Henrietta blinked. She shook her head incredulously. "Gloria, I - will you stop worrying so much about those stupid curtains? It's not worth worrying about."
"Yeah." Henrietta poked at her macaroni and cheese. "You know, if you want, tomorrow we could go get a new one. A better one. I mean, ours was pretty small, and -"
Frustrated, Henrietta stomped to the kitchen and took a cup of yogurt from the fridge. It wasn't fair, she thought to herself as she ate. Gloria was always thinking about those stupid curtains. She didn't have time to even consider a lowly person like Henrietta. Well, at dinner she would consider. She'd consider the heck out of those freckles. And if she didn't, Henrietta was going to make her *re*consider those curtains.
"What does it *look* like I did to my face? I gave myself freckles, stupid. Do you like them?"
She turned her head, annoyed at the interruption. "What do you want?"
"Well, think about it for a little longer," Henrietta said, sidling past her sister and through the door.
Gloria looked ready shrivel up and die. "UGH."
"Yes, I know."
"Now, it'll only take a second," she said, dragging Henrietta to their bedroom. "Do you think we should use the red or the orange? I want something fiery, you know; I don't want a lame 'cool' colour. When I get up the morning, I want to be *energized*, you know?"
Henrietta attempted to push past Gloria, but Gloria held out her arm, face reproving.
"I try, but he never cares. He's always on that stupid lawn chair."
Unfortunately, her sister interrupted her before she could get to the bathroom. Gloria had that sort of timing, the kind that made others resent her for things they ordinarily would've welcomed.
She made a bee-line for the bathroom, eager to attempt her grand experiment. The idea had been bouncing around her head all day, and if she did not let it blossom, she was due to go insane.
Henrietta skipped across the scraggly field. As she neared her ranch house, she could glimpse her cousin lying in a lawn chair on the porch, black shades across his face. He was sleeping, as he always was, and the afternoon would not stop him anymore than the mid-morning. Henrietta crept past him into the house.
"Sure." She thrust them out towards her father. He examined them, turning them over and spreading her fingers.
Loren rubbed her forehead. "Yeah. That's why I'm here."
"What's up with her?" Jeremy asked his mom as he filled a glass full of water.
"And what have you been up to lately?" Father said to Jeremy, attempting to break the lull in conversation. "Getting good grades?"
The station is not in very good shape. Vines have crawled up the gas pumps, and the glass door to the building is scuffed and stained. As you approach, you take a quick glance up and down the dirt road that passes the station. It doesn't look like anyone has come this way in years, but you know that can't be true - otherwise the door wouldn't have an "OPEN" sign prominently displayed.
Loren pushed her chair back in silence and proceeded to stomp up the stairs.
"That's enough," Father said calmly, his jaw clenched. "Go to your room and think about how little food you've eaten tonight. Tomorrow, when you're ready to wash up like a human being, you may get something."
"Good."
"Yes," Loren replied.
"Now, Loren, you know you need to wash your hands before you eat," Mother said. "Have you? We don't tolerate filthiness in this family."
"On the dot," Father added.
Jeremy swallowed a mouthful of green beans. Loren was always pushing it. Sooner or later she'd push it just a bit too far, and then - and then the house would no longer be happy.
"So Mark was totally freaking out about his shoes, and May thought we should go home to bleach them, but I *told* them I had to eat dinner - and I was going to come home, too, but then May distracted me with this story about Jane, and I followed them home without even thinking!"
"Hey guy," he says. "You need a lift?"
You slowly shake your head. You're not in the mood to argue with him.
"Sir, are - are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need to visit the hospital?"
"Your father did not call her anorexic."
You take a pitstop in the bathroom, figuring that the owner is out back and that he'll be inside when you're finished. The bathroom mirror is cracked in two places. You peer into it and run a hand over your face. You haven't shaved in three days. Running your tongue over your teeth, you grimace. You haven't brushed in four.
Once she had locked herself in the bathroom, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a reddish-orange marker. She uncapped it and stared into the mirror. Her face had been so pale lately. But it made no sense - she was always out in the sun. She was always running and playing and swinging from the trees.
"Is anything wrong, sir?"
"Yes... yes, I just got attacked by a mountain lion."
Your eyes widen in alarm.
Henrietta rolled her eyes. "That has nothing to do with my face. *Nothing*."
"I'm not sure freckles really suit you, Henrietta. Maybe you should dye your hair or something."
She smiled.
"This once, I suppose," he said finally. "Just this once."
"I really think you should get it checked out, but your choice."
"Uh - with your car," he replies. He waves his finger aimlessly, as if he's trying to point it in a particular direction but can't quite figure out which direction that is. "Where you headed?"
After filling your gas can, you begin the hike back to your car. It's late afternoon, and the sun is thinking about setting. Shadows crisscross your path.
You reach the shoulder of the highway that you parked your car on. But there is a problem.
Your car is not there.
"Yes, *mother*," she said. "I did."
"That's impossible, dear," Father said. "You didn't have time."
"Dad, not everyone needs to wash their hands for fifteen whole minutes. Okay!? God. Stop hounding me."
"-- you play by my rules," Jeremy murmured under his breath, a dazed smirk on his face as he stared at his plate. Mother shot him a fierce glance, but he didn't see it.
"Is that understood?" said Father.
The meal was about to continue on in relative silence, but Loren could not keep her temper under wraps.
"Understood," she repeated. "Understood, but it's a stupid rule."
They sat down to supper that night later than usual, at 6:30. Gloria had been too busy fussing over the television, which had stopped working right before her favourite show had ended. That had thrown her into what Henrietta considered to be a completely inappropriate rage.
Your car ran out of fuel a few miles back, and now you're walking through the forest, taking a short-cut to the nearest gas station. The leaves beneath your feet are brown and red and black, dead and dying in the fall. You pull your jacket closer as crisp, cool air attempts to worm its way beneath your collar.
"Yeah. Yeah, I have been."
The next day was Saturday, and Loren didn't come out of her room. The morning passed, the afternoon faded, and when Jeremy got home from the park she had still not shown herself.
That night the family prepared to set down to dinner. Jeremy washed his hands for the full fifteen minutes in the upstairs bathroom, and downstairs Mother and Father did the same. Mother had cooked a delicious-smelling roast and placed it on the kitchen table. Father called up to Loren and told her they were eating, but she still did not show her face.
Father put down his fork when he saw her. He sat up straight in his chair. "There you are, Loren. We haven't seen you all day."
"Yeah," she muttered. She walked to the table, sat down, and looked at her mother. "I completely overslept. I've just been really tired with all this schoolwork."
"How are your grades?" Mother asked.
"They're good, mom."
"And have you washed up?"
"When did you wash them?" he said.
"But, I mean, I know - yes, I know it does to you, but that's no reason to get upset about them. I mean" - she laughed a little - "in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter if we put them up a day late?"
"It is to me."
"Like, twenty minutes ago. When I got up."
"Dad --"
Jeremy shrugged. "The only story here is your roast -- it tastes kind of funny tonight."
Gloria looked angry and was about to respond, but said, "Oh - did you tell Thomas dinner was ready?"
Henrietta paused, mouth open between bites. "No... did you?"
She paused. "Yes."
Father waited a moment before saying anything. "Have you decided to join us for dinner this evening?"
Halfway through the meal, Loren appeared at the base of the stairs. Her hair was a mess, and she had circles under her eyes. It looked like she had slept the day away.
Jeremy glanced up from his meal, suppressing a smile. He looked at his mother, who had a dab of mashed potatoes on the side of her mouth. Jeremy mentioned it to her and she wiped it away.
A bell rings when you step inside. There is nobody behind the main counter, but all the shelves are stocked. You find yourself a Mountain Dew and step up to the counter. You wait for a minute or two, but nobody comes out to help you. Frustrated, you call "hello" a few times. Nobody answers.
"Pass the pineapple," Gloria muttered sullenly. She wasn't eating as much as normal.
"Dad, 'washing up' is for TV, okay? Nobody does that."
Father was a man with stern hair and a loose shoulder. He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. "You know you're supposed to use that time to wash up."
"I know, I know," Loren replied. "But it's just six. It's only fifteen minutes; totally not a big deal." She chewed a bit of her chicken.
Loren finished her sentence out of breath and sat down at the kitchen table. Her mother and father stared at her disapprovingly. She picked up a fork, stabbed a piece of chicken off the platter, and plopped the piece onto her plate. Wrinkling her nose, she said, "Didn't we have chicken last night?"
She was explaining why she was late to dinner that evening, and Jeremy was wondering when he'd be able to go upstairs to sleep.
"Oh! Yes - right." You brush your bangs back from your face. "Headed to my cousin's. Visiting for - for Halloween."
You pause, startled. You hadn't moved. "I'm sorry?"
"Oh - oh," you say, trying to keep from gasping. "Sir, that really doesn't look good. You should get that checked out. Really."
"Well, whatever." Gloria turned back to the television. "I'm trying to watch something here."
"You know I read this story once about a girl who was always called fat by her parents," Jeremy said. "And when she became a teenager she turned anorexic. It was pretty weird."
When you're done with your business you wash your hands under the rusty sink faucet and, finding that there are no paper towels, dry them with a few vigorous shakes. You step out.
You are still alone.
"She's just angry at your father, I suppose," Mother said. "She must be starving."
You pace back and forth, considering what to do. Perhaps you should find another station... but the map says the next one isn't for another three miles. You are not in the mood to walk that far, and furthermore, you feel wronged by this lack of service. It seems to you that when a person puts an "OPEN" sign in front of their business, they should actually be open, damn it. It's a matter of principle, you tell yourself, and if you have to wait here another half-hour, well, you will.
It ends up paying off. A man comes in through the back door after fifteen minutes, looking haggard and slightly dazed. He goes behind the counter and regards you with googly eyes. You step back for a moment, wary. You ask him if he's okay.
"No. No..." he says, casting his eyes downward, like he's attempting to recall where he put his wallet.
"Then you won't mind if I look at your hands?"
"It's not that bad," he says, lifting his head. "A few scrapes and scratches." He pulls back his sleeve, and you see two deep gashes on his forearm.
Father stared at Mother for a few seconds, contemplating. Jeremy nibbled at his roast carrot and glanced around the table.
"You know it's nothin'," the man responds. "How many times - how many times have I had it worse? Too many to count. It's nothin'."
He nods. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Oh - yes. My car ran out of gas a mile or so back," you say, pointing over your shoulder with your thumb. "Was wondering if I could get a can of gas."
"Sure you can," the man says. He reaches down under the counter and comes up with a metal gas can. He sets it on the counter with a clang. "Where do you think you're going?"
The man eyes you. "Got your costume?" He laughs. "Boy, I - go like me, mountain lion victim. Star of the party."
You smile politely and pick up the can. You pull your wallet out of your pocket, pay him, and make a hasty exit.
You slam your palm into your forehead. This wasn't supposed to happen. Why would they take that piece of junk? Why would they do it, other than to torture you?
You sit in misery for a few more minutes, pondering the possibilities and motives. Before long a red Corvette pulls up alongside you. The window rolls down, and a clean-shaven man with wraparound sunglasses pokes his head out. He calls to you.
"Loren," Mother said. "You know you're supposed to be home for dinner by 5:45."
Loren looked at Jeremy and rolled her eyes. He bowed his head, showing no signs of support, and swirled his cheesy mashed potatoes into an orange cloud.
Father's mouth dropped open in surprise. He glanced at his wife and picked up his fork. Thrusting it forward in stabbing motions at Loren, he emphasized his words as he said, "Not appropriate. If you want to live under this roof --"
You spin in a circle, baffled. It had no gas. It was in park. There's no way it could've moved an inch. Vehicles on the freeway thunder past, sending wave after wave of sound over you, exacerbating your panic. You collapse on the grass and sit there for a moment, hugging your knees. There's no way - no way. It must have been stolen - no. Couldn't have. No gas. Towed? Maybe. Maybe it was towed.
Father nodded, pleased. He took another bite of chicken.
"I know. It's just a weird story."
Father frowned. "You need to wash them fifteen minutes before the meal, Loren. You know that."
Mother placed a hand on Father's arm. "Honey, don't you think we could make an exception for her this one time? Five minutes isn't really that much of a difference."
Mother smiled, relieved. "Okay then. Now who has a story?"
"Henrietta, I'm glad I caught you. I wanted to ask you a question about the curtains."
"Not *now*, Gloria," she replied. "I'm busy. Go bug Thomas."
"So tip it over! That's the only way to wake him up. And besides, it's almost time for dinner; you'll be doing him a favour."
Henrietta considered her room, which was painted a bright yellow. The curtains would have to sync with the upbeat theme without totally overdoing it.
"Maybe we could use a bit of contrast after all," she said. "I don't think there'd be anything wrong with a bit of dark blue. The sun will be coming through the window anyway, and that's bright enough as it is."
"Ew," said Gloria, making a face. "Then it's like, schizophrenic. We don't want a *war* going on in our room, Henrietta! Do you know how ugly that will look? And plus the noise; it'll make *tons* of noise at night."
Henrietta shrugged. "You asked my opinion. Maybe we make my window blue and yours orange."
She shook her head. She needed colour, is all. It's what anyone needed at the end of the day. And besides, it wouldn't do any good to put it on after dinner, when nobody would see it except the faeries in her dreams. No, now was the time.
Humming a tune to herself as she worked, she leaned over the sink, peered into the mirror, and began dotting her cheeks with tiny blotches of bright ink. When she was finished, she stepped back and turned around, admiring her reflection from all angles. It was beautiful - like she had a real set of freckles. She capped the marker and smiled.
She went to the living room and sat down next to Gloria, who was watching a television show about the virtues of hunting wildlife.
After a few moments of silence that were horribly tense in Henrietta's mind, she tapped Gloria's shoulder.
"Well!?" Henrietta squealed. "Do you see anything different?"
Gloria cocked an eyebrow. "What'd you do to your face?"
"I'm sorry about the television," Henrietta said, sliding the bowl of fruit across the table. "I know it means a lot to you, and -"
"Shut *uuuup*, Henrietta. I'm really not in the mood to talk about it. It's gone - it's totally past me, okay? I couldn't fix it. It popped a circuit or something. It's dead. Toast. Whatever."
"Okay," she interrupted. "Just - the curtains? Ugh, hello, have you even decided?"
