CHAPTER 4
Dad was waiting for me on the front porch of our house when I slowly ambled up the sidewalk, frowning from the lack of sleep and tormented emotions. He looked worn from a day spent on the plane, his suit rumpled, his face in need of a shave.
He didn’t look overly impressed with me, either.
“Is this a habit of yours? Staying out all night without telling anyone?”
“Well, hello to you, too.” I squinted. “No, it’s not a habit. And what difference does it make? No one was here anyway.”
“The difference is, you are seventeen years old, and you have a curfew, which you’ve only broken by, oh, twelve or thirteen hours.”
“How do you know? Maybe I came home last night and left early this morning. You’d never know.”
Dad didn’t answer, just sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. It was easy to beat him at this game. Most of the time, he didn’t have the patience or the energy to battle me.
“Well, you made it just in time.” He smiled then, his voice overly chipper, his I-just-want-to-get-along-with-you-today voice. “Marcy’s coming over to dinner! She just called.” He grinned broadly.
“What! Wow.” My sarcasm was obvious. “What are you still doing here? The fattened calf isn’t going to kill itself.” With that I brushed by him, rolling my eyes, heading quickly in and up to my room before he could bother me anymore.
To my horror of horrors, my mother had laid a neat little cardigan set on my unmade bed for me—bubblegum pink, with a grey plaid skirt to go with it.
A whisper from her. A subtle hint. Be more like Marcy.
Nothing made me want to be less like Marcy more. And I knew just how to show it.
An hour or so later, Mom called me down to supper.
“I’ll be right there!” I called back, smiling in anticipation. I looked in the mirror and made a few last-minute adjustments to the outfit I’d created.
The bubblegum pink top was now the owner of a great black skull that sat across my chest, a credit to my old art classes and a faithful black Sharpie. The grey skirt I’d left basically alone, only adding a few well-placed rips, which, of course, had to be fixed with an overabundance of safety pins. Beneath those were some fishnets I had worn for Halloween one year, and to top it all off, I put on some heavy, black army boots I found in the bottom of my closet. They were Riley’s, from his short stint in Cadets (which his mother forced him to quit when someone stole his brand new and very expensive boots).
He’d really hated that group.
With a dab more eyeliner, I bounded down the stairs and into the dining room.
“Good evening,” I announced. Marcy, Blake, and my father looked up at me, ceasing their conversation, their eyebrows raised.
Mom stopped cold in her tracks and glared. “Mackenzie Anne, what have you done to your clothes?” She demanded, setting down the potatoes.
“What, this?” I asked in amazement, giving them a spin. “I just added my own artistic flair. You should be encouraging my flair, you know.”
“Do you even know how much that outfit cost? Look at it now. Ruined.”
“Then save yourself the trouble next time, Mom. Really.” I sat down at my place.
Marcy and Blake exchanged a look of disapproval, and Dad sat thoughtfully.
He looked very tired.
Dinner went on, with Marcy recounting her amazing abilities in full, and Blake interjecting any excellence she may have forgotten. My parents hung on every word, while I sat silently, pushing my food around on my plate, trying to tune her out.
Marcy was my sister, and I loved her, but she was…a lot.
She’d gotten into med school with a full scholarship, just like my mom, which my parents never stopped raving about. They bragged about her to all their friends. Her boyfriend, Blake, was this real hotshot surgeon. They lived together in the city, in a swanky modern high-rise downtown.
On top of all that, Marcy was gorgeous, with her dark eyes, athletic build and immaculate sense of fashion. She looked breathtaking in her white buttoned blouse and grey blazer—her dark hair, recently bobbed, pin-neat and perfectly curled at her jawbone. Her flawless skin was made up just right, so she looked perfect without seeming like she tried. Blake, at her side, sat dapperly in a blue sweater with a white collar. I nearly expected him to pull out a pipe.
Then I noticed it. How had I missed it before? How did my mom not see? I checked quickly to make sure she hadn’t been stricken blind. There, shining and gleaming in the dim lights of the dining room, on the ring finger of Marcy’s left hand, was a diamond of extraordinary size and carat.
“What’s with the ring?” I blurted, totally interrupting their conversation.
Marcy looked hard at me a moment, then blushed into a smile, beaming as she held up her hand for my parents to see. “I was going to announce it…properly—Blake asked me last night. We’re getting married!” She exclaimed.
The noise my mother made then cannot even be described. It was something like a train whistle combined with the high-pitched scream of a teakettle. My ears cringed at the sound. She jumped up, covered her mouth and grasped Marcy in a tight hug, enthusiastically proclaiming her approval and excitement.
Dad smiled broadly and clinked his wine glass against Blake’s sherry. “Congratulations, son. It’ll be an honour to have you in the family.”
I watched as the madness ensued. When the initial excitement settled and only brief bursts of high-pitched noises were exploding from my mother, Marcy looked over at me. She smiled. “Mac, we’d like you to be in the wedding.”
I was sincerely surprised. “Me? Why?”
“‘Cause silly. You’re my little sister. Who better?” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, her offer unexpectedly touching.
I smiled at her, sincerely this time. “Sure, I’d like that.”
Blake chuckled. “Keep in mind, we’re leaving skulls out of the décor.” He smirked and sipped his sherry. “Unless you would like black and white for a theme, dear?”
Everyone around the table laughed like it was the funniest joke they’d ever heard.
I sat back and sneered at Blake. What a dick. Who under the age of fifty drank sherry with their meal anyway? And his hair. He looked like a game show host from the early eighties. Dick. I made a mental note that when—no, if—I ever got married, black and white would make a definite appearance. Oh, and Blake wouldn’t be invited.
“So, Mackenzie.” Dad interrupted my future revenge scheme, wiping at his mouth with his napkin. He took a drink of wine and made sure he had my attention. “Did we decide anything? About the job?”
“Oh, yes, actually, we did. ”
“We did?” Mom turned from Marcy. “I haven’t spoken to Doug yet.”
“Don’t bother. Riley’s getting me a job.”
There, right on cue. The face.
“Riley? Where?” Asked the scrunch of disapproval.
“At the restaurant where he works. The Red Wheat.”
Stunned silence followed.
Someone scoffed, and I can’t be sure, but I think it was Blake. Dick.
“What?” I asked in amazement. “What? You told me to get a job, so I got one.”
“Well…” Dad shook his head. “That wasn’t exactly the job I had in mind.”
“What job did you have in mind? The kind that pays money? This is one of those.”
“I just thought …” he trailed off.
“You don’t want a job at the hospital? It won’t be a problem. I’ll call right now—”
“Mom! Stop! I don’t want your damn hospital job.” I got up from my seat. “You guys are friggin’ impossible.”
But there was a smile on my face as I strode up the stairs back to my room.