One More Step by Sheree Fitch

Chapter One
    Purple condoms. My brother got purple condoms in his Christmas stocking. Mom must think things are heating up between Chris and Becca. Not likely. I got a diary.
    â€œShe gave me one when I was fourteen, too,” said Chris. “I used it for about a week. Then I forgot about it.”
    Mom made a face at him.
    â€œWell, don’t forget to use the condoms, okay?”
    Mom’s pretty quick. We laughed. Well, the three of us did. Jean-Paul doesn’t understand our sense of humor. Or maybe he doesn’t understand period. He’s French.
    â€œI learn more English in two day with your mother than I did in one whole year,” he said, the first time I met him. I believe it. My mother is, among other things, a non-stop talker.
    â€œYes,” he teased in his broken English. “We get along well. She talk, I listen.” I guess it was his idea of a joke. Ha. Ha. I didn’t laugh.
    They’ve been going out for about six months. At first, I didn’t think it was serious. I was wrong.
    â€œJean-Paul is coming for Christmas,” Mom chirped one morning in early December.
    So. This
was
different. My mother gets twisted about tradition and family rituals. This was the first time I ever remember there being an extra on Christmas morning. An invitation like this meant something was up.I wasn’t cool with the idea, but I didn’t have a say in the matter.
    Jean-Paul arrived on Christmas Eve with meat pies, eggnog and presents for all.
    â€œAn egghead with eggnog,” I whispered to Chris.
    â€œBe cool,” said Chris.
    â€œI am.” I said.
    â€œLiar,” he said.
    â€œHello, Julian,” said Jean-Paul. To Chris.
    â€œMerry Christmas, Chris,” he said to me.
    â€œHell-
oooo
!” I said. “I’m Julian. The tall one. Blonde, brown-eyed smart-ass, remember? Chris is the oldest. The short little twerp. Brown hair, blue eyes. The saint. One more time? Me, Julian. Him, Chris.”
    â€œJulian!” said my mother.
    â€œ
Pardonnez-moi
.” said Jean-Paul.
    On Christmas morning, there was this real intense moment when Jean-Paul handed Mom a present. She opened it to find a jewelry box. Great, I thought, he is going to propose. ButSheree Fitch it was a pair of earrings. If my mother was disappointed, she didn’t show it.
    â€œThey’re beautiful,” she said. Then she oohed and aahed and kissed Jean-Paul. No tongue, just a peck on the cheek. Thank God. Still, Chris rolled his eyes. I stuck my fingers so far down my throat, I almost gagged for real.
    To me, those earrings looked like hunks of banged up metal hanging from her ears.
    And they didn’t go with the necklace I got her.
    Then I found my diary.
The diary is for getting out your innermost feelings
, Mom had written on the inside cover.
To learn to talk to yourself. In the end, you have to make friends with yourself and life will be easier
.
    When she says things like that I want to barf. In the end? Like what does this mean? When I’m ready to die?
    â€œIt’s really so you won’t have time to go your bedroom and jack off,” whispered Chris.
    â€œWhat was that?” asked Mom. I swear she has a sonar implant in her ear.
    Jean-Paul heard just fine.
    â€œYou don’t want to know,” he said, winking at me.
    I guess some things are the same in any language.
    My parents divorced when I was a year old
. That’s always my opening line when I have to write about myself in English class. If nothing else, it’ll put the teacher on my side from the start. English is not my best subject. No subject is, for that matter. That line works okay with girls, too. They make little mouse-like squeaking sounds. Their eyes turn into puddles of pity. That’s all the information I give about that.
    First, because it’s none of their business. Second, because I don’t really know that much. Chris tells me I’m the lucky one.
    â€œThat