“That chair,” I address George with uncharacteristic frankness “is not made for sitting. Ask Mom.” Mom has never even let herself sit in that chair.
Ignoring my warning, George lands down hard on the delicate white chair like he’s just hopped on a horse saddle. Even Toni and I have good enough manners to know you don’t mount an expensive antique chair like it’s a horse, especially when everyone else around you has to sit in old rickety chairs with wobbly legs.
“Mom!” I yell, telling on George. I think I deserve to have that chair more than George does, because I would treat it so delicately it would last forever like antiques should.
“Jenna go sit down.” Mom’s tone is agitated. Her patience is getting short.
I guess I should be happy for the wobbly chair I have to sit in now. It’s at least one step up from where I sat all through elementary school.
“Why are you sitting in a high chair?” I’ll never forget how Theresa Boggs silenced everyone at my tenth birthday party with her direct question. Back then I was the new kid in school. And my twelve closest classmates were waiting for my answer. So naturally I did the only thing I could do. I jumped up out of the chair like I wasn’t sitting in it.
“I don’t know,” I said touching the back of my neck with my right hand, crossing my legs together. Up until that day, I thought every ten year old kid sat in a high chair at home. I thought it was an honor to be so small that you still fit in your original high chair. Mom said so.
Part 2 | (Part 3)
