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OMG! It’s August 1st! Today! It’s the first! Of August! You know what that means–it’s only a month before the Parentals enact the horrible Drag Emily Away From Everyone She Likes And Everything That’s Cool And Make Her Go To The Other Side Of The Planet plan. Wah! England! They do weird things over there–they put vinegar on their fish and chips. And they drive on the wrong side of the road. And they say "zed" instead of Z. How am I supposed to fit in there for a WHOLE ENTIRE YEAR when I don’t even know what a zed is?
"I have an important news bulletin for all of you," I announced last night as everyone was plopping themselves down to the twice weekly torture session, AKA dinner with the whole fam. "I have rethought this evil plan of yours to ruin my life by tearing me away from my job at a very cool music store, not to mention wresting me from my best friend [wrest is one of Brother’s words–it’s mucho coolio, isn’t it?], and we won’t even go into the horror of making me go to school in a foreign country. I have decided that you guys can all go off to England and let Brother do his visiting professor thing at Oxford, and I will stay home here. I’ll be just fine on my own."
Brother flared his nostrils at me, which was just about enough to put me off the whole idea of dinner, let me tell you. Although I guess a father called Brother should be expected to be a little off his rocker. Must remember to slip a pair of pruning sheers into his suitcase. "And here I thought we were through with your temper tantrum about our year in England. Silly me, I never imagined it would go on for more than two months."
Temper tantrum? Me? Honestly, Dru, my father is enough to drive a girl positively noodles! "I do not have temper tantrums," I pointed out with great dignity.
"That’s why you laid on the floor and threw things and yelled when Brother first told us we were going to England?" Bess asked, which is just mean of her because you know full well she wasn’t happy about going to England either…at least not until one of her Greenpeace buddies told her there was lots of things she could protest there.
I thinned my lips at her as Mom shoved a bowl of salad at me. "I didn’t have a temper tantrum. I fainted at the horrible shock of the news. And I may have had a convulsion or two, but there was no tantruming involved. I do not tantrum. I was recently voted the Sophomore Least Likely to Have a Tantrum. So there."
"Girls," Mom said in that voice she gets. Do you think that comes naturally, or is it something they teach them at pregnancy classes? "This is our family night. Let’s make an effort to get along, shall we? Emily, you’re coming with us. End of discussion."
"I don’t see what’s wrong with me staying home by myself. I’m sixteen. I’ll be seventeen soon." In eight months, but hey, I wasn’t going to point that out. Soon sounded better than eight months. "I stayed by myself when you and Brother went to spit off the Golden Gate Bridge, and that was last year. There’s not one single reason I shouldn’t stay home now."
"You’re coming with us," Mom said again.
I gave up on her and concentrated on Brother. Sometimes, if I give him really big puppy dog eyes, he’ll cave. "Just think how much money you’ll save if I stay at home."
"No," he said, not even looking at me as he stuffed his face with Mom’s chicken lasagna.
I made my puppy dog eyes even bigger and leaned over his plate so he’d have to look at me. "Think of the extra luggage you can take! More books. You like books!"
"No," he said, moving his plate and holding one hand up to shield his eyes from me.
"Emily," Mom said warningly.
She hates it when I twist Brother around my little finger, bwahahahah! But I was persuasion personified, Dru. "Just think of all the extra room you’ll have in the house there without me. More room for any medieval manuscripts you find, or maybe a couple of suits of armor, or an Iron Maiden or something." I poked him in the arm with my fork so he’d look up and see my devastating puppy eyes.
He didn’t, the rat. He just closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. "No."
"Emily!" Mom said again.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, right? Right. I grabbed Brother’s plate and shoved it toward Mom, laying down on the table right in front of him, adding a little pouty-lips to the puppy eyes as I gazed up at him. "Just think of how much peace you’ll have without me! No one to yell at for being on the phone, no one who’ll hide the TV remote so you can’t watch those boring Old People shows you like, no one to annoy you when you’re trying to write your papers. All that peace and quiet can be yours if I stay home. All I’ll need is a credit card, and I’ll be out of your hair for a whole year. The platinum card, not the regular one."
Brother’s eyes lit up. I could see he was thinking about it.
"EMILY!" Mom said really loudly. "You are not staying home."
"Just you and all that quiet," I said to Brother.
"Quiet," he breathed, his eyes all shiny the way they get when he sees medieval stuff. "Peace. It sounds so…idyllic. Chris, couldn’t we–"
"NO!" Mom shouted. Bess snickered.
"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease," I begged Brother, fluttering my lashes over my puppy dog eyes.
"It might be something to consider," Brother told Mom. "Peace, Chris. Peace and quiet. How long has it been since we’ve had that?"
Mom raised her eyebrows and said one word, just one word, and poopy poopy poop poop, that did it. My beautiful plan was spoiled.
"Boys," she said. That’s it, just "Boys."
Brother’s eyes bugged out and his nostrils did the flare thing (never, ever under any circumstances look up at my father when he’s flaring his nostrils), and he reared back like he was stung. "Good God, you’re absolutely right! I didn’t think of that! No, Emily. The answer is no. You’re coming with us, where we can keep an eye on you."
"But–" I said.
"No," both Brother and Mom yelled.
I slid off the table and took my plate to the kitchen to eat, muttering all the way. When they ganged up together against me, they were impossible to overcome.
So here I am, doomed to be dragged away from you and everyone for a whole year. Pity me, Dru. It’s going to be hell, sheer hell–the year my life went down the…what do they call toilets in England? Oh, loo. The year my life went down the loo.
GAH!
Hugs and kisses,
~Em
What happens to Em in England?
Read the first chapter of The Year My Life Went Down the Loo
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