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WEST, AKA THE GASPING QUEEN’S SON
All morning, I havea Weezer song stuck in my head. Last night’s birthday girl insisted on a peppy pop-rock-infused party. I ignored most of the music, but this song—whose title I don’t even know—remains stuck in my head.
As it played overhead, Alexis stopped kissing me long enough to study my face and caress my cheek. Her gaze held such tenderness. I felt her opening up to me.
And that’s the problem with snarky bitches. They can be difficult to read. Tuesday’s second language is sarcasm. I can’t always tell when she’s really upset. My mother’s fluent in the drama-mama language. My aunts can’t just walk into a room and say hello. It’s always “Good Lord, let me explain why everything sucks, but not really. I’m just bored.”
Alexis doesn’t act like most girls I’ve dated. Many times, I’m sure she’s screwing with me. Like even flat-out lying. But she sells everything with the right mix of sweet sincerity and blustery bullshit. I’m never sure what’s real.
But that moment, with her expression so raw, I knew Alexis felt something powerful for me.
“Stop humming, Miss Minnelli,” Val says at lunch before trying to smack me in the head.
“Why are you fighting?” Ma-Poppy asks. “Did that girl tell you to hassle your baby brother?”
“He’s harassing me,” I grumble and try to kick his leg out from under him.
“I still think she’s at fault. Toomey women are very sneaky. One tried to steal the nuts off my muffin once.”
“Is this a real thing?” Pa-Emmett asks his wife. “I feel like you’d have mentioned that before if it was real.”
“Well, she didn’t actually grab my nuts,” Ma-Poppy explains while Val snickers over the “nuts” thing. “But I could tell she was thinking about it with her beady raccoon eyes.”
“I need a house,” I announce like I did at breakfast before the conversation got derailed by Tuesday’s murder announcement.
“I have to kill Jeremy’s parents and maybe an uncle!” she declared with great fury, killing everyone’s interest in my thing.
Now, I try again. Pa-Emmett stops fighting with his tuna, which refuses to remain on the bread. His gaze flashes to an oblivious Ma-Poppy. Val grins at our mother’s selective deafness.
“I get it,” I say and squirt mustard on my sandwich. “This is a difficult subject for you, Ma. I’ll just ask Auntie Journey to help me, so you won’t be so put out.”
Pa-Emmett smirks at my zig when his woman clearly assumed I’d zag. Her blue eyes find me and narrow.
“Over my dead body,” she hisses with enough venom to scare our real cat.
Val immediately tells our ma, “I’d cry so much if you died.”
“I know, babe,” she says and pats his scruffy cheek. “You’re very sensitive.”
Pa-Emmett and I roll our eyes. Tuesday must sense drama building because she runs outside to find us eating lunch on the back patio.
“I also agree or disagree with whatever the majority is saying.”
“I need a house.”
“Of course, you do,” Tuesday says and starts throwing together a sandwich. “Your feet are too large and stinky to remain in this one. Where will you live? Baltimore? Rome? Whatever cities exist in Australia?”
“Why would he move away?” Ma-Poppy asks her only daughter.
“He’s a grown man with giant feet, Ma. There’s no room for him here.”
“It’s that girl,” Ma-Poppy hisses and leans back as if the horror has zapped her of energy, and she can barely sit up straight. “She’s filling his head with nonsense. Right, Emmett?”
“Sure, darlin’. Whatever. Now, if West wants to move out and do his own laundry, I can see the benefit in helping that happen.”
Ma-Poppy inhales sharply to ensure she has enough oxygen to triumphantly spew her bullshit. “I have no other reason to exist besides caring for my babies.”
“Maybe he’ll have a kid, and you can raise it?” Tuesday suggests with her mouth full. “I can’t imagine a Toomey would know how to rear a baby.”
