Yo, bitch, let's blog!

I decided to blog again. I decided to blog again because I found this video of a cat, and my whole rational behind ceasing to blog was to get more in touch with the physical act of writing. But I can't post a Youtube video of a cat in my journal. So...fuck that. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPzNl6NKAG0

Chamomile Tea with Sylvia Plath, Michel Foucault, and Jason Schwartzman

Ms. Taylor Johnson Holbrook, Ms. Roxana Noel Khan, and Mr. Garrett Kelly Olson decided to throw a tea party. The Kensington Rooftop Gardens have been reserved for the 8th of January, champagne has been purchased for organic valencia mimosas, and Ms. Khan has prepared the tea cakes and scones herself. Ms. Holbrook calligraphied the invitations with an ages 9-12 how-to guide she found in her closet. Mr. Olson watched TV while the girls planned, and sometimes asked them to make him a quesadilla.

Ms. Khan has invited William Shakspeare [who will read humorous selections from The Merry Wives of Windsor over the spinach quiche], Ben Franklin [who, due to his lush-like tendancies, will sneak mimosas from the trays after the servers cut him off], Jason Schwartzman [who will make out with Roxana the whole time in broad daylight], JK Rowling [who will eventually get annoyed with Ms. Holbrook's incessant probing to divulge secrets about the fictional marriage of Harry and Ginny], and Paul of Tarsus [who will be seated next to Nietzsche until the nihilism gets to him and he moves closer to Jesus].

Mr. Olson has invited Friedrich Nietzsche [who depresses everyone so he chills by the tray of rasberry tarts], Jesus Christ [who takes his tea white, no sugar], Michel Foucault [who spends the majority of his morning hitting on Mr. Olson], and Fyodor Dostoevsky [who checks out completely when he realizes that there is no vodka].

Ms. Holbrook has invited Sylvia Plath [she will be reading aloud from Ariel], Martin Luther [who will lead the party in prayer as Nietzsche sniggers], Hugh Laurie [who will thrill thr crowd with stand-up from his Blackadder days], Helena Bonham Carter [who will make a dramatic entrance in period-clothing], and Wes Anderson [who will set up his Macbook to show us clips from his newest movie, The Fantastic Mr. Fox, currently in pre-production and due out in 2009].

It will be a kickin] soiree.

Too true, Jeeves.

I used to be a much better writer.

Shit Happens: A Lament

Shit happens, but I don't know why. I wish I had some wonderfully UN approach to this Book of Job phenomenon, but I am drained of most of my compassion and choose to focus selfishly on myself, as I usually and pathetically do.

I don't understand why bad things happen to my good family, why we have no money, why my dad keeps getting sued.

I don't understand why I can't be happy in one place, why I want to get away from everywhere at once so badly.

I don't understand why I fail to communicate with those closest to me and have woven an intricate web of lies to protect myself.

I don't understand why I don't like tomatoes.

I don't understand why I thrive on emotional pain and let the people who caused it back into my life so freely.

I don't understand why I can't stand up to my friends when I need to.

I don't understand why I have let my heart become so callous to the tragedy in my family.

I don't understand why I feel that a relationship with a stable guy will solve all my problems.

I don't understand why I'm so scared of my writing.

I don't understand why my face still breaks out like a 15 year old when I wash it twice daily.

I don't know why I'm so cynical about Christianity.

I don't understand why it takes me so long to open up to people.

I don't understand why I thrive on my vices.

I don't understand why I'm a feminist sometimes, especially since I care so much about what guys think of me.

I don't understand why I feel it is so necessary to put on a show for people, to protect whatever reputation I have.

I don't understand why people trust and respect me sometimes, I want to shake them and scream, "Are you kidding me?? Run, run far away!!"

I don't understand why I can't be like everyone else in Torrey and why it's so hard for me.

I don't understand why I don't rely on God.

Survey stolen from Roxana who stole it from Sydney

Tis' the weekend before finals. Frances, my dear roommate, has left to go to some big Hollywood party with her boyfriend, leaving me here in the apartment with the same pair of sweats I've been wearing for the past four days, a stack of JSTOR articles, and large bowl of cold brown rice to last me through through the weekend, as we have no food and refuse to go to the store before we migrate back home for the holidays. I have been writing the worst paper I've ever written in my life [It's basically done and still has no thesis, fancy that] and this is my reward.

1. Where is your sister right now?I don’t have a sister, I don’t think...unless there is something my parents have not told me

2. Last place you kissed someone? My couch. Or the mouth. I don't understand the use of "place."

3. Name five things you did today?
a. Scrubbed the soap scum out of the bathtub.
b. Ordered a triple venti nonfat extra-hot pepermint mocha at Starbs in my pajamas with mad hair.
c. Cried for a little while.
d. Tried to wrap a bottle of whiskey with holiday wrapping paper. P.S. It's hard.
e. Watched the episode of Friends where Ross marries Emily and then cursed at the TV when I realized it was a two-parter and I didn't have the next disk.

4. Last person you text messaged? Garrett.

5. What are you listening to? Sarah McLachlan's version of Joni Mitchell's "River."

6. Eye Color? Blue-green.

7. Has anyone told you they're in love with you? Bruce Kim my senior year of high school. Poor kid.

8. What color are your bedroom walls? Apartment; off-white. Home; green, blue, and purple.

9. Do you have a chair in your room? Well, in the apartment we have three couches, four dining room chairs, two desk chairs, and that scary one I pulled out of the dumpster in September.

10. What are you doing tomorrow? Alot of the same; sitting on my couch in the same pair of sweats, working. Hopefully someone will visit me. Me and Frances are making a nice dinner for ourselves though.

11. What should you be doing right now? Rewriting this shithole of a lit paper.

12. Do you get along with your parents? It's off and on. We're off.

13. Any pets? Lucy and Prince Charles the Third, my Jack Russells, and Pearl Einstein, my gay stray cat.

14. Favorite band? The Beatles are a founbdational classic, rivaled by Regina Spektor and Sufjan.

15. Are you married/engaged? No. I don't plan on being eiather for quite some time, thank you.

16. When was the last time you talked to one of your siblings? I had a charming conversation with my brother a few hours ago. I was giving him hangover tips. Aww, my baby's growing up, making bad desisions...

17. Do you play an instrument? No. I wish I was more musically inclined.

18. Are you allergic to anything? Technically cats, but I've seen no proof of that.

19. Do you miss someone? Yes.

20. Do you think they miss you too? Yes.

21. How many credit cards do you have? One, but I try not to use it.

22. Have you ever wanted to be a teacher? No.

23. What is one thing you've learned about life? We do everything for sex, money, and approval.

24. Is anyone jealous of you? One of my best friend's girlfriends was jealous of me. I kind of liked that. Kept her in line.

25. Ever been stuck in an elevator? No.

26. What does your dad call you? Alot of embarressing things that I had to ask him politely to stop calling me when I had boys over. Think "Tator tot" and "Bird Brain."

27. What does you hair look like right now? Tamed and on top of my head, with a headband restraining it further.

28. Has anyone told you they like you more than a friend? Yeah. It throws a wrench into things.

29. What did you last eat? A piece of leftover ham, a baked potato, grilled red peppers.

30. Is your hair naturally curly or straight? Niether, it's just mad.

31. Who was the last person you drove with? Erin and I had a mandatory Starbucks run a few hours ago.

32. What are you looking forward to? Elyse's party. Heels!

33. What's your biggest pet peeve? Forced conversation.

34. Do you have any tattoos? No, but I love watching people get tattoos. I secretly want one.

35. What's your favorite drink? White wine or Heiniken. Or, you know. Water.

36. Any piercings? Ears. I going to repierce my cartiledge.

37. What do you want to be? I'm pretty pleased as is.

38. Obsessions? Scruff on guys, grapefruits, straitening my hair, Sufjan Stevens.

39. Have you ever thought about getting your lip pierced? Yes, but no thanks.

40. Are you more of a coffee or alcohol drinker? Both. Together, preferably.

41. Have you ever been arrested? No, but I kind of want to be.

42. What are you afraid of? Being alone.

43. What color are your toe nails? Frosty pink. Kind of not very me, but it's too cold for flip flops, so no one will ever know.

44. Ever had your heart broken? Yes. Pretty bad too.

45. What was the highlight of your week? Something foolish.

46. When was the last time you hugged your best friend? Yesterday, two days ago, a few weeks ago [I have a few best friends.]

47. If you could change one thing about your current situation, what would it be? I would have all my work done and it would be awsome so I could Christmas shop and bake pumpkin bread.

48. When is your bedtime? Around 1.

49. What's the first thing you see outside your window?The courtyard of my complex.

50. What would your "Make-a-Wish" be? It would be travel related. Havn't decided where yet.

Mother Russia!!!

I am going to Russia. I am so absolutly over the moon!! Russia is just sort of one of those places that you read abiut and really wish someday you could see, but you never acctually, you know, go. It's not like Europe, it's not so easily attainable. So on the 25th of May, I leave for New York, and then for London, and then for St. Petersburg, and then for Moscow. And them me and some friends will be spending about a week in England and Scotland. I'm too excited to be creative.

The Lobster Race

Mrs. Mitchell was of the philosophy that depravity cultivated moral fiber; a redefined prerequisite for what she assumed was progressive parenting. Her only daughter, Elliott, was cloistered from what her mother had decided would spoil the pure fruit of her “tree of virtue.” These mealy garden worms of devastation included but were not limited to animal byproducts, public television, synthetic materials, partially-hydrogenated soybean oil, and most importantly, religion.
Whenever Elliott would pluck up the moxie to ask her mother for something that happened to fall into her rolodex of corruption, whether that be to attend a sock hop at the community center or have peanut butter instead of flax-seed spread on her sandwiches, she would receive the same well-rehearsed retort from her stringent caretaker: “There is a time and a place for sock hops/peanut butter, but this is not it.”
It was a mantra, an absurd mantra, repeated so many times that it had lost meaning for both Elliott and Mrs. Mitchell. It didn’t take long for her to come to the realization that this time and place would never come as long as she lived under her mother’s roof.
Mrs. Mitchell filed for a divorce from Elliott’s father after dealing with his “poor choices” for far too long. After years of adhering to his wife’s austere and minimalist lifestyle, he found himself longing for the fullness and warmth he experienced as a child living in the Midwest. He looked to the local Methodist church to find himself spiritually, but after a few months he instead found himself divorced. That was three years ago, right after her tenth birthday. Elliott saw him every other weekend, but it wasn’t exactly what she would call “quality time.” He spent the weekend following her around like a puppy with a glass of merlot, hammering her with questions about her mother’s social agenda. Mr. Mitchell was still desperately in love with his ex-wife for reasons Elliott couldn’t begin to comprehend.
The only thing Elliott liked about the odd weekend spent at her father’s was the access to a television. Granted, it was an old white Zenith set from the early 70’s, but she could still get decent reception if she tilted the rusted rabbit ears the right way. She would get a carton of ice crème from Mr. Mitchell’s freezer, her mouth practically watering for unrefined sugar and triglycerides, crash on the cheap futon and educate herself.
She would watch any program that came on regardless of popularity or interest; it was all novel and fascinating to Elliott. Music videos, news specials, 50’s sitcoms, reality programs, game shows, movie reruns…all were grand vessels of pertinent information. Of course she never told her mother about her descent to the realm of mass media. It was better to just read yet another volume of her Encyclopedia Britannica and eat a slice of organic nut loaf, oblivious to the flashing, pulsating world that revolved around her.
It was the night before Mother’s Day when Mrs. Mitchell crept into Elliott’s dim bedroom, and kneeling by her head, reached out a soft hand to stroke her daughter’s rich chestnut hair. Elliott was not yet asleep, she was staring at the wall with drooping eyes, still trying to think her way through the list of ingredients she would need to bake a vegan coffee cake the next morning for her mother. She waited for her to speak.
“What is it?” Elliott finally asked, agitated to be disturbed.
“Oh, honey, I thought you were asleep.”
“Not yet. What is it?” she repeated, still staring at the wall in front of her.
Her mother inhaled sharply.
“I just wanted to make sure to tell you to wash your hair in the morning. We’re going to need to go to the hospital, to visit Tami.” She said the last part very fast.
Elliot flipped over to face her, eyes wide with curiosity.
“You said I wasn’t allowed.”
“I know I said that. But this time is different. She really wants to see you.”
“She really wanted to see me before she overdosed. You wouldn’t let me then.”
“Elliott, please. I said this time is different.”
“Because this time you feel guilty,” she mumbled into the corner of her pillow.
She regretted it the minute it came out of her mouth. The hallway light that escaped through the crack in her bedroom door cast a deep shadow on her mother’s face, but she didn’t need any light to see her tears. She hated it when her mother cried. It was like watching Superman walk with a limp.
Tami was her mother’s younger sister, and Elliott’s favorite person in the world. Tami was everything her sister was not, fun-loving, understanding, passionate. She had hair the color of a freshly-minted penny, and a lot of it. She was a painter, a real painter. Mrs. Mitchell was a painter too, but not in the same way that Tami was. Mrs. Mitchell painted wholesome bowls of crimson apples, or idyllic landscapes with weeping willows and petite chateaus, nothing Elliott had ever actually seen in real life. But Tami didn’t paint things, she painted ideas. Vibrant, revolutionary ideas.
When the Mitchell’s were still married and pseudo-happy, Elliott would be dropped off at her aunt’s house while her parents went out on the weekends. Elliott would sit on a burgundy barstool and watch her aunt paint. She wouldn’t use a stretched canvas like her mother; she would use a sheet of corrugated aluminum siding, something she found in a dumpster in back of the grocery store. She wouldn’t sit on a chair with her legs crossed either, she would dance around in her leggings with bare feet, flicking purple paint on each side of the metal sheet as she belted Elton John, her hair dotted with prismatic turpentine. She would pass the paintbrush off to her niece and both would dance and flick and sing until they collapsed on the floor in a heap.
Elliott wasn’t allowed to see her anymore. Tami had made “poor choices” as well, but these choices had nothing to do with religious preference. Shortly after her sister’s first overdose two years ago, Mrs. Mitchell sat her daughter down on one of the many floor cushions scattered throughout the loft and explained to her that Tami was a user, and had been for quite some time.
“Do you know what a user is?”
“A drug user, yeah,” Elliott responded.
Her mother looked at her with narrowed eyes. She clearly hadn’t expected her daughter to understand.
“I read about it. Newspaper.” HBO, actually, she thought to herself.
From that day forward, Elliott was banned from seeing her favorite aunt. She was still sore about it, and for that reason felt partially justified in snapping at her mother that night. But being privy to her mother’s internal guilt and sorrow was too much to bear the night before Mother’s Day, so she changed the subject hastily.
“It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow.”
“I know sweetheart, but we’ll just have to celebrate when we get back home.”

#

Fountains sputtered chemically-treated water from one tier to the next, fichus trees sprouted in every corner, and the floors were so glossy that Elliott could see every freckle on her fair face, just by looking down. The nurses were waiflike and merry, pushing equally cheery convalescents around in hospital-owned wheelchairs, all smiling stupidly. What was the point of the hospital lobby looking like a Marriott? It was like putting pink frosting on a rotten fish…sure, it made it look better, but it’s still a fish, and a rotten one at that.
Elliott looked up from the floor to see her mother leading a handsome man over to where she stood. Mrs. Mitchell sported a plastic smile, which looked odd juxtaposed with her puffy, pink eyes.
“Elliott, you remember your cousin, Bryce?”
Vaguely. Bryce was the child Tami had in high school, before she dropped out and moved to Wimbledon with Bryce’s father, a motocross hopeful. Elliott met him once when she was seven at the first and last Mitchell Family BBQ, and even then it was only for a moment.
She was awkwardly aware of their age difference. Elliott had yet to fit into her bra, while Bryce had a tattoo of Bach on his neck that poked out of his wrinkled Sex Pistol’s t-shirt. She smiled sheepishly at him. He made a peace sign with his fingers. With that greeting, the three set off through the swinging double-doors of the intensive care unit.
The atmosphere changed dramatically. The walls were the color of mint juleps, and framed desert scenes hung crookedly on their nails, but that couldn’t mask the omniscient presence of death that lingered behind ever gurney, leaned against every nurse’s station, and breathed down Elliott’s neck, fogging up her wire-rim glasses. It was a world of cold reality, far from the synthetic optimism of the bobbling Mylar balloons and perky Gerber daisies. It was a world of tears and moans and IV drips. There was no need to pretend in the ICU. No need to frost the fish.
For a minute, Elliott thought they had entered the wrong room; the woman in the bed looked nothing like the vivacious aunt who used to put on puppet shows in the garage with cooking utensils and old gym socks. But Bryce made a beeline for the bed and kissed the corpse of a woman on the forehead, making her pallid face twitch. Her usually brilliant hair was ruddy and limp, eyes closed, veins prominently violet through her paper-white skin.
Elliott stood at the edge of the bed like a specter, hovering silently while her cousin and mother spoke in frantic whispers. She was starting to wonder why she had even come until she sensed Tami’s hand shakily moving towards her own, her index finger overlapping onto Elliott’s pinky, a haunting smile forming at her lips. Tami and her niece stayed like that for several minutes, until she started to twist from side to side in obvious discomfort, wobbly hand reaching to grab the rim of the plastic bowl on the nightstand.
It all happened very quickly, Bryce had pushed her out into the hallway before her aunt began to retch, shutting the door behind her. She leaned against the wood railing, staring at the closed door, slowly breathing in the stale, clinical air. She tried to cry, but nothing happened. This frustrated her even more.
After a while Bryce came out, brow beaded with pearls of sweat. He clicked the door shut behind him. He looked down the hall both ways before settling his eyes on his cousin.
“So, your mom is gonna watch mine for a while, just while she sleeps.”
“Okay.”
“Wanna get some grub?”
“What?”
“Food. Do you want some food?”
“Oh. Sure.”
He had a Jeep, a big black Jeep with no top on it. Elliott stared at the monster while he unlocked the passenger side door.
“Can this drive through water?”
“Probably. Not like a lake or anything. But big puddles, sure.”
They drove without saying a word. Bryce immediately jerked the knob that controlled the volume of his custom sound system to the right, prompting the netted speakers to explode with music Elliott was sure her mother wouldn’t approve of. She passed the time on the freeway by counting all the words she wasn’t allowed to use at home.
Bryce dropped his cousin off in front of a quaint beach house off of Tea Street, paralleling the famous Tea Street Beach. Tami used to take her there when she was little with her mother, when they sort of got along, or tolerated each other, at least.
“The key is under the mat. I gotta grab something from a buddy for dinner, there’s not really much in the house, you know?”
Elliott nodded. As she turned to face the house, she heard the wheels of the Jeep screech along the asphalt as he sped down the quiet residential street. The house, even without the loving touch of its mother, looked truly lovely in the late-morning sun. It was a fairy-tale cottage, sort of like the ones her mother painted when she wasn’t teaching. Cornflower blue hydrangeas lined the cobblestone walkway leading to the driftwood front door. Copious amounts of glinting silver wind chimes jingled a merry melody as they danced in the sea breeze. She could taste the salt on her tongue. Elliott bent down, retrieving the key. As she unlocked the door, her eyes fell on a small heart carved in the wood, right over the handle.
“From a lover,” Tami had answered one morning over their chai tea. “He carved that into my door the night after he professed his love for me.” Her eyes were alight with mischievous fire, remembering. Elliott smiled; hoping one day a lover would carve a heart in her front door too.
Tami rented the little beach cottage from an elegant elderly woman she met teaching art at the YMCA down the street. She had gone on holiday to North Umbria six years ago and simply never came back. She let Tami stay in her house just in case she did decided to return, but they both knew it was terribly unlikely.
Tami would lean over the table when she told this story again and again, and whisper playfully, “She met a man! An Italian man…can you imagine?”
Elliott could not. She was nine.
She would always ask her to imitate Dame Marie, as she was called. No one could do impressions like Elliott’s aunt. She did them the right way, with facial expressions and accents and props. She would wrap a pashmina around her shoulders and take great strides around the parlor, throwing her voice and clicking her French-manicured fingernails on the Formica countertops, name-dropping and making her niece roar with laughter.
Sometimes they would samba. They would samba around the armchairs and umbrella stands, sambaing through the kitchen and the backyard and the bathroom and the garage, and they would form a Congo line, just Tami and Elliott. Her mother had always frowned when they danced. Her mother always seemed to be frowning when she was around her sister.
“You’re going to get yourself into trouble,” she would say, glowering. “More trouble,” she would add.
Tami would flick her wrist into the air. “Lighten up, Lee Ann,” she would say, with a lighthearted smile.
Elliott didn’t understand what her mother meant by trouble, at least not until that morning, when she saw her fearless aunt vomit into a bucket with tubes sticking out of her side, hooked up to boxes that beeped. Trouble.
The front door slammed open, startling Elliott. Light streamed into the dank house. Bryce walked towards her out of breath, a delighted look on his face. He thrust his arms outwards towards her; pushing a two squirming, clicking creatures at her face. She involuntarily recoiled.
“Lobster!” He proclaimed proudly. “Buddy owed me a favor. We’re eatin’ somethin’ gourmet tonight!”
Elliott looked at the prizes closer. They were indeed lobsters, two soggy, scarlet lobsters double-wrapped in butcher’s paper. Their feelers waved every which way, desperate to collect their bearings out of the comfort of the tank. Their massive claws were rubber-banded shut, green elastic handcuffs for the innocent captives.
Bryce left the room; she heard the bathtub water start to run, followed by two distinctive splashes. He returned, a smile on his face.
“So, what do you like it with? Melted butter, or somethin’ a bit more high-brow?”
“Sorry?”
“For the lobster.”
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“You’ve never had lobster?”
She looked at ground, embarrassed of her own inexperience. He in turn threw his head back in laughter.
“Oh, man! How deprived are you? I spose there’s not enough room between your bran muffins and lentil soup to fit in lobster, eh?”
She smiled a little, and followed him to the kitchen. He was filling a deep pot with water with one hand, and rifling through Dame Marie’s spice rack with the other. Elliott wondered if he was thinking about Tami as much as she was.
“Are you scared?”
“What?” His head was in a drawer, looking for metal tongs.
“Are you scared about…about your mom.”
Bryce straightened up. He wouldn’t look her in the eyes, instead he chose a spot next to her ear, and focused on it intensely, clicking the tongs together.
“Oh. Yea, I guess. But I mean, it happened before, you know? And she got out of it. They told us then there was no hope either. I don’t think I really believe the doctors at this point.”
“Why didn’t she stop the first time?”
“Stop doing drugs?” He smiled a little, and his smile turned into a chuckle. Elliott once again felt the stark difference in their ages. “You can’t just…you can’t just stop doing drugs like that.” He snapped his fingers together for effect.
“Doesn’t it bother you that she does them at all? I mean, she’s your mom, and…”
“I love her the way she is, it doesn’t matter what she does. Not everyone’s life is perfect, Elliott.” His voice had lost its congenial warmth.
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“I need to get the lobsters.”
Elliott stood, swaying on the spot as he whisked by her, her shame rising red-hot to her cheeks.
“When Mom would get us lobster, we would always have a lobster race.”
Bryce had returned to the room empty-handed. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes sullen. She hadn’t noticed the purple rings under his eyes before.
“A lobster race?”
“Yeah. We would make a track around the house, like a racetrack, and we would, you know, race them.”
“What did the winner get?”
He grinned. “Freedom. We would take him down to the beach and set him loose.”
She needed no more convincing. The two cousins began clearing a track in the cluttered house, moving end tables and piano benches, tearing the cushions off the couches. Books became barriers, as did crystal clocks and buckets of paint. Bryce told stories about his mother while Elliott listened. Sometimes she laughed, sometimes she nodded, but most of the time she just remembered. At that moment, the only Tami that existed was the one who sambaed in the kitchen and blew the whistle at the start of the great lobster race.
“ When Aunt Tami gets better, we should have another one,” Elliott grunted as she pushed her weight against a cabinet, urging it to move. “I’m sure Mom would let me. She feels really bad about being…what’s it called? Estranged. We can come over every weekend, and we can race lobsters.”
“Maybe crabs too. We can have them fight each other. Mom would like that.”
The two stood back against the wall and admired their creation. The track started at the bathtub, where the two oblivious lobsters bubbled gleefully in the lukewarm water. It followed out the door to the living room, curled around a chintz armchair, paralleling the oak coffee table, littered with travel magazines and Tami’s art journals. It then traveled through the kitchen, under the knotted dining table, and finally into the den, where a shoelace lay across the brown shag carpeting marking the finish line.
“Which one do you want?” Bryce was holding the squirming lobsters.
Elliott chose the smaller one, and the crustacean athletes were placed on the worn bathmat, spilling water all over the linoleum. Bryce put his fingers to his mouth and whistled as if he were calling a cab. The race was on. The cousins then prodded their lobsters which reluctantly started to move, blindly bumping into the towers of antique books and shipping boxes collected from the garage. They screamed like parents at a little league game from the bathroom to the living room to the kitchen. Bryce’s lobster seemed to be edging ahead, but it was difficult to tell; they kept knocking over the pillow-walls with their flailing claws.
The lobsters were rounding the den when the phone rang. The shrill ring pierced through the air, giving Elliott’s arms; already wet from wrestling her sodden lobster to the starting line; little oval goose bumps. In a way they both already knew, even before Bryce picked up the receiver. She stood perfectly still, keeping both her eyes on her cousin as he listened intently to the voice on the other side of the phone. His lips pursed together as he silently nodded, eyes closed tightly. She felt the color drain from her face.
Had she been paying attention, Elliott would have noticed that her lobster, although smaller in stature, was far craftier than her cousin’s. She had taken the initiative and knocked over a goose-down pillow so she and her mate could escape the racetrack. The two were headed for the open front door, the door with Tami’s heart on it. They were heading for the front door, heading for the ocean, heading for freedom.