THE DAUGHTER OF:
Hey Y'all!
Ok. Now I'm apologising for the atrocity of posting a short chapter. Bt it couldn't be helped. Review replies: Once again, if you haven't reviewed, scroll down. Feeling VERY, VERY guilty.
SUPER GUILTY.
Your writing is here booklover777! I hope it was worth the wait.
Querida25, lol, but at least Pakastani sounded good right? I don't mind how much you ramble on, I LOVE long reviews, LONG IS GOOD! (Whoa. Anyway.) Lol, I'm glad you like the story. And my Friends aren't mean, really. They love me loads.
Oh GODess, Sarah (The Cee factor) I'm just thrilled you reviewed. It's so great, I absolutely LOVE Through Her Eyes, I love everything you write. Aww. Now I can't wait for your next update!
To the lovely Catty Rose: Crack up. I think we all pretend to be a little nicer than we are at some points. I do it all the time. Lol, But I have to, because I'm a hothead. So is Melinda, as a matter of fact. Even Suze is a little. Anyway, yeah, I'm glad you like Suze's characterization. She would have changed – getting older having kids, you know – but I this is how I'd envision her life. Sort of. Yes, you would have noticed how Melinda frequently cussed about every god around. Melinda's quite a special child, and there will certainly be some more on that later. Take particular notice of her talking about seeing stuff . . . But there! I've given too much away!
I know! Sevvy101 I love all the gods and particularly goddesses, ANOTHER reason for so many being in this story. My personal Favourite is Hera, Zeus's wife, but I like Aphrodite too. I like your new name as well. It makes me think of Sassy. Maybe that will be my next name. Lol. "Meet Melinda de Silva" isn't bad, but I'm not sure what I'm doing. And thank you SO much for the lavish praise!
Chants "Thank you Char." Lol, I am really flattered you bother to review this, with the amazing stuff you write. Same with Sarah. You better watch out for me. I might get star struck. Lol!
aD3LINE, You sure are violently opposed to them not being together! But in true Mediator form, nothings ever that easy, is it? There's always complications. I was sure blown away that someone cares enough about my story to write a review IN CAPS! Thank you LOADS for reviewing.
OK. New Chapter.
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WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW . . .
OK. I got it now.
Fast healing doesn't exactly mean SUPERHERO like abilities. It just means speedy. Gotcha.
So when mom wasn't completely healed after a few hours, I should NOT have FLIPPED out. Instead I should have TACTFULLY and HELPFULLY asked her if she'd like me to get her any more diet coke. Or crunch bars. I should NOT have CRINGED when I saw some of the bruising. I should have DIPLOMATICALLY lied through my teeth and told her she was barely a little banged up.
But NO! Because I am a complete and utter MORON, I did NOTHING that could be remotely traced to TACT.
AND ANOTHER THING I NOW FULLY COMPREHEND? Mommy is quite vain. And does not appreciate such jibes as to her appearance at such stressful times.
Like, I knew that before, but NOW I KNOW TO JUST SHUT MY MOUTH COMPLETELY.
Mime would have been a better alternative.
You would think, out of everyone, I would know better than most. Duh. I do the same thing. But you think I'm bad? I am nothing, NOTHING compared to my mother.
YOU'D THINK I WOULD HAVE REMEMBERED THIS.
MORON. Moron, moron, moron.
Though I cant say I'm the only moron in Carmel. Oh no. There are more.
It happened about a day after we'd gotten home maybe? Not when I was being a moron. No. It was WORSE. Way worse.
After an accident, or event, it's appropriate for the family to receive well-wishers. Now, if you're not socially retarded, then you know just how long to wait before you visit, depending on how close you are to the, er, victim. (Sorry mom. Didn't have another word. Would you prefer to be called the injured party?)
Oh, and on the incident in question. THAT IS VERY IMPORTANT. DO NOT MISJUDGE THE INCIDENT. Because that will put you under the heading of socially retarded.
So it depends how close you are, and what happened.
Now given that mom was out of hospital, broken bones, you would give her the remainder of the day to recover. With close family. Day two is for her best friends and more immediate family. Day three is for her friends, and extended family, Day Four is for the people who THINK they're friends -Can you believe? This chick called something-er-rather Mancuso showed up? – And for the great aunt that you never really knew you had. Day five is for the attacker to finish the job.
Kidding mom. Kidding.
So there you are. More or less. You would have had about seven or eight days until you're scratched off Moms Christmas list.
But in this case, I'm going to raise the issue of day one hundred and fifty four. I want a day that is SO far away; it stops JUST short of a restraining order. Because putting a restraining order on well-wishers would be a major blunder. But I might be able to get away with it, if I could prove that said well-wishers weren't really there to WELL WISH, in my humble opinion.
THEY SHOULD HAVE ARRIVED ON DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY FOUR. NOT DAY THREE.
(Who would take my case though? No, really. Who passes such things? I mean, we all know that's is not socially acceptable to spit on strangers and so on, but, who said so? Some days I want to hug them, others I want to knee them in the groin. . . me and my fickle nature.)
SO yes. It was NOT their day. I would go so far as to call them rude. RUDE I tell you.
Oh, and HE had the whole, "Suzie, what have you done now?' thing DOWN. I am so sure. And his wife! She just laughed! It was like, she was so disgustingly secure that she didn't CARE that her husband was practically hitting on another woman. AND that's given that mom's bruises were almost gone by day three, you could tell that she was totally hot, and any NORMAL, UN-self-actualised BLONDE would be threatened.
I suppose it's different for models. And MORE different for Supermodels. Damn them. And damn him! Bringing his stupid son, and his stupid – BLONDE! Very blonde! – Wife, and his stupid CAR, and the stupid ROSES, that he was all, "Suze hon., these are for you—"
DAMN THEM ALL.
Can't say I was alone in thinking this. When mom showed them in, I was half convinced dad was going to jump him then and there.
I don't care what dad says. It is clear to me that there will never be any love lost between Dad and Slater senior.
And mom's not totally blind to the situation. She fully grabbed dads arm, making it look like she was just doing it because, you know, she could.
Well its not like he wasn't all over his stupid bimbo. I don't know who that pissed off more. Nick, Dad or Me. Dad though it was rude. Nick? Well, who knows what the hell Nick's thinking. And um, Hello? Hypocrite much Nick? You and Cindy don't exactly keep in mind the passing pre schoolers when YOU go at it.
And I was mad because, well, I DON'T LIKE THEM, OK? I don't like ANY of them.
They can JUMP OFF A FRIGGING BALCONY.
. . . excuse the pun mom. Well, you didn't jump . . .
"Thank you Paul." Mom said, and she was making a pretty good job of being civil. Well, I suppose it's easier for her than dad and I. She doesn't hate any member of the family with a passion. "Melinda, honey, would you mind putting these somewhere?"
"Does out the window count?" I muttered as I took the huge bouquet of roses off her.
Slater just smiled and when mom told them to take a seat, the wife refused, "I'll help," she smiled at me, her name I later found out is Chenaol. Pfft. Models. Why they can't just have normal names like the rest of us, I'll never know. "I think we should give Paul a moment to talk his way out of the punch that I can see your dad is dying to throw." She whispered to me as we walked into the kitchen.
Im afraid I grumbled something unintelligible in response. HEY! I didn't care if I sounded socially retarded.
I tend to change the rules to suit me.
Tough titties.
"So, Melinda is it? I like your outfit." She said in a voice that had quite a mixed accent to it.
AND? Am I supposed to be all, like, STAR STRUCK because YOU LIKE MY OUTFIT? News FL-ASH!
But . . . I liked my outfit too. I had on my black skinny jeans and a peach off the shoulder knit (Belle de Darla – new designer) with my hair down – messy – and I had on peach toned makeup. I was possibly subconsciously showing Gary how to REALLY wear orange knits. And let me tell you Gary, THIS IS HOW ITS DONE.
All of this. Yes. Brian chose YOU over ALL of THIS.
But I cannot believe this – this – IT! Is making small talk with me. Oh babe, two can play.
"Thank you!" I simpered, "It means so much that you like my outfit, a world renown supermodel like you! Now if you don't get your stupid air filled head out of my face," I growled, "I will—"
What have I got? Glares? Yeah, Heaps of those. I'll GLARE AT YOU.
"Oh my god." She said, rolling her eyes, which surprised me a little. All I'd expected her to do was a goldfish imitation. You know, lips . . . whatever. Maybe I've made Cindy a sort of benchmark blonde.
"You heard me. Go fall of a runway somewhere, I don't really care which one."
"Ok." She sounded exasperated, which also surprised me. "I was being nice. There's no reason you have to be such a bitch."
OHHHHH! It's all ON Now!
"Hey! No name-calling. It's called respect. R-E-S-P-E-C-T."
Love you Aretha. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, Take Care T.C.B!
I don't even know what the hell she meant when she said take care T.C.B.
Maybe it was her dog.
But hey. Freedom of speech.
"I don't have respect for you!" I continued angrily, "Because you make a living out of parading around in next to nothing. I'm SORRY, but I'm struggling to muster any respect for THAT."
Oh yes. The chick in the orange corner is WHIPPING the ass of the bimbo in the Versace corner!
"Well," she said, sounding irritated, "maybe its because you're so frigging one eyed that that's how you would see it. You wouldn't see it as a woman showing what she's got to the world, proving she can live her own life, And using her body to her best advantage."
"Well perhaps I would call that prostitution."
"Isn't that the same? Woman are still in control, still calling the shots, and using the situation – and the stupid idiots who fall at the feet of anyone with a minimum C cup – to get what they want!"
Umm . . .
"Next time you want to call on someone's morals, take a look at how two faced your own are."
Slience from the orange corner . . .
She was one hundred and ten percent right.
And I now know what I want to do when I leave school. I want to be a stripper.
Wonder what Grandma's going to say?
"I get that." I said slowly. "And I apologise. Full heartedly. But there's still the fact of what you married." I said, gesturing back into the living room.
"Deiu!" she exclaimed, telling me she had a lot of her life on the runways of Paris. So that's what the accent was. French with a little bit of German. And then there was the slight Chicago brassiness, which would suggest a few years there. Probably with the Slaters.
Damn them.
And shut up. I like languages. And I like Chenaol. I really do like this chick. This MODEL chick.
She's straight up. Probably not the next Bill Gates, but hey, neither am I. But she's nice. Well, before I essentially told her that she had the IQ of a goldfish.
Understandable. If I told me I had the IQ of a fish, I would be insulted too.
(Did that even make sense?)
"I know your family has a grudge against Paul, OK? I know. But personally I understood where he was coming from. He was in love with your mom."
SLAP.
No really, she could have slapped me and I would have been less surprised.
OK. Here's the plan. Pretend I knew.
Pretend I knew that Nick-look-at-my-great-BMW-Slater's FATHER Had a thing for my mother. And that the person she mentioned whom almost fucked up her and dad's LIFE was NICKS FATHER. And things weren't just a little tension-y between dad and him just because mom came off worst in a scrap with him. NO! Slater was scamming on dads girl!
Dude. That's just low.
Beyond low.
Scummy.
POND scummy.
Exactly what I've come to expect of a Slater.
"Oh. Sure," I said with a tinny sounding laugh. "But I mean, Love has its limits. Otherwise, wouldn't it be Slater married to mom, not dad."
Chenaol smiled. "I actually think it's really romantic. Paul may have loved Suze, but at the and of the day, the love between Jesse and her was stronger." She giggled. "Strong enough to raise the dead."
I was wondering how much she knew. WAS. Past tense. Now I know. SHE KNOWS IT ALL. Gah. Why'd Slater have to go and spill the beans? ALL of the beans? It was a trusting and endearing gesture I would not have expected from Satan's spawn.
OH well. For the good of humanity, I'll just have to ignore all redeeming qualities.
Yeah. See peeps? It's for your own good.
"OH. Yeah. Well, that's great, that – that really is but—"
"I suppose you want to know how we met? I healed Paul's wounded heart . . ."
No I don't want to know. Pfft. And healing wounded heart.
SOMEONE'S BEEN READING TOO MANY SOPPY ROMANCE NOVELS.
God, STAY AWAY FROM MOMMY'S BOOKSHELF CHILDREN.
You might . . . learn things that your not ready for.
And then you stumble across mommy and daddy who LIED when they explained that sex was a giant hug.
And life's never the same.
"It all started when Paul left Nicks mom, taking him with her."
Whoa. Now she has my full attention.
"She was a librarian, and I can't think of what they might have had in common other than sex." She said this so brassily, wasn't she even a little jealous over all Slaters women? When you've had as many as he . . . lets just say it's not a position I envy her.
He's just like bluebeard! the dude who had seven wives! I use past tense because he murdered all of them.
Jeez. How much would it suck if your dad started marrying then killing all of your step mum's?
Wait. Has Slater actually murdered anyone?
Hurrumph. Wouldn't put it past him.
I stubbornly pushed down the slither of pity I felt for Nick then. It wasn't like his dad WAS a murderer. No, he's just a man-whore.
"There was nothing interesting about her. Nothing except Nick to make him stay either, so he took Nick with him. And I met him one night while he was out for a few drinks."
She didn't have to tell me he was on a date. I knew.
"I'd just finished a shoot, and I must have had something that attracted him to me—"
Other than a good rack? Right. I bet it was the supermodel thing. It hooks 'em every time, right Daniel?
"—And the rest is history!" she finished, holding up a hand proudly displaying her more than pretty rings.
Chenaol is gorgeous. Duh. Model. She's either being WAY modest, or I've given her intelligence more credit than she deserves, OR she truly doesn't know.
How depressing for us mortals.
Mind you. I suppose its better that I'm not drop dead gorgeous. I would shamelessly manipulate people so much.
I mentioned this to Chenaol and she laughed.
'I don't know what it is about people today. NO girl thinks they're gorgeous. Not even pretty. And if you're not gorgeous, who is?"
I brushed this off as being too silly for words.
Really. Hello? Who does she work with? Other SUPERMODELS.
Someone's been at the loco weed.
"Anyway." I said with a shrug, "Lets go see if dads managed to drop your husband yet." I walked quickly out of the kitchen pretending not to notice Chenaol watching me.
DISAPPOINTED.
SLATER WAS STILL ON HIS FEET AND THERE WAS NO THREATS BEING TRADED.
DAMN HIM TO HELL. I hope his daddy welcomes him with open arms.
Ha! Get it! Satan's spawn . . .
Ha?
Ok, that was lame.
Instead the atmosphere was one of strained civility. On both sides. Damn.
Everyone was quietly talking.
Truly.
Pleasantries.
Weird.
I sidled up to dad and asked why Slater wasn't finding himself airborne through a window yet.
Like dad would ever throw someone out a window. (A/N: Heh.)
"Actually," dad said tonelessly, "An agreement was made."
Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like this?
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Cliffhanger . . .
Lol. I don't mind if you throw things at me for this, I'll duck.
But I don't know when I'll next be updating, because I have a suffering social life. It's not good when I start falling off stages because I'm busy planning my next fanfiction chapter.
And you all better hope Jesse's gotten over his little arranged marriages hang up.
Its not duty Jesse. It's TORTURE.
That's what schools are for. They are there for Satan's sardonic entertainment.
Anyway. Thank you, and REVIEW.
Or it will be ME throwing things.