The Way We Do Things At Home

“All right,” my dad announces to the world in general and to his two stay-at-home-until-we’re-thirty daughters in specificality, “Who wants to help me get some gardening done?”

You could hear a pin drop in the attic in the silence that follows. And then, if you are listening carefully, you can hear the sound of two pairs of eyes performing an immediate impression of the Floorboard and Ceiling Inspectors Synchronized Observation Team. It’s like being in a classroom when the teacher asks a question to which nobody knows the answer to. No one wants to meet his gaze.

“Come on,” he says, glaring at each one of us in turn, “It’s a nice day, and you’re not doing anything important, are you? So why not help me out a bit here?”

Because, Dad, while I am sure you have many amazing and noteworthy qualities, gardening does not count as a virtue to be shared with the world. Neither of us have inherited your inexplicable love for gardening. Because I personally have the same amount of talent in horticulture that you would find in a dead starfish. Or possibly even less, now that I reflect upon it. And because my sister; the same sister which you gifted me with thus removing me from my rightful place as the youngest daughter; is a lazy lying little brat.

All the above goes unsaid – but not unthought. Unfortunately in this case, it isn’t the thought that counts; it is the deed which remains sadly undone.

“I’m busy,” Paige replies from her position on the sofa, which can be summarized as this – her whole 5’4 frame lying supine across the entire length of the two seater cushioned furniture, a book lying upon her tummy. She continues to convey, by a careful modulation of her voice and a slight lifting of aforementioned book, that she is in fact urgently busy and that by merely talking to him; she is wasting precious seconds of her life which could have been put to better use.

“Busy?” my dad asks, arching an eyebrow and successfully conveying his skepticism and disbelief at her admission. “With what?”

“English homework,” Paige replies, lying with rattlesnake speed. “Read and summarize. Literature. Due Monday.” Her face is set in the firm steady gaze of the true liar. With eight words, she has transferred his attention away from herself. But my sister does not stop there – oh, no. When being chased by wolves, throw someone off the sledge; that’s her policy. Three words are all it takes. Three fatal words.

“What about Jess?”

My dad turns to me, his sphinx-like gaze transferring its unblinking sight upon my hapless body. But I am not helpless. I have had one year more in the world over you, Paige. One whole year’s worth of tric…I mean, experience.

“I’m busy too,” I reply, lifting my fingers off the keyboard of my laptop while allowing my eyes to occasionally flicker back on the white blueish screen, rather more effectively conveying the fact that what I am endeavoring to do is of such vital importance that taking my eyes off it would be tantamount to treason, sacrilege and making a joke about President Obama.

“Really?” Dad asks, his tone brimming with skepticism, dripping with sarcasm and heavy with a side order of resignation. “Class project, is it?” he asks, somewhat sourly.

I uncurl my feet from under my lap and turn the laptop around so that he can see the Online Database of Resources page, with the big university insignia and livery and logo and whatever. This is a metaphorical dropkick of information, complete with a piledriver of hard evidence. I turn to Paige and flash a smirk of superiority at her; the look on her face is one of annoyance. But I am flying now – positively flying.

“I don’t think ‘Private’ novel books (which is like Gossip Girl) counts as education board approved learning material. Is it, Paige?” I ask, keeping my voice carefully balanced with puzzlement and concern, wrapped in a plastic-thin cover of skepticism. Annoyance has turned to consternation, which I am especially pleased to see. And then her face changes ever so briefly, a fleeting look of triumph that makes her look more rodentlike then usual.

“Nor does Youtube figure much in your course, does it...Jessica?” she counters, and I mentally curse the browser tab that has suddenly started flashing for some reason. Any protestations or excuses which I could have mustered (and I could have mustered a few) are quickly suppressed by the flashing of the IM chat window at the bottom of the screen.

“Right,” my dad says. “I’m your father, and if the two of you are still planning to go to that party on Friday, you will get up and help me.” He pauses for dramatic effect (where else would we get our flair for dramatics?). “Now.”