pea, you can have whatever you want.”
If she gets breasts before I do, I’ll use the boning to make myself a noose.
The nails argument resumes the moment we’re in the car.
“I want you to try that special polish again, the kind that tastes bad,” STB tells Miri.
I’m sitting next to STB in the front seat, Prissy is singing some highly inappropriate pop music lyrics to herself in the back, and Miri is sitting behind me, staring vacantly out the window. “No,” she answers. “It doesn’t work.”
“If you stopped biting, it would. I don’t know how you nibbled through that polish.”
It was pretty gross. Well, I had to try some, didn’t I? I just put a drop on my thumb and licked it. And then again on my pinky, in case size affected taste. “If she stopped biting,” I explain with forced patience, “then it wouldn’t need to work.” Come on, STB, you can be meaner than this. “But it’s not just the biting that’s the problem,” I say, goading her. “She rips them too.”
STB gasps. Miri kicks the back of my seat.
“You rip them? They’re not old checks; they’re your precious hands! This has got to stop. ”
Miri stays silent for a few seconds and then explodes. “Why do you care so much? They’re my nails! Mine! And I can do whatever I want with them!”
Yes!
STB reaches over her seat and wags her finger at Miri. “No, you can’t. You don’t always know what’s in your best interest.”
Since Miri could turn STB into a toad at any moment, STB obviously doesn’t know what’s in her best interest.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Miri grumbles. “You’re not my mother.”
Ah. The infamous not-my-mother line. Silly, Miri. Turning her into a toad would be far more original.
When we return to the house, Miri runs up to our room and slams the door. I’ll give her some space to seethe privately. Get her really worked up. Maybe a half hour or so. And then I’ll strike with Part One of The Plan. (Insert evil laugh. I would do one, but I’ve tried it and I sound like a constipated frog. My dad can do a great one, but this is hardly the time to ask him, and anyway, he’s at the office, even though STB hates for him to work when we’re here. She hates having to entertain us all day without him. Not that she’d ever tell him that. Oh, no, she prefers to fume silently as though it’s our fault.)
I decide to give Miri thirty minutes, tops, of solo stewing time. Maybe I’ll watch some TV. I plop myself onto the couch in the living room and turn on the tube. Flip. Flip. Flip. Nothing but infomercials, reality TV, and reruns. Hey, maybe Bewitched is on. I’ll be able to give Miri some pointers. Nope. Just Buffy the Vampire Slayer . Forget that. I don’t want to give her any dangerous ideas. What to do, what to do? I guess I could start my homework. I have an English assignment for Monday. I’m supposed to analyze Yeats’s poetry for techniques such as alliteration.
Dull, dreary, drudgery.
Plight, plan, plot.
I know it’s been only six minutes, but honestly, I think Miri has had more than enough time alone. I enter the room to find her lying on her bed, legs at a right angle straight up against the wall, A 2 propped upright on her lap. I know this is a weird way to read, but we’ve both been doing it for years. It does seem a little batlike, now that she’s a witch.
“I can’t believe Dad is marrying her,” she complains as I lie down beside her.
Perfect. She’s primed for Part One. “He doesn’t have to marry her,” I say in my casual voice.
She smirks. “Then when will we wear our pink doily dresses?”
Aha! Here’s my opening. “If the wedding is canceled, we will never have to wear them. Ever. Except on Halloween, if we’re so inclined. You can dress up as Glinda, the Good Witch of the North.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And why would the wedding get canceled?”
When I was seven, I begged my mom to let me dress up as Glinda for Halloween, but she
If she gets breasts before I do, I’ll use the boning to make myself a noose.
The nails argument resumes the moment we’re in the car.
“I want you to try that special polish again, the kind that tastes bad,” STB tells Miri.
I’m sitting next to STB in the front seat, Prissy is singing some highly inappropriate pop music lyrics to herself in the back, and Miri is sitting behind me, staring vacantly out the window. “No,” she answers. “It doesn’t work.”
“If you stopped biting, it would. I don’t know how you nibbled through that polish.”
It was pretty gross. Well, I had to try some, didn’t I? I just put a drop on my thumb and licked it. And then again on my pinky, in case size affected taste. “If she stopped biting,” I explain with forced patience, “then it wouldn’t need to work.” Come on, STB, you can be meaner than this. “But it’s not just the biting that’s the problem,” I say, goading her. “She rips them too.”
STB gasps. Miri kicks the back of my seat.
“You rip them? They’re not old checks; they’re your precious hands! This has got to stop. ”
Miri stays silent for a few seconds and then explodes. “Why do you care so much? They’re my nails! Mine! And I can do whatever I want with them!”
Yes!
STB reaches over her seat and wags her finger at Miri. “No, you can’t. You don’t always know what’s in your best interest.”
Since Miri could turn STB into a toad at any moment, STB obviously doesn’t know what’s in her best interest.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Miri grumbles. “You’re not my mother.”
Ah. The infamous not-my-mother line. Silly, Miri. Turning her into a toad would be far more original.
When we return to the house, Miri runs up to our room and slams the door. I’ll give her some space to seethe privately. Get her really worked up. Maybe a half hour or so. And then I’ll strike with Part One of The Plan. (Insert evil laugh. I would do one, but I’ve tried it and I sound like a constipated frog. My dad can do a great one, but this is hardly the time to ask him, and anyway, he’s at the office, even though STB hates for him to work when we’re here. She hates having to entertain us all day without him. Not that she’d ever tell him that. Oh, no, she prefers to fume silently as though it’s our fault.)
I decide to give Miri thirty minutes, tops, of solo stewing time. Maybe I’ll watch some TV. I plop myself onto the couch in the living room and turn on the tube. Flip. Flip. Flip. Nothing but infomercials, reality TV, and reruns. Hey, maybe Bewitched is on. I’ll be able to give Miri some pointers. Nope. Just Buffy the Vampire Slayer . Forget that. I don’t want to give her any dangerous ideas. What to do, what to do? I guess I could start my homework. I have an English assignment for Monday. I’m supposed to analyze Yeats’s poetry for techniques such as alliteration.
Dull, dreary, drudgery.
Plight, plan, plot.
I know it’s been only six minutes, but honestly, I think Miri has had more than enough time alone. I enter the room to find her lying on her bed, legs at a right angle straight up against the wall, A 2 propped upright on her lap. I know this is a weird way to read, but we’ve both been doing it for years. It does seem a little batlike, now that she’s a witch.
“I can’t believe Dad is marrying her,” she complains as I lie down beside her.
Perfect. She’s primed for Part One. “He doesn’t have to marry her,” I say in my casual voice.
She smirks. “Then when will we wear our pink doily dresses?”
Aha! Here’s my opening. “If the wedding is canceled, we will never have to wear them. Ever. Except on Halloween, if we’re so inclined. You can dress up as Glinda, the Good Witch of the North.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And why would the wedding get canceled?”
When I was seven, I begged my mom to let me dress up as Glinda for Halloween, but she
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