Mom laughs along with George who just said he hates kids right out loud.
“Toni and I are kids, too you know,” I want to stand up for myself, “kids who are sitting right in front of you if you haven’t noticed.” But instead, for some terrible reason, I laugh along with him, too. I don’t know why I do it except that “I hate kids” is the first thing he’s sort of said to me since he moved in a whole half hour ago. And so I should encourage him. After all, it’s a start.
Watching TV is next on the agenda, the best way to avoid after-dinner conversation. With a static ‘chink,’ the TV comes to life, somehow sucking more of mine away. I remember when it used to feel different after dinner. A long, long time ago my Mom and Dad would take us outside in the grass to digest our meals.
Me and Toni would sit still on their laps after supper, filled with food and feeling full of life. Sometimes when the light of midsummer still blanketed our late evening neighborhood, they’d carry us on their shoulders to the playground and push us on the swings for a spell. I just could feel their hearts wide out in the open in those days. But like I said that was a very long time ago.
George stops clicking the remote control at the worst possible place -- a crime scene with dark crimson blood on dirty city streets, death brought to life by spinning blue police lights. I look at Mom with wide eyed anxiety, waiting for her to tell him to change it.
George, change the channel, will ya?
I try to send the message telepathically.
George?
Mom?
George?
I focus my eyes on the bits of lint and string that have landed on the carpet since I last vacuumed so I don’t have to see the people in terror on the screen. But the TV just seems to boom louder when I look away. The screaming and cussing swallow up any possible feeling of peace that the room had the chance of giving me. And the hum of the dramatic violins and high pitched horns are sure hints that more atrocities are yet to come. My heart pounds hard. I close my eyes, cover my ears.
