Chapter 3 #2
I can only be thankful that my parents were not like-minded when it came to choosing for me. I have an old family name and am ambivalent about it.
“Did I hear Augie getting the door for you?” June asks. “That boy . . . He’s a disaster lately.”
You have nice teeth.
I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry. I really want to reach into my purse and find my compact to study my smile. I’ve never paid attention to it before. Is it some pained Chandler Bing grimace? Or maybe it’s more horsey?
Suddenly, my teeth feel huge, as though they take up all the space in my face. Gah.
Giving myself a mental shake, I take a seat on the sprawling couch, sinking in deep. It’s one of a set, and each couch can easily hold four people. June nestles into a huge cream armchair kitty-corner to the couch.
“Yes, August answered. That was the extent of it.” And so say I.
Instead of meeting June’s eyes, I look around, refamiliarizing myself with the place.
My grandmother, Pegs, had been a set designer.
Even though I majored in film history, some of her passion for interiors must have rubbed off because, whenever I enter a space, I find myself either redecorating it in my head or soaking in the style.
I’ve spent many good times here. Done in soothing shades of dusty blue and cream, the rectangular-shaped room is divided into three seating areas: the main one before the fireplace where we’re sitting, the large nook by the bay window, and another cozy space at the far end that is flanked by bookshelves.
Everything in the Luck house is on a grand scale. There are seven of them and they’re all over five foot nine, with the Luck men averaging over six foot four. Add in friends or extended family, and you are left with a house almost bursting at the seams.
I love this house. Almost as much as I love Pegs and Pops’s house. Longing, sharp and clear, pierces my chest so deeply that my breath hitches. God, it hurt.
“You’re not even going to ask me why Augie’s a mess?” June’s dark brow lifts in clear disbelief.
“Oh, I know why. It’s hard to escape, unless you’re living abroad.” I shrug. “If he wants to talk about it, I’ll listen.”
June’s eyes soften. “You know, you’re the only friend I have that has never expressed any interest in my brothers.”
Practice makes perfect. And I’m a good actress when I want to be.
“I don’t think you realize how refreshing that is,” she continues.
“Maybe that’s why I don’t go there.”
June pulls her long legs up onto the big chair and tucks them under her. “I shouldn’t have tried to gossip. I’m more worried than anything.”
I’m saved from having to answer by the sound of the front door slamming, followed by the feminine bellow of “I’m home!”
May. No one else announces her arrival with such authority.
From somewhere in the bowels of the house, come equally loud replies of:
“Baby girl!”—this from Margo.
“Loudmouth!”—from March, and finally,
“We know, Chuckles!” from August.
“Aw, you missed me,” May shouts back.
There’s some muffled exchange, May stomping around, then she comes dance-walking into the room, waving her hands in the air, as she sing-songs, “is our sista from another mista here for a visit?”
Curvy, where June is lean, May is and always was, a whirlwind. Even her inky hair, flying wildly around her heart-shaped face, resists any attempts at calm.
“Mom probably needs help setting the table,” June deadpans.
“Nope.” May flops dramatically down on the couch next to me. “Got the boys doing that, as those little pampered punks should. Hey there, Pennywise.”
I get a quick kiss on the cheek.
“May Day.”
“I hate when you call Penny that,” June says to May with a shudder. “Gives me nightmares about creepy-ass clowns all week.”
I leer at June, and she makes a sound of horror, swatting her hand in my direction.
Struggling not to laugh anymore, I turn to May. “We really shouldn’t. Coulrophobia is real and horrible.”
“Right?” June scowls at May—and me.
What did I do? Oh, right. I leered. That was bad of me. I wrinkle my nose in apology. June sniffs, but all is forgiven in a look.
May, however, makes an indignant face. “I’ll remember to respect her clown phobia the next time she puts a fake spider in my shower stall, shall I?”
“It wasn’t fake. That sucker was real. And, for the last time, I didn’t put it in there!”
“Lies!”
“And, anyway, you’re the one going around calling me Bug.”
“If the name fits . . .”
“I’ll fit you!”
“What does that even mean? Fit this!”
They stick their tongues out at each other, both trying not to laugh.
I love their antics and boisterousness; I’ve always wanted to be as free.
Sometimes I am, but the fact remains: while May and June have had to make themselves heard in their family of seven, I am an only child and silence comes naturally.
May takes her own corner of the couch to curl up on before pinning me with a look. “Not that I don’t love that you’ve finally come back home to dinner—”
“Hey, I was in California.” I still have one semester to finish up.
“And apparently, she’s forgotten about the use of aeroplanes.”
I roll my eyes at her use of the old-fashioned word.
“You had all summer free,” May complains. “And you wait until the middle of freaking September to show up.”
Unlike May, June, and March, who started class on the first, my academic year begins on the final week of September.
Guilt twists as I rest my head on the sofa back cushion, but then I think about my last conversation with Mom. “I’m beginning to think I should have stayed away.”
They both know why. May goes quiet. We all do.
“Things didn’t go so well?” June asks softly.
March leans in from the kitchen entryway. “Enough yapping. Get your chatty butts to the table, ’cause I’m not waiting to eat.”
“When my butt is being chatty,” May shoots back, “you will know it, bro.”
On that note, we go in to dinner.