up popcorn kernals. The movie was still playing.
About fifteen minutes or so later, I made my way upstairs. Birdie stayed downstairs to talk on the phone.
"Seth?"
I turned around. "Emma?"
"I don't appreciate you undermining my authority in front of Birdie."
I just looked at her.
"I mean, really! And I know how hard you are trying to be her friend, but she does need to be disciplined-"
"That's the problem!" I suddenly blurted, even surprising myself. "You over- discipline. You're too 'by the books'. I never intended to raise my baby the way she was raised, and I think you just need to back off!"
Emma just stood there, her mouth hanging open. "Alejandria-"
"Is not here," I said.
"That is not my fault," Emma said.
"No, it isn't," I agreed.
"It probably seems like I over-discipline because you never discipline her. You're always at work."
"I don't need your help."
She paused. "I'll move out, then. I'll pack now, I'll be out by morning."
"Fine with me," I said.
/Little did I know I'd kick myself two days later . . ./
CHARLES NELSON REILLY!!!!!
Oh, and popcorn really is yucky!) *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- *-*-*-*-*-*-* It's going to be a long weekend.
I knew it from when I walked in and Emma was mad at me. The way I see it, I hadn't done anything wrong. It's perfectly fine for a father to spend time with his daughter. His only child, nonetheless. Why does he need his mother- in-law's permission? Emma had given birth to three children herself, so why was it so hard for her to grasp this? Actually, even though I often asked myself that question, I think I sort of knew the answer. Alex had talked about it even before we had gotten married.
Saturday was hell. Emma cooked a great breakfast, but no one spoke through it. I was still angry at Emma and afraid of opening my mouth. Emma glared at me through her juice glass. Birdie just looked tired. Emma never let Birdie sleep in on Saturdays, which really made me angry. She always did what Emma told her: her bedroom was always immaculate, homework was done. Between schoolwork and housework, Birdie didn't have time for much else. I knew she desperately wanted to be on the softball team, which I thought would have been great for her, but Emma forbade it. Emma also wanted her to get a part-time job in some office when she turned sixteen. Sixteen year olds should not be forced to work. I told Emma that, too, and I got the bitching of a lifetime. For this reason, I couldn't stand Emma. Sure, she thought she was helping, but come on. My daughter, who had just turned sixteen on April 29th, worked way too hard as it was. She needed a break. A nice, long cigarette break. (I was just kidding about the cigarettes.) I remember when I was sixteen . . .
As soon as breakfast was over, Emma began bitching again. Something about the outfit I had decided to wear that day-a pair of my favorite old blue jeans, a white tee shirt, and a blue flannel shirt. I wasn't sure what was wrong with it, except for a hole in the left knee. Who cares? It was an appropriate outfit. Emma always wore a grey skirt, with an interesting color blouse.
After about an hour of that, Emma finally left. During her free time, she'd go to church and spend hours there. Another thing she often rubbed in our faces-I wasn't religious and Birdie didn't seem to be, either. (She did have the choice of going to church every weekend, and I've only seen her go twice aside from holidays.)
I turned to Birdie the second Emma's car left the driveway. "What do you feel like doing?"
"Sleeping," she said, smiling. I smiled back. "How long is she going to be gone?"
/Looking forward to it like I am?/ I thought to myself. "I don't know."
Birdie lit an incense which smelled of rain and put it down on the bar in the living room. "Don't you love this smell? I love this smell."
"It's really relaxing," I agreed. I had some good times in the rain, like the night Birdie was conceived.
She sat down on the couch, and put her feet up on the coffee table. I sat down next to her and looked at her. She immediately removed her feet.
"You can sit like that," I told her. "I don't care." As a matter of fact, I did the same thing.
She slowly put her feet back up. You see that? My child can't even be comfortable in her own home. Something had to change.
I loved her socks. They were neon blue with lighting on them. They didn't match her outfit at all (dark purple slacks and a matching velvet shirt), but that made them all the better. I looked at my own socks, which were just plain white. How . . . boring.
We sat there in silence until Birdie spoke up again.
"You never answered me last night."
I just looked at her.
"Well, you did, but it didn't make any sense."
"Didn't make any sense to me either," I agreed. Sighing, I said, "I don't know why she doesn't trust you, really. I mean, you do everything you're asked."
"You don't ask me to do anything," Birdie said. "Just Grandmother."
"I know, and it pisses me off."
Birdie looked at me with her icey blue eyes.
"Don't worry about my language," I told her. "If I want to curse, I'm damn well going to."
"No problem," Birdie said, shrugging.
"But don't you dare start," I said. "That's the one thing I agree with your grandmother on." Did I just say that? I should let her curse.
"May I have some popcorn, please?" she asked me, getting up.
"Go right ahead," I said, following her into the kitchen.
"Do you want some?" she asked.
"No, thanks." I sat down at the table.
She got out a bag of popcorn and popped it in the microwave. She joined me at the table.
"You can't let her get to you," I told her. "She gets to me, too."
"Why can't you just throw her out?"
"Birdie, she is your grandmother. Don't speak like that."
"I'm sorry."
/Not that it was a bad idea . . ./
"Don't worry about it. Hey, let's go through your mother's classic movie collection and watch one."
"Okay!" Birdie said. She loved those old movies, most of them made back in the 20th century. We still had one of those old VHS heads, and some people thought we were strange because of that. But we loved watching those movies.
I choose Cannonball Run II, because I knew that Birdie loved that one. (Actually, she loved any movie that Charles Nelson Reilly was in.) Birdie put the popcorn in a bowl, salted it, and got out diet sodas. We made ourselves comfortable on the couch. Birdie lay there with her head in my lap.
We had just gotten to the part where Burt Reynolds, Dom DeLuise, and Sammy Davis, Jr., had dressed in drag to get closer to Charles Nelson Reilly (known in the movie as Don Don, whose idea it was to kidnap the sheik), and suddenly, Birdie burst out laughing for no reason.
"What is it?" I asked her.
"I love this part! Look on Charles' face!"
/[For those readers who are not familier with the movie . . . go rent it. It's hysterical. In this particular scene, the three men mentioned above were wearing dresses and lip syncing to- oh, just go see the movie already!]/
That's when she did it.
One lonely piece of popcorn went flying across the room, hitting Don Don right in the forehead.
I couldn't help it. I laughed out loud and threw another piece. I completely missed the TV.
"You missed!" Birdie cried out. Then she threw a piece at me, which hit me square in the forehead.
But instead of yelling at her, I simply said, "You're a good aim." And I threw a piece back at her.
She giggled, so I grabbed a handful and rubbed it in her face.
"Yuck!" she cried out, dropping a fistful into my hair. I didn't care. It needed washing, anyway.
Birdie grabbed the bowl from me.
"Don't do it!" I teased.
She spun around, and popcorn went flying everywhere. I tried to catch as much as I could with my mouth.
Then, as suddenly as the popcorn party had started:
"What are you two doing?!"
Birdie and I turned at the same time. A piece of loose popcorn fell at that moment and hit Birdie in the nose, causing her to giggle again.
"Look at this mess!" Emma cried out. "Birdie Elisabeth, clean this mess up now."
Birdie looked at me. "Don't worry," I told her, "I'll help you."
"Like hell you will!" Emma said. "I can't even leave you along for a simple hour! And the baby trashes the place!" Emma turned to her granddaughter. "You will not go with me on Monday to take your father to the shuttle."
"But, Grandmother-" "Don't 'But Grandmother' me." Emma headed upstairs.
Birdie looked over at me again, and I could see her out of the corner of my eye , but I didn't look back. Instead, I just quickly began to pick up popcorn kernals. The movie was still playing.
About fifteen minutes or so later, I made my way upstairs. Birdie stayed downstairs to talk on the phone.
"Seth?"
I turned around. "Emma?"
"I don't appreciate you undermining my authority in front of Birdie."
I just looked at her.
"I mean, really! And I know how hard you are trying to be her friend, but she does need to be disciplined-"
"That's the problem!" I suddenly blurted, even surprising myself. "You over- discipline. You're too 'by the books'. I never intended to raise my baby the way she was raised, and I think you just need to back off!"
Emma just stood there, her mouth hanging open. "Alejandria-"
"Is not here," I said.
"That is not my fault," Emma said.
"No, it isn't," I agreed.
"It probably seems like I over-discipline because you never discipline her. You're always at work."
"I don't need your help."
She paused. "I'll move out, then. I'll pack now, I'll be out by morning."
"Fine with me," I said.
/Little did I know I'd kick myself two days later . . ./