Can You Say Catastrophe Page 0,4

Billy’s toe touching mine. Naked pictures of me on my own phone. A boob that refuses to grow. Fifty-one days till camp. I can’t wait to go away with my best friends and leave my sisters and parents behind for four perfect weeks. Mom just came into my room to tell me it’s time to turn my light off. Which part of her doesn’t understand that I’m thirteen?

She doesn’t need to come into my room to tell me to turn my light off. What is the point of being a teenager if you can’t make simple decisions like when to turn off your light?

Friday, April 26, 5:45 P.M.

The humiliation continues

I was just forced to roam the streets of my neighborhood yelling for my dog. Sadly, for me, it was not the first time this has happened.

Even more sadly, I know it will not be the last.

There is no love sincerer than the love of food.

—George Bernard Shaw

Friday, May 3, 4:45 P.M.

I’m a torture victim

Tonight is the grand opening of the Love Doctor Diner. The night when everyone in Faraway is going to be at the diner. The night that my mom has made matching red vinyl jackets for my entire family with the logo of the Love Doctor Diner embroidered across the back of them. She’s insisting we all wear jeans and white Ts and the jackets she made. This is cruel and unusual punishment for being born into what is clearly the wrong family for me. I’m not even sure it is my family. It seems so obvious that in no way do I share DNA with these people.

I don’t want any part of this. I’m going into the kitchen to speak my mind.

4:53 P.M.

I’m back from the kitchen. I spoke my mind and, as usual, no one (specifically Mom) cared what I had to say.

“I’m not wearing this,” I said to Mom and handed her back the jacket she made.

“You’re not wearing this?” She repeated what I said, but she didn’t say it like a statement. She said it like a question that was so absurd it didn’t need to be answered. Then she handed me back the jacket and told me to go get ready, because we had an opening to go to and Dad was counting on all of us to do our parts.

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What does ‘do our parts’ mean?” I asked.

Mom made her you’re-going-to-like-this face, and instinctively, I knew I wasn’t. “We’re all going to be servers tonight.” She said it like it was going to be a grand adventure that my entire family was taking together. Maybe May and June and Mom and Dad are taking it, but there’s not a chance I’m going to serve pie to my friends in a tricked-out jacket.

“NO WAY!” I yelled at Mom. Then I kept on going, even though I knew by the look on her face that I should stop. “I’m thirteen now, and you can’t keep telling me what to do.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d had this kind of talk with Mom. Just this morning before school, I was at the kitchen table trying to finish my math homework, and Mom kept standing over me asking why I hadn’t finished my homework last night. I could hardly think to do my math, so I stopped trying to divide fractions and looked up at her.

Me: Do you know what a helicopter parent is?

Mom: Do YOU know what a helicopter parent is?

Me: I asked you first.

Mom: Don’t get fresh with me, young lady.

The conversation with her completely ruined a perfectly good plate of frozen waffles.

So this afternoon, I crossed my arms and waited for the full effect of my words to sink in. I waited for Mom to say something reasonable like, “I’m sorry, April. Of course, you’re a teenager now and you deserve to make your own decisions.” But all she said was, “Young lady, this is not a democracy. Now go get dressed. Tonight is an important night for your father, and we’re leaving soon.”

Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. On a scale of 1 to 10, I think tonight is going to be a -44.

10:35 P.M.

I was wrong about tonight. It was a -3,456,789.

It was the most embarrassing night ever. When Mom, May, June, and I got to the diner, Dad was already setting up. There were tables of food, racks of pies, and strolling musicians. The whole place, which is already heavy on the hearts motif, was