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January 31, 2004

Posted by anoddphrase in Uncategorized.



Daily Theme #9

Mr. Frankenbach

English 250

February 5, 2003


Bittersweet Love



            “Why is David so wimpy?”

            My mother sighed, her eyes slipping from the darkened, empty road before us to settle on me.  “You’re supposed to keep me awake, not make me stress out over your criticism of my oldest son.”

            “If stress keeps you awake, I think I can deal with stressing you,” I replied, fidgeting restlessly in my overly warm car seat.  The heat whistled lowly through the vents at my feet, jacked to its limit, while the heavy ski-jacket that I’d absently shed upon entering the car uncomfortably insulated the small of my back.  I reached a hand down to the car’s central controls to adjust the heat setting, and then slide the jacket away from my back, sliding it onto the back of my seat.  “And don’t you think David is wimpy, too?”

            “Well, yes,” she grumbled reluctantly, returning her gaze to the road where a bright yellow light appeared, looming and then disappearing behind us, as a car zoomed by.  “But you don’t have to tell it to me right in front of him.”

            I rolled my eyes to the lightless backseat.  Two black forms were slouched and strewn– obviously slumbering– across the bench, abandoned Gameboys and dead batteries littering the floor below and beside them.  “Like he’s conscious enough to comprehend anything I say,” I retorted.  “Then again, he’s never conscious enough to comprehend anything I say anyway.”

            “Angie.”  My mother’s reprimand was spoiled by her following girlish giggle of amusement.

            A smirk pulled at my lips and I switched my stare over to my mother’s profile.  Her nose was a rounded snub, while her teeth were forever exposed in a goofy grin, yellowing bumps of plastic and wiring, much like my own, lining them, a symbol of her supposed ‘mid-life crisis’.  “I mean, really, though.  How many times do you have to retell that stupid little story about David not being able to ask for a different toy in his MacDonald’s Happy Meal?  With me, being the natural outspoken heroine that I am, doing it for him.”

            “And I couldn’t help but add in your natural heroics and his natural failure, I guess,” my mother slanted over to me, dryly.

            “Hey, you told it the way it was,” I stated matter-of-factly.  “I’m merely parroting you.  What else am I good for?”

            “Not much.”

            My lips pursed prunily in a pout.  “I’m the one helping you, here, you know.  Keeping you awake and all.  You could at least show some gratitude.  Particularly in a monetary form.”

            Her smile widened slightly, as she tapped a finger that was loosely wrapped around the side of the steering wheel.  “Ha, not likely.  And keeping me awake is a good way to go about not getting yourself into an accident, with me falling asleep.”  I shrugged and raised my right hand to rest against the cool, glass window.

            “Well, it was worth a try.  Getting back to the topic, though.  David’s a major wimp.  Or wimpette, since he screams like a girl, too.”

            “His voice has gotten deeper and you haven’t heard him scream lately.”

            One of my eyebrows arched, as I tilted my head to stare dubiously at her.  “What, and you have?”

            “No, but I don’t need to,” she refuted calmly.  “David doesn’t scream like a girl.  And he is not a wimp.”

            “Wimp, wimpette, same difference.  Either way, David has some serious backbone problems, i.e. he has none.”

            “He’s gotten a lot better recently,” she insisted, a slight crease forming on the skin of her forehead.  “You just haven’t been around to see it.”

            “Oh, like he’s not doing some other kid’s homework for free and for friendship now, huh?”

            A full-out frown bloomed.  “Stop it, Angie.  He’s never done that before.”

            “Like you’d know,” I muttered under my breath, leaning in to push the ‘on/off’ button for the radio, a soft love song switching onto the speakers, barely outdoing the low hum of the heater.  “-cry a little,” I mumbled along, “-oh cry a little, for me…  I was cut off as my mother’s hovering finger swooped in and depressed the ‘on/off’ button.  “I liked that song,” I commented mildly.

            “Why do you have to be so mean to your brother?  Especially your older brother?”

            “I’m not being mean to him.  I’m just stating a fact.  And plus, I’m his sister.  His one and only sister.  It’s my job to be mean.”

            My mother sighed as I turned the radio back on to another bittersweet love song.




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