barely has any herself this year.
“Let’s just call her
The Grinch,
” Dad says. He still thinks he’s being funny, even though Mom and I aren’t laughing.
“Come on,” Dad says, making the first move to the living room. He actually seems kind of excited as we all stare at the tree and the visibly-fewer-than-usual presents under it.
“I’ll go first,” I say, breaking the silence in the room. I give my parents their presents: Chinese slippers, a crepe pan, some tennis balls, and a tennis skirt for Mom. A leather wallet and zoo passes for Dad.
My stocking is stuffed with bath stuff, lipstick, an orange, some gum that looks like a lump of coal, and, as a joke, some of those low-carb chocolate bars Dad was writing about before he quit.
“Ha,” I say.
“I had to get rid of them,” Dad says. “They were bringing me down.”
“I’ll give them to Perla. She’s always on a diet.”
I start unwrapping the packages under the tree. I get a sweater that I hate, a new hair dryer, a pair of silk pajamas that I wanted but in the wrong color (typical), and gift certificates to Amoeba Music, Fred Segal, and Sephora.
At least my parents have learned to let me make
some
decisions for myself.
Later, before I go to meet Sid and Mike Dutko for Chinese food and a movie, I hear my parents arguing in their room.
It seems as though there are more of these kinds of conversations behind closed doors lately. Why is it that parents think that shutting the door means that you can’t hear them when they yell at each other? It may be muffled, but it’s coming through loud and clear.
“I thought we agreed, Mitch, a
small
Christmas, no big presents. How could you get those gift certificates?” Mom yells. “You should have talked to me about it. We had an agreement.”
“She’s a teenager, Julietta,” Dad says calmly. “I can’t make her suffer because I’m changing my life.”
“She may be the teenager, but
you’re
the one acting like a kid. An irresponsible kid,” Mom says. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Her voice sounds weird. She might be crying.
“I’m the kid you fell in love with,” Dad says, soothing.
“I don’t want to lose everything,” Mom says.
“Trust me,” he says. And as long as he says it, with all that love, I know they’re not heading for Splitsville.
A few minutes later, Mom and Dad come out of the bedroom all dressed up to go out, wearing big smiles and acting as though nothing has happened at all.
“Do you want us to drop you off somewhere?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, I’m going to the movies,” I say.
As I emerge from the shed after putting away my brushes and carefully washing my hands, I see Sheldon standing in front of the giraffes.
He’s stretching his neck, hopping slowly from side to side. At first I think he’s doing tai chi or yoga or maybe just losing his mind. That wouldn’t surprise me. Then I realize that he’s trying to move his body like the giraffe.
What
would
it be like to be a giraffe? I wonder, slowing down. I stretch out my own neck and crane it toward the nearest bush. I open my mouth and pull off a leaf.
“What are you doing, weirdo?”
I spit the leaf out and look around. Sheldon is staring at me, and Tiny looks very amused.
“I was hungry,” I say. “And the food here sucks.”
“You already look like a giraffe,” Tiny says. “Don’t you think, Sheldon? With that ballerina neck of hers?”
“I always thought she moved like a gazelle,” Sheldon says. “Very graceful. But she’s definitely doe-eyed, like the giraffe.”
“And her hair color is kind of the same shade as the giraffe,” Tiny says. “Me, I’m slightly warthog-like, don’t you think?”
“Why do you say that?” Sheldon says.
“Because of the way I walk,” Tiny says.
“I always thought you were more koala-like.”
“Ha!” she says, “You’re just being generous.”
“Boy,” I say. “And you’re calling
me
weirdo?”
“Hey,” Tiny
“Let’s just call her
The Grinch,
” Dad says. He still thinks he’s being funny, even though Mom and I aren’t laughing.
“Come on,” Dad says, making the first move to the living room. He actually seems kind of excited as we all stare at the tree and the visibly-fewer-than-usual presents under it.
“I’ll go first,” I say, breaking the silence in the room. I give my parents their presents: Chinese slippers, a crepe pan, some tennis balls, and a tennis skirt for Mom. A leather wallet and zoo passes for Dad.
My stocking is stuffed with bath stuff, lipstick, an orange, some gum that looks like a lump of coal, and, as a joke, some of those low-carb chocolate bars Dad was writing about before he quit.
“Ha,” I say.
“I had to get rid of them,” Dad says. “They were bringing me down.”
“I’ll give them to Perla. She’s always on a diet.”
I start unwrapping the packages under the tree. I get a sweater that I hate, a new hair dryer, a pair of silk pajamas that I wanted but in the wrong color (typical), and gift certificates to Amoeba Music, Fred Segal, and Sephora.
At least my parents have learned to let me make
some
decisions for myself.
Later, before I go to meet Sid and Mike Dutko for Chinese food and a movie, I hear my parents arguing in their room.
It seems as though there are more of these kinds of conversations behind closed doors lately. Why is it that parents think that shutting the door means that you can’t hear them when they yell at each other? It may be muffled, but it’s coming through loud and clear.
“I thought we agreed, Mitch, a
small
Christmas, no big presents. How could you get those gift certificates?” Mom yells. “You should have talked to me about it. We had an agreement.”
“She’s a teenager, Julietta,” Dad says calmly. “I can’t make her suffer because I’m changing my life.”
“She may be the teenager, but
you’re
the one acting like a kid. An irresponsible kid,” Mom says. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Her voice sounds weird. She might be crying.
“I’m the kid you fell in love with,” Dad says, soothing.
“I don’t want to lose everything,” Mom says.
“Trust me,” he says. And as long as he says it, with all that love, I know they’re not heading for Splitsville.
A few minutes later, Mom and Dad come out of the bedroom all dressed up to go out, wearing big smiles and acting as though nothing has happened at all.
“Do you want us to drop you off somewhere?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, I’m going to the movies,” I say.
As I emerge from the shed after putting away my brushes and carefully washing my hands, I see Sheldon standing in front of the giraffes.
He’s stretching his neck, hopping slowly from side to side. At first I think he’s doing tai chi or yoga or maybe just losing his mind. That wouldn’t surprise me. Then I realize that he’s trying to move his body like the giraffe.
What
would
it be like to be a giraffe? I wonder, slowing down. I stretch out my own neck and crane it toward the nearest bush. I open my mouth and pull off a leaf.
“What are you doing, weirdo?”
I spit the leaf out and look around. Sheldon is staring at me, and Tiny looks very amused.
“I was hungry,” I say. “And the food here sucks.”
“You already look like a giraffe,” Tiny says. “Don’t you think, Sheldon? With that ballerina neck of hers?”
“I always thought she moved like a gazelle,” Sheldon says. “Very graceful. But she’s definitely doe-eyed, like the giraffe.”
“And her hair color is kind of the same shade as the giraffe,” Tiny says. “Me, I’m slightly warthog-like, don’t you think?”
“Why do you say that?” Sheldon says.
“Because of the way I walk,” Tiny says.
“I always thought you were more koala-like.”
“Ha!” she says, “You’re just being generous.”
“Boy,” I say. “And you’re calling
me
weirdo?”
“Hey,” Tiny
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