Pre-Dinner Jitters

Pre-Dinner Jitters

Ashlynn

 

            “Ashlynn! Ashlynn Piper Griffin! You come down here right now and say hello to our guests.”

            From my position leaning over the toilet, I call out, “I’m not feeling so well, Mother!” in the hopes that she’ll take it and leave me alone, but in a minute, I hear someone coming up the stairs. I look up, expecting the permanently pinched face of my mother, but instead, I see the always smirking mask of Noah Black. “What are you doing up here?”

            He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Well, honey, I could give you the long version or the short version.”

            “Long version,” if it takes a while, it’ll be so late I won’t have to go to dinner, “and don’t call me honey.”

            “Whatever you say. Honey.”

            I growl and lunge at him, prepared to claw out his eyes, but he stops me by walking away, calling out, “I guess you don’t want to hear the story, then.”

            I realize that if he goes, I have to go, too. “Wait!”

            As if he expected this, he turns with a smile on his face, leaning on the doorframe once more. “So, here goes: See, my dad was an old school rocker; piercings, leather, forked tongue. You know?”

            I sit on the toilet and face him. “No. I don’t know.”

            “Whatever. Anyway, my mother was prep; argyle sweaters, pastels. You know? “

            “No. I still don’t know,” I retort, gagging again. I slide off the toilet immediately and pull up the lid lightning quick, retching into it again.

            He looks worriedly at me for a minute before saying, “Okay! I’ll stop saying that. Anyways; they met at a school dance. His band was the entertainment, and she was there with her longtime boyfriend, Steve. Steve was a nerd too smart to be ditched, so when my dad tried to cut in, Steve dragged her onto the dance floor himself. They didn’t see each other again until their ten year high school reunion, where my dad was all �"

            “Okay, Noah, really, I �"

            “Dressed up. I mean, really gussied up, and my mom �"

            “Noah, I�"

            “Had on this purple dress, right, with a really high �"

            “Noah, really�"

            “Amount of cleavage. And you could just see all the guys drooling and my dad�"

            “Okay! I’ll go downstairs for dinner! Just stop talking!”

            Noah, having successfully completed his mission, grins and turns to lead me down the stairs. On the bottom step, my mother rushes forward and grabs my hand in her talon-like grip, almost dragging me to the dining room where our guests are waiting. On the way, she spits out criticisms at me under her breath. “Really, Ashlynn, it was so selfish of you to make everybody wait on you like that. And Noah had to come get you; imagine how they must think of you now. And look at your dress! Did you find that on the clearance rack?”

            I tune out after this last comment. I can’t believe she just said that. I spent four hundred dollars on this dress. And I’m not selfish! I told her I wasn’t feeling well.

            I want to run away, to go to the gym and punch something, or down to the basement to pound on the drums. But, that’s not what perfect people do; they act polite and nice even when they don’t feel like it. In fact, they don’t feel uncomfortable, or hurt, or angry, ever.

            I am a perfect person, so I walk with my mother into the dining room and sit down next to Noah at the beautifully set table. I say please when I want something and thank you when it’s passed to me. I ignore Noah playing one-sided footsie with me, and I ignore my mother’s perfectly aimed little insults. I eat just the right amount of food �" one plate of salad, one piece of chicken, a spoonful of green beans, two scoops of rice �" and wait for the maid to take my plate when I’m done.

            When dinner is finished, I follow everyone into the great room (really, living room, but my mother says ‘great room’ to make it sound fancy), where we sit in various plush seats and converse about the country club and yesterday’s weather. Noah sits next to me, and I can feel him glance over at me every few seconds with a little frown on his face, a down-turned mouth marring his perfectly chiseled jaw.

            Finally, to get away from his stare, I offer to make everyone coffee. When I get into the kitchen, though, he’s right behind me. Noah backs me into the counter, trapping me by putting his arms on either side of me. With his face inches from mine, eyes searching for something deeper in my own, he finally asks, “Are you okay?”

            I nod, gulping, before asking, “Could you please let me go?”

            He blinks, confused. At last, he says, “Sorry. I was just wondering. Something seemed to be bothering you,” and backs up.

            I squint my eyes at him for a second, trying to figure out his mood swings. “O-kay.” Then the coffee machine beeps, signaling that it’s done and saving me from further discomfort. I pour it into four cups, adding cream and sugar mechanically. I serve it quickly, making sure everyone’s got their own before heading downstairs to the basement, towards my drum set, my savior.

I keep it for times like these, when things are too much to handle. My mother’s remarks have been a part of daily life since I was nine �" eight years. I never thought they’d bother me so much, but I guess the drums come in handy because, as I pick up a pair of sticks and start to pound away, I feel better than I have in years.

            I am so into the beat that I don’t notice Noah until he starts clapping along with the rhythm. When I look up, he’s beaming. And it’s not a cocky grin; it’s a genuine, bona-fide, happy smile. “Why are you smiling?”

            He stops immediately, shaking his head. “No reason. I’ll leave now.” He turns and hurries up the stairs. I find myself staring after him, wondering when he got to be so strange. He usually just teases me for a little while when his family comes for dinner, then retreats to my backyard to smoke a pack of cigarettes.

            Sighing, I get up and return my drumsticks to their rightful places. I won’t see them again until I come close to a nervous breakdown. Oh, the joys of being perfect.