Wing and a prayer
«Speeencer! Breakfast's been ready for ages, are you ever going to get down and eat some?»
Silence.
«Spencer? Do you really wanna miss your dad's special pancakes? I made them just for you!»
Silence.
«Ashley? Would you go up and check on her? Maybe drag her by her ankle down the stairs if that's what it takes to get her down?»
Shock. Bug-eyes. Trembling. And most of all: Fear.
No way.
No way did he just ask me to go to Spencer. And not just go to Spencer with a message, but actually making her do something, make her reciprocate.
I can imagine her reciprocation.
A fatal blow to the head, caused by a hair-dryer flying in high speed across the bathroom.
Death by choking caused by a hanger roughly wrapped around my neck.
Lethal dose of perfume shoved into the depths my bowels.
«Ashley? Did you space out on me?»
Shock. Bug-eyes. Trembling. And most of all: Embarrassment.
Not needing to vocally reply to Arthur's sentence, I drag myself up from the chair I'm currently occupying. My eyes are still as big as Arthur's pancakes, and if I don't minimize them soon, I'm sure they're going to swallow me whole. Glen is smirking at his end of the table, knowing full well of my fear of Spencer.
I forcefully shut my eyes and braze myself for what I have been assigned to do. Opening my eyes again, one by one, I glare at the floor, naively thinking it will help to cast my gaze downwards.
One step.
Two step.
No, I'm not reciting a damn song, I'm talking about my footsteps.
Three step.
Did that sound like I have three feet?
Four step.
Great, now I'm apparently a horse.
Fi- and as I'm about to tread another foot on my path to extinction, my eyes are cast towards the stairs again, and tadah: Return of the pancake-eyes.
My feet linger at the top of the stairs, the locks of hair falling into my eyes. I instinctively release the hair ribbon from my wrist and tuck my hair as neatly against my scalp as possible.
Deadly loss of blood from the skin formerly attached to my hair.
No need to generate a reason for Spencer to put me to sleep. I already sleep with one eye open. Not the pancake kind though. More like the amount of pancake Spencer devours. Which is next to nothing.
Bathroom not locked. Does Spencer usually lock it? I try to remember any occurrence where I've encountered Spencer in the bathroom, but I can't recite any. I've always been very aware of where Spencer is at any moment. If I'm not sure where she is, I keep still, doing everything in my power to not bump into her before I've located her presence once again. It's like I've gotten my own Spence-dar. Christ, did I just say that?
You might wonder why I'm so frightened of her. Sometimes I do too. Wonder, I mean. It's not like I've never encountered mean people before. I'm actually well used to them. And Spencer isn't mean per se. She's just... so intense in her indifference.
Sometimes I catch myself staring at her, following her every move. She doesn't notice, she's too occupied in her obscene indifference, and it makes me want to know what goes behind that head of hers oh so much more. Occasionally I hope that I can uncover her by looking at her, know her inner feelings, her reasons for being the way she is. Every day I think I come closer to the answer by learning her moves, her gazes, her choice of words. Everyday I try to read her just like people read the TV specials, processing them, putting yourself in their position, believing you understand; and at the end of the day again admitting defeat, that you're merely just observing what you wish you could understand.
As I reach for the door handle, my hands trembling, I hear something shatter in the room next door, followed by a series of not so nice cuss-words.
Great, when I finally muster up my courage to go into the bathroom, it happens to be the bedroom she's currently occupying.
Closed eyes. Sharp intake of breath. Ready, set, go.
My feet lead the way to Spencer's door, and my hand go directly into contact with the door, knocking ever so slightly on it.
«What?»
It's harsh, indifferent, dripping of menace, daring you to speak up again. She doesn't want a reply, the question mark behind the word is not an invite to a reply, it's merely a matter of pronunciation.
«Uhm, Arthur asked me to come get you...»
Silence.
Door slamming open, almost hitting my nose.
She looks at me, straight in the eyes, and it's so intense that I can't bare not looking away. So that's what I do. Look away.
SLAM!
Door slammed shut again.
Silence.
Shock.
Zombie-state down the stairs, into the kitchen, into the chair.
«I think it would be helpful to blink, Ash» Glen snickers, and it pulls me out of my reverie.
«I'm sorry Ashley, I should have known you weren't used to Spencer's morning mood. I won't ask you again to do that.»
As Arthur speaks, his eyes go from me to Glen, and as father and son
look at each other, I see a mutual understanding.
Glen told him.
Fuck.
Glen told Arthur that I'm afraid of the behemoth upstairs.
So maybe my pure fright, or my almost-there panic attacks whenever near her might have given Arthur a clue about my obsession to not run into Spencer, it still doesn't give Glen approval to tell him.
I can't help but feel betrayed.
But it's a good betrayal.
A welcomed one.
And by the way Glen smiles affectionately at me, I know he knows.
He knows he did the right thing.