Story A Day Cafe: 2019-05-26

Redemptive: Ch. 1

This party will be the death of me.

The invitations were sent in gold envelopes, exclusively to the top ten people in my life. It was supposed to be an elegant affair, the kind with expensive champagne and fine cheeses, chocolates, and conversation. Instead, though, the pretty stationary had been rendered useless, the invitations spreading over Twitter like butter on hot bread, the words parent and free turning elegance into an epidemic of frat-house proportions.

My end-of-Spring-Break cocktail party had officially become a chaotic, high-school kegger.

“Hey!” my best friend, Chelsea, shouted over the thumping bass of the music. “Camille! This is like the best party ever!”

Chelsea took my hands, and tried to twirl herself in some dramatic dance maneuver, but her movements were too sloppy and uncoordinated, and I wound up steadying her instead.

“Thanks, love,” Chelsea said. “I think I need another drink. Do you?”

Chelsea’s dark, glittery eye-makeup was smudged around her eyes, her bright red lipstick was bleeding around the edges of her full, puffy lips, and her paper-thin, shoulder-grazing, platinum blonde hair was slightly kinked in various places. She looked like a walking advertisement for domestic abuse, but it was no secret Chelsea had really just spent the past hour in the guest bedroom in various horizontal positions with Ike, the school’s basketball captain and her on-again, off-again fling.

“Chels—” I started to tell her perhaps she should take it easy, but then I noticed Chelsea’s eyes narrowing at something over my shoulder, and I knew she wasn’t listening.

“What the hell,” Chelsea said. “This is so not okay.”

As Chelsea stomped away, I turned around to see what she was so upset about, rolling my eyes when I saw Ike playing tonsil-hockey with one of the many skantily-clad girls surrounding him on the dance-floor-slash-living-room. Ike was something of a celebrity, mostly because of his law-firm-partner dad’s celebrity client list, though his Abercrombie-model looks didn’t hurt his status either. It was rumored that Ike had recently landed an audition to play Megan Fox’s love interest in a film scheduled to begin shooting shortly after our high school graduation, putting Ike on just about every wannabe it-girl’s to-do list in our Malibu radius.

“Ah, looks like I showed up just in time,” my boyfriend, Ty, said as he wrapped his arms around me. “What did I miss? Or is the show just beginning?”

I turned around, and kissed his lips, running my fingers over the stubble on his jaw and smiling.

“Nothing much,” I said. “Chels and Ike were in the guest room for an hour, and now he’s clearly gearing up for round two with someone else, which she isn’t happy about obviously. Oh, and I’m not sure if you noticed or not, but this is definitely not what I had planned for tonight. It was supposed to be elegant, and grown-up, and classy, and somehow I ended up with this mess instead. My parents are so going to kill me when they get home because there’s no way—”

Ty kissed me to stop me from speaking.

“Cam,” he said. “It will be okay. I’m here. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I’ll help you clean, I promise. Everything will be fine. Except that group of girls Chelsea is about to fight.”

I laughed. “Thank you for that. By the way, how’s your mom?”

Ty shrugged, and said, “Still dying.”

His mother had been diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer three months ago, which had quickly progressed, mostly due to her refusal to quit smoking.

“Still smoking?” I asked.

“Unfortunately. She accused the nurse of stealing her cigarettes, and wanted me to fire her. I told her it was for her own good.”

“I bet she didn’t take that well.”

“Nope. That’s why I’m here.”

“I thought you were here for me?”

“I’m always here for you.”

He kissed the top of my head, and we both turned to watch Chelsea as she grabbed the bleach-blonde ponytail of the girl who had been making out with Ike. A circle formed around them as Ike led the crowd into a chorus of fight, fight, fight. I groaned, and buried my face in Ty’s shoulder. Ty chuckled, and hugged me closer.

“You have to admit it’s kinda funny,” he said.

“I need a drink,” I said, breaking away from Ty to head toward the kitchen.

Surprisingly, the kitchen was empty, despite the diminished tower of food piled high on the table, and the liquor-store selection of alcohol lined up on the marble-island counter. I felt the tension in my body melting at the break from the chaos in the other room.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Ty asked as he joined me in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter as I poured myself a shot of tequila. “And you wonder why I don’t like parties.”

“I don’t wonder. I know exactly why you always show up fashionably late and leave disturbingly early,” I said, my face puckering as I downed my shot. “I just like giving you a hard time.”

“Ah, the story of my life,” Ty teased, taking me into his arms and burying his lips against my neck.

I could feel the shot of tequila warm in my belly, a slight buzzy feeling, slowly drifting to my head. I closed my eyes, and tilted my head back, my long, glossy black hair spilling down my back as I wrapped my arms around Ty’s neck, curling my fingers in his thick, dark hair.

“FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE! POUR!”

The collective countdown from the living room jolted me from my moment of bliss, and I rushed to see what, exactly, was being poured. I arrived in the living room to see Chelsea with her arm slung over the shoulders of the girl she had been fighting with, both of them giggling as they dumped a cup full of beer onto Ike’s step-brother, Zeke, who had been hung upside down by his ankles over the stair banister.

Zeke thrashed and coughed as the crowd continued to dump the contents of their red solo cups on him, but Ike and two other basketball players were holding him too tightly for him to possibly break free on his own.

“OH MY GOSH!” I yelled. “STOP! YOU’RE GOING TO RUIN THE CARPET!”

Ike, and the two other players let go immediately and ran off. Zeke landed on his head, doing a backwards somersault before sitting up, drenched, red-faced, and looking disoriented. I quickly grabbed a towel from the linen closet underneath the stairs, and handed it to him as the crowd dispersed.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” I asked.

Zeke looked up at me with a pained expression in his dark eyes, his thin, cracked lips trembling, and his angular jaw tensed. I couldn’t tell whether he was about to cry or scream. Probably both.

“Does it look like I’m okay?” he asked, standing up.

He tossed the towel aside, and ran off. My mouth dropped open as I stared blankly at the towel on the ground, a stab of guilt twisting in my gut.

***

Zeke had always been the epitome of average.

He was neither smart enough to make the best grades in class, nor challenged enough to struggle with assignments or tests. He wasn’t bad at sports, but I had never seen him play any outside of gym class. He stood at a height of about 5’8” with slightly stooped shoulders, and typically dressed in ordinary jeans and a simple t-shirt. If he had any friends, they all shared the same invisibility cloak.

I would probably never noticed him at all if Ike’s father hadn’t married Zeke’s former model mother, linking Ike and Zeke together.

Not that the two ever took the newfound brotherhood seriously.

The two brothers probably would have continued existing on entirely different planets if Ike hadn’t been pulled over after a drink too many on his way home from a party.

Though his father was able to dismiss any legal charges against him, Ike was still punished for his behavior. However, his punishment was simply having his keys taken away, and being forced to have Zeke drive him everywhere he needed to go. Ike’s father was probably hoping the arrangement would bring the two brothers closer together.

But instead it often led to Zeke being treated like Ike’s personal slave.

However, Zeke seemed to take the unfair arrangement rather well. As far as I could tell, he never complained. While Ike partied on inside, Zeke would sit in the car, playing games on his phone, patiently waiting to take Ike home.

Therefore, though I didn’t approve of the way Ike treated Zeke, it was easy to forget about. It was easy to chalk it up to typical Ike hi-jinks, and forget Zeke even existed. So, usually, everyone did.

But I wouldn't.

Thursday, May 30, 2019

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author: kayla mathys

Echo of Chaos: Ch. 1

My brother was scheduled to be executed on my eighteenth birthday.

I remember thinking the timing was idiotic, but I would never say so out loud for two reasons: One because idiocy is a crime punishable by death; and two because the timing had been intentionally planned by my mother, a professional Schedule Supervisor, as an attempt to save her children—another fatal felony.

It was common knowledge that every eighteenth birthdate was celebrated by the Congruent Coupling Ceremony, the eternal binding of two individuals the Congruity Team found compatible for reproduction. Everyone knew the ceremony could only take place at a certain time, on the mutual birthdate of the loveless bride and groom. Everyone also knew if you missed your opportunity on your eighteenth birthday, you’d have to wait two years for another perfectly compatible mate to be assigned by the Congruity Team, though it was more likely you’d never marry at all.

It was a big tragedy apparently, but I knew better. I knew that it was actually a huge relief to be spared the perils of Congruent Coupling.

I knew because I watched my mother suffer through it after my father was mysteriously pronounced to have committed suicide. She didn’t even have time to grieve or investigate why the man she married in love (an almost unheard-of event in the Program) would drink the poison just hours after laughing and smiling with his daughter and newborn son.

“I guess you never know what some people are capable of,” Captain Salvador Bright had told my mother when he had come to bear the news of my father’s intentional death.

Captain Fancy Pants (as I preferred to call him) was a man who wore a pound of makeup "to soften his image" during the video announcements he made every night. When he came to our door the night my father died, I remember he was wearing gold, silk pants that sparkled when he walked and a matching shirt so bright it hurt to look at it. Three hours later, Captain Fancy Pants, married my mother. Out of courtesy, he claimed. He already had a wife or two, which was illegal, but apparently not when you’re the one who makes the rules.

My father, on the other hand, was a man who valued the truth above all else. I remember the Captain announced an ordinance for an early bedtime once “as a response to recent criminal activity in the late hours.”

My father had laughed sardonically, looked at my mother, and said, “He’s full of shit. The only recent criminal activity going on around here is his own.”

“Shh!” my mother had said, knowing his words could get him sentenced to death.

She seemed to be shushing him constantly. He would come home from his work as an Ordinance Official visibly angry, ranting about the Program's corruption and the Captain's scandalous activity. My parents occupied the room below me, and I would fall asleep to the sound of their muffled arguments. The one the night before my father’s death was the worst.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” my father had said. "I have to say something, Ella! This can't go on!"

“Please,” my mother had begged, “please, keep your voice down. Think about the consequences, Greg.”

“No! I won’t put up with this any longer! I can’t!”

The next night, the Captain came to our door with my father's alleged suicide note. I can't continue, it read in his clear, bold handwriting.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he had told me with a sincerity that didn’t match his eyes. He took my hand and I could feel the coldness of the four rings on his left hand, the giant stones glimmering. "I'm going to have a private word with your mother now."

He had given my hand a quick squeeze before walking past me to my mother's bedroom, where she was feeding Max. I had rushed to my room to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“It’s only temporary,” he had explained to my mother. “The Congruity Team will arrange for a more proper Coupling when one becomes available.”

Of course, that never happened.

Ten years later, my mother was still married to Captain Fancy Pants, still working long hours as a Schedule Supervisor, and still the exotically gorgeous woman who turned heads and made our fine Captain the point of envy in every hot-blooded male, married or not.

“Mommy, how come Daddy doesn't live with us?” my brother, Max, had asked her one day.

“He’s not your Daddy, Maxi,” my mother had replied robotically with a faraway look in her amber eyes, “and this isn't his home.”

That was back when Max was still little. Back when it was still acceptable for him to ask questions like that or to ask questions at all. Max was my father’s child, and my father and mother married before the Flood in a big, beautiful chapel with stained glass windows. They loved each other. They weren’t forced together for offspring quality and similar genius IQs. Therefore, Max wasn’t expected to be a perfect genius because he wasn’t bred by perfectly compatible parents. Still, my parents were smart. They wouldn’t have been accepted into the Program if they weren’t. The Program didn’t accept anything less than perfect.

And Max wasn’t perfect.

Therefore, when he was declared to have a learning disability, when excuses of age and genetics could no longer be used, my mother was asked to schedule his Execution.

These Executions were another kind courtesy from Captain Fancy Pants. After all, learning disabilities, immaturity, and low intelligence levels meant a life without success.

“To prevent poverty and the destruction of our race; to allow equal opportunity and a life of health, wealth, love, and respect, every child at the age of ten must pass the Intelligence and Common Knowledge Assessment with a score exceeding or equalling ninety-eight percent. Any child who scores below ninety-eight percent will be scheduled for termination.” Captain Fancy Pants declared in the video announcements shown on testing days. “For the same reasons, a second test will be distributed at the age of sixteen. This test will measure intelligence as well as mastery of individual skills and will determine professional placement and compatibility. A score of one hundred percent is needed to prevent scheduled termination.”

Max had scored seventy-six percent, the lowest score in his entire generation. There had been lower scores before, but only from the more obviously struggling ten year olds. Max had been expected to pass.

He was smart in his own way. He could list every major city that had once been a part of Earth, and determine the age of any star with one glance. He knew everything there was to know about climate, and could tell you what the weather was once like in any city on Earth. He also had an impressive internal compass, aware of his exact location at all times. All things that didn’t contribute to his intelligence score, and therefore his deemed usefulness.

“We took a test today.” Max declared at dinner the day of his testing.

I had seen my mother’s body freeze at his words. She knew he was different. Everyone knew he was different. It had been known that she would be scheduling his execution before the two generals showed up to inform my mother of Max’s humiliating test score.

They weren’t really generals. Their formal occupation was Information Delivery, but they were always huge, muscular men with big, booming voices incapable of expressing emotion as they delivered any information deemed importantly urgent, which mostly consisted of test failures, deaths, and reminders of scheduled dates. The more important or tragic the news, the more generals you could expect to deliver the news.

Only one had shown up to remind my mother and I of my eighteenth birthday and the Coupling Ceremony scheduled for eight o’clock the following evening. Two of them reminded my mother of Max’s scheduled execution, also at eight o’clock. The other two reminded me that I was the scheduled Execution Executive.

They knew nothing of the conflict that my mother had created. That information came later, and caused such a stir that Captain Fancy Pants himself had shown up to deliver the information.

“Do you think me a fool, Ella-Jane?” Captain Fancy Pants had yelled at my mother. “This was no accident!”

My mother, ever the talented actress, had shed tears and fallen dramatically into Captain Fancy Pants’ arms, his thick, protruding belly squishing the delicate, beautiful form of my mother.

“Forgive me, Captain,” my mother begged. “I have dedicated nearly all of my time to my precious profession. I have hardly found the time to rest! I am afraid such dedication has taken it’s toll on my abilities.”

She pulled away from Captain Fancy Pants to flutter her tear-speckled eyelashes, dab at the moisture on her flawless, contoured cheeks, and retie the strings holding her silk robe together, her pillowy lips quivering in desperation. Captain Fancy Pants didn’t see the desperation, though. He only saw the glimpse of my mother’s ample cleavage while she adjusted the string, and that was all it took to be granted forgiveness.

“Meet me in my chambers in an hour. I will fix this mistake immediately, and ensure you plenty of rest,” Captain Fancy Pants said.

Three hours later, Max was scheduled for execution at the next available date, and I was removed of the privilege of my Coupling Ceremony.

“Thank you,” I told my mother that night.

“Thank you?” she asked.

“Thank you for being my mother.”

She smiled weakly, but she said nothing. Her son was still scheduled for execution in two days, her daughter was a professional killer now destined for a life without marriage, and she was still trapped with the greedy Captain Fancy Pants. However, she had also been given an entire thirty days to rest, a privilege she hadn’t seen in her entire career.

“Be careful,” she warned before retreating to bed with Max curled in her arms like an overgrown monkey.

Her warning had nothing to do with my expression of gratitude which would have been grounds for worry had anyone else heard me. It also wasn’t about my appointed profession or the consequences of emotion. It wasn’t even about the conflict and confusion the day had presented to us.

It was about love and a fellow Execution Executive named Forrest.

It was the same warning she had given to me two weeks before.

More precisely, two weeks, seven hours, eighteen minutes, and twenty-two seconds.

The exact timing of her witness to my crime.

Thursday, May 30, 2019

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author: kayla mathys

The Forgotten: Ch. 1

On the night of her husband’s murder, my sister had been on a flight out of Los Angeles to New York City. If she hadn’t been arrested as soon as her private jet landed at JFK, she would have continued on all the way to London for the start of her World Tour, promoting her newest sure-to-be-platinum album.

But even before the news was splashed across the covers of Us Weekly and People and every other source of celebrity gossip with such condemning titles as “America’s Favorite Pop Star: On the Run!” or, my personal favorite, “Heartbreak and Hate: From Hit Single to Killer Widow!” I knew Katelyn Tomas was innocent.

Even if I sometimes wished she wasn’t.

Saturday. December 19, 2010

Katelyn’s watery, blue eyes make contact with the camera as she twirls the end of her dyed-golden blonde braid around her finger.

“I just hope my music helps someone. You know that feeling, like your whole world is coming to an end? I’ve been there. I know how that feels. And if not for music, I don’t know if I would have made it through. So that’s my goal. I just want my music to be the reason someone keeps going.”

I swear, sometimes I wished I could reach my arms through the television screen and wrap my hands right around my sister’s perfect little neck. If you wanted to help someone so bad, why did you forget me? I would ask. You left your whole family behind! How is that helping? But I knew she meant it. She was only three minutes and thirty-six seconds older than me, but for the first sixteen years of our lives, she had taken on the role as my older, wiser, protecter.

“She came into this world first, so she’d know it was safe for you to arrive,” our mother used to say.

Personally, I think she just liked leaving me behind.

“They’re saying I had motive, Carrie,” Katelyn cried into the phone now. “Motive! Can you believe it? They actually think I killed my own husband! Over her! Like she’s that special! It’s so ridiculous. They’re coming up with all these theories and showing me these awful pictures, and asking me such stupid questions.” She sighed. “I just don’t know how much I can take, Car. I don’t know what to do. I’m so, so scared.”

I could tell by the sudden silence that she was crying. I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath in.

Sunday, December 31, 1995

“Katy, what’s wrong?” I ask.

It’s the middle of the night. Our room is dark, but I can still see Katleyn’s back turned toward me in her bed across the room. She’s silent and still, but I can tell by the way she’s breathing that she’s crying, not sleeping.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Go to sleep.”

She pulls her blanket up over her ears, and…

“Carrie?” Katelyn’s voice snapped me back to the present conversation. “Will you come stay with me? I don’t want to go home alone. I know it’s been a long time, but…you’re all I have.”

I must admit, when the news of her husband’s murder was released, my first thought wasn’t to call and express my condolences. My first thought was finally. Finally something terrible had happened to her. Because that is what our relationship had been reduced to during that so-called “long time.” I didn’t know this person on the phone. Not anymore. We may have shared a womb once upon a time, but this wasn’t the sister I knew at all. The sister I knew disappeared the day William Friday showed up and offered her an opportunity to escape. From that day forward, she was replaced by the Katelyn who never talked, who withdrew and kept secrets, and suffered silently on the inside, who left her family behind and never looked back.

Until now.

“Carrie, please. I need you.”

“I know,” I said because it was only obvious.

Did I believe that Katelyn Tomas murdered her husband? No, I didn’t believe that, but probably only because I couldn’t. I remembered why she was on that flight to New York City, and unlike the rest of the world, I remembered it wasn’t to flee the country. But more than that, I remembered who she was before all the fame.

“I’m not a lawyer,” I said.

“I know.”

“I’m not a detective either.”

“I know.”

“Well, Todd is filing for divorce, and I’m not sure I should get involved in this. I mean, the most helpful thing I could do is testify on your behalf as a character witness, but I haven’t spoken to you in twenty years, and—"

“Carrie, I know. That’s not even what I’m asking.” She sighed. “You don’t have to get involved. I understand. I just thought…you know…you’re all I have now, and…” A deep breath. “I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know anything anymore, Car. I just…I just need you.”

And so I agreed. I agreed to help her in any way that I could. Even though I remembered the exact details of when she left me for her cheery cloud of pop-song pixie dust.

And everything since.

Thursday, May 30, 2019

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author: kayla mathys

Blood Rose: Ch. 1

The ball came out of nowhere. Smack! The blow to the side of my face was like a fistful of needles as I lost my balance, falling onto the icy concrete of the street. I blinked away the snowflakes already collecting in my eyelashes, and looked up at the grey Parisian sky, regretting my decision to join my family in a friendly game of soccer—here called futball— outside our hotel.

“Grace!” Adam, my boyfriend of three years, yelped. Immediately rushing to my side, kneeling on the ground beside me with a furrow of worry, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Remind me not to play against Derrick,” I said, taking the hand Adam offered to help me sit up. My head throbbed in response, and I felt a warm liquid trickling down my forehead.

“You’re bleeding,” Adam said, his eyes widening in horror as his golden-bronze skin started to pale.

Adam had a pretty intense blood phobia, and I immediately reached up to wipe away the blood with the sleeve of my jacket before he could end up passed out on the ground next to me.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Adam looked down at my bloodied sleeve, and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, his tell that he was trying his hardest not to vomit. Luckily, my brother Derrick, the soccer-star of our family, came running up to us with the ball tucked under his arm, distracting Adam from humiliation.

“I’m so sorry, Grace!” Derrick said, struggling to catch his breath. “I didn’t mean to kick it that hard. Are you alright?”

“She hit the ground pretty hard, I think,” Adam said.

“I’m fine,” I said.

To demonstrate my well-being, I fought against the dizzyingly spinning Earth and attempted to stand right as my cousin, Brooke, blew into the whistle she was wearing around her neck, emitting a piercing sound that knocked me right back to the ground. Adam and Derrick both lunged to catch me before I could fall, but ended up colliding into each other and falling on top of me in an uncomfortable doggy-pile instead.

“Ouch!” Adam cried out as the air was sucked out of my lungs.

“Brooke, what the hell!” Derrick yelled.

Star-like bubbles swirled around the pink laces of Brooke’s boots as she approached us. I didn’t have to see her to know she had her arms crossed in front of her chest, and a defiant scowl on her face.

“What?” Brooke asked. “I thought I was supposed to signal for an injury?”

“Not like that!” Derrick said as he jumped to his feet. “That was a little late, don’t you think?”

“Well, sor-rry. I never said I was a good referee.”

Adam pushed himself to a squat beside me, and placed a hand lightly on my back. “Grace, are you okay?”

I rolled over onto my back, fighting a groan. My veins seemed to be pumping throbbing pain throughout my entire body, the ache intensified in the cold.

“Peachy,” I strained.

“We should get her inside,” Adam said. “Help me lift her?”

I winced as my body changed positions, and closed my eyes to focus on the floating sensation of being carried. I had crowdsurfed once at a concert Adam and I had gone to for our first real date. Yes, think happy thoughts Grace. Oh, yes. Warmth.

“I’m really sorry, Grace,” Derrick said. I could hear the worry in his voice. “I really didn’t mean to kick it so hard, but you know how I get.”

“I’m fine, really. You can put me down now,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Adam asked. There was audible concern in his voice too.

“I’m sure. Put me down,” I said.

My feet met the ground of the hotel lobby with a wave of pulsating pain rushing to my head. I leaned into Adam’s arm still wrapped around my waist as the pain subsided into a dull throbbing ache, and my body adjusted to being upright again.

“Grandpa!” Derrick said as our grandfather appeared from the opening elevator doors.

“Ah, there you are. I was just on my way to tell you guys you should start cleaning up for supper,” Grandpa said with a grin. His grin faded as he noticed I was injured. “Grace, my dear, what happened?”

“I accidentally kicked the ball too hard, and it knocked her down,” Derrick confessed.

“She was bleeding,” Adam said.

“I’m fine,” I insisted.

“Well, let’s have your mother take a look at it, shall we?” Grandpa said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and leading me toward the elevator.

I nodded. My mother was an ICU nurse at our local hospital back home in Arizona, and was our family’s go-to person for any medical questions or concerns.

“Why don't you boys help Grace to your mother while I let the other's know it's time to head in?” Grandpa suggested. Adam and Derrick eagerly nodded their consent. “And don't forget to practice your French! We’ll be having another family quiz during dinner tonight. The winner will get to pick what we do first tomorrow.”

I grinned as I pushed the up button for the elevator. Grandpa had signed us all up for French lessons over the summer to prepare for the trip to Paris, but I had already been taking lessons since the fifth grade. I had always had a fascination for the language and culture. My bedroom back home was Paris themed, and I had been the one to pick Paris as our family vacation for the year. At Christmas every year, every member of the family wrote down their dream vacation destination, and at the start of every summer, Grandpa would randomly select one of the ballots, and the family would take a vote. My ballot had said Paris every year since I was ten, so I was more than prepared when my ballot was finally chosen. I had won every Family Quiz competition since the first one on the flight here, and was confident I would be the winner at supper as well.

“Now, Grace, I know you’re excited, but I want the others to have a chance, so I’m going to disqualify you from the competition tonight. You’ll be a judge with me tonight instead,” Grandpa said, and I frowned.

“Yeah, okay,” I said, disheartened.

Grandpa patted me on the shoulder as the elevator doors opened and Adam, Derrick, and I stepped in. I gave Grandpa my best reassuring smile to hide my disappointment as the doors closed us in. I don't think he bought it, but it was worth the shot.

My mother was removing the floaties from the twins, my four year old brothers Finn and Griffen, when we walked into our suite. They had just gotten back from the hotel pool.

“Gracie b-weeding!” Finn said, pointing a tiny finger at my head.

My mom looked up, saw the blood on my face and sighed. “Derrick, how many times do I have to remind you to take it easy with your family?”

“It was an accident!” Derrick said. “I swear I didn’t mean to kick it that hard.”

“You never do,” Mom said, shaking her head. “Have a seat, Grace. I’ll fix you up in a minute. Derrick, grab my kit for me, please. Adam, do you mind helping with the boys?”

“Of course, Mrs. Sheppard,” Adam said as Derrick said, “On it.”

I sat down on the couch with a sigh. “I’m fine, Mom, really. I just need to shower.”

“I’m sure you are, sweetie, but I’m still going to take a look,” Mom said as she wiggled the last float off Griffen’s arm.

“First one to the bath gets a scoop of my ice cream tonight!” Adam said, rallying the boys to their bath.

As Adam and the twins retreated for bath time, Derrick arrived with Mom’s medical kit. She always had one with her, wherever she went. It came in handy more often than not.

“Thanks, Derrick,” Mom said. “Go help with the twins, please. And if your father is still sleeping, will you wake him up for me, please? Tell him we’re getting ready for dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Derrick said, giving our mother a mock-salute as he turned to leave.

I gritted my teeth to keep from wincing as Mom began cleaning the cut on my forehead.

“Well, Derrick definitely got you good this time, but at least you won’t need stitches.”

“So it’s better than his baseball phase?”

Mom chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is. I really wish he’d be more careful.”

“It was an accident, Mom. He was trying to be careful. The ground was just really slippery. It wasn’t his fault.”

“I'm sure, sweetheart. But let’s maybe try to steer the group away from sports while we’re here, huh?”

“I can try. Not making any promises, though. You know Grandpa is banning me from the Family Quiz tonight? He wants to make it ‘fair for the others.’ So I won’t be picking the family activity tomorrow.”

“If I were you, I’d take that as a compliment,” she said as she stuck a bandaid over the cut. “Now, go get ready for dinner. I need to make sure your dad’s up, and check on the boys.”

****

The restaurant that night was absolutely incredible. Sitting down at one of the tables made everyone instantly feel like royalty, and the best part was the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower outside the window.

Unfortunately, I was stuck sitting at the “kid’s” end of the table, unable to participate in any of the adult conversation going on at the other end of the long table. Instead, I had a front-row seat to Finn and Griffen’s “How Far Can I Stick This Piece of Bread Up My Nose Before Mom Yells at Me” competition. Ugh.

“Grace, how do you pronounce this word again?” Derrick asked as he pointed at something on the menu.

“Terre,” I said. "Like 'to tear a piece of paper' but with a little roll of the r's."

“Terre,” he repeated.

“Are you seriously just going to get a baked potato again?” I asked.

Derrick shrugged. “Better than frogs legs. Or duck.”

“How would you know if you’ve never tried it?”

“I’m not in a try-it mood tonight. I’m hungry! I want to eat!”

“What about a crepe?”

“Isn’t that a dessert?”

“Not always. Look, this one here has spinach, ham, and cheese with a gravy-like sauce.”

“You can read all that?”

I rolled my eyes as Derrick stared at the menu with a concentrated look on his face. The waiter came by then to take our order, and I helped everyone with the translation of their order, noticing Grandpa’s proud grin as he watched me. I felt a swell of joy knowing I was the one who made him proud.

After the waiter left to put in our order, Grandpa announced it was time for the Family Quiz. Everyone groaned except for me, but we all wound up having a lot of fun. The laughter never seemed to stop. It was one of those priceless, picture-perfect nights that you never want to end. We couldn’t have imagined the horror that was waiting for us in the days to come.

As the saying goes, ignorance was bliss.

Thursday, May 30, 2019

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