Logistics


Logistics
After the accident, Chip was without a car for a while. His insurance company was trying to bill the drunk, who was insisting that the accident was ‘the kid’s’ fault.

He could get rides to school from his jock friends, but I was uncomfortable with putting my sylph into the hands of one of the knuckledraggers.

Luckily, I didn’t have to work hard to express my concerns. Chrissy said something like ‘Those bozos?’ and we found another solution.

None of the three (or four) of us had a car, but I had a better chance of borrowing one, so I picked up Chrissy or Chip and delivered them to the other’s house for a reading.

There were no problems with Chip having a sylph friend anymore, even the one who got God’s Acres axed. In fact, after I testified against the drunk at the trial, they welcomed the two of us.

Then the only question was how Chip’s recuperation was going, and if he felt like traveling that night.

They had picked Hemmingway’s ‘A Movable Feast.’ It was about his time living in Paris in the 20’s, with lots and lots of name-dropping of other famous literary figures.

Chrissy smiled and offered a pro forma invitation, for me to stay and join them for the reading. Electra smiled and explained what ‘pro forma’ meant before I could ask Chrissy if that was like ‘pro bono’ or ‘probation’ or what.

So, they’d have let me stay if I wanted, but I didn’t. And they were okay with me not wanting to stay, and I was okay with not staying, and I had that second interview room to work on, anyway.

But it wasn’t a secret, now, so every time I came to be the return taxi, I brought whatever I’d accomplished, like little sylph chairs made to look like D&D dice. Or a Candyland figure actually made out of candy. And the travel chess set I painted in the school colors.

Chrissy found pieces from Clue, Life or Diplomacy, and Chip made a whatnot shelf to put them on.

Electra reviewed all my ideas about decoration and made a few changes here and there.

And I learned to never play chess with Chrissy for money. She plays like she debates…. No survivors.

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Electra’s 19th birthday was two weeks before mine. Two weeks before the date, Dad looked at the calendar and announced that her birthday would probably be a good date to start using the barbeque again.

We all turned to look at Electra. She was nibbling on a piece of banana I’d put on a toothpick and looked back at us.

“What do you want to eat on your birthday?” Mom asked.

“Um, food, please?”

“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “She is from a primitive tribe and unfamiliar with our ways. She knows not that we allow the menu to be dictated by-“

“Influenced by,” Dad interjected.

“Coward,” Mom muttered.

“You get to pick the meal on that day,” I finished.

She looked scared.

Of course she did. Tell her she’s responsible for organizing a dance or an entire senior class field trip to a ball game, she rolls up her sleeves and starts giving orders. Delegation, deadlines, shopping lists, permission forms, all slotted into her plan of attack.

Tell her three people who love and trust her are willing to eat whatever she suggests, she acts like we hung her over a nest of pit vipers.

This was far worse than the nights she got to pick delivery. Everyone made private choices from that menu. This time everyone’s satisfaction was in her hands.

“I’d suggest ribs,” I said. “Dad likes to cook ribs.”

“RIBS!” she said desperately. Dad nodded.

“With that dry mustard and spice rub,” I went on.

“Yeah, the dry spicy mustard!” Electra yelled, her relief palpable. Dad nodded.

“And the Coca-Cola coleslaw,” I added. Electra opened her mouth to repeat it, stopping when Dad slugged my arm.

“Yes, sir,” I said. He leaned down to face my sylph.

“Electra, there are no wrong answers, unless they’re not YOUR answers. What do YOU want on YOUR birthday? The jackass gets to make the choices next month.”

She looked anxious again. “Ribs, sir. And… I’d like to try the Co-co-coleslaw.”

“I would like to believe he just made it up,” Dad told her.

“I’d made him produce the recipe.”

“Four pounds red cabbage, four cups of apple cider vinegar, one bottle of coke OUCH!” I got quiet, rubbing my shin. Must have been Mom, Dad would have just slugged me again.

“And can we make enough ribs to invite some people?” I asked. Electra squeaked in panic. The responsibility of an invitation list, what horror.



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Index

47. Kerri

49. What's A Passion Cake? (N)