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“Melvin,” my mother said, “that is going to be extremely humiliating.”
“Well, she certainly can’t go on pretending she’s going to be joining the army with some Hollywood hotshot.”
“The sequel isn’t going to be as much about the army as it will be about sea creatures,” I corrected him.
“Chelsea, what are you even talking about?”
“I can’t tell the truth. Then the older girls will go back to calling me a dog.”
“Listen to me,” my father screamed. “We’ve been over this before. If those girls are going to make fun of you because of the kind of car your father drives, then they’re not worth your time anyway.”
“That’s nice, Dad,” I told him. “But it doesn’t matter if they’re not worth my time or not, it’s a lot more pleasant going through the halls at school not getting growled at.”
“How many times do we have to tell you that spending money on material things is not important? What is driving around in a Mercedes or a BMW going to teach you?” he asked.
“I dunno,” I said, still clinging to my mother. “That I want a Mercedes or a BMW?”
“Chelsea,” my father repeated, “you cannot just make up lies.”
“You lie all the time,” I reminded him, and then ran behind my mother and wrapped my arms around her waist to shield me from any impending wrath. “You tell all the people who call about your cars that they run great, or they have no leaks, or that that they’re in mint condition. Half of them need to be jump-started on a daily basis.”
“Listen to me, you little mouthpiece. I am the father,” he said, heading over in our direction while I buried my face in my mother’s ass. “You are nine years old and you are going to have to do what I tell you for the next nine years, whether you like it or not. As long as you’re living under this roof. Do you understand me?”
I wanted to tell him that I had no problem looking in the want ads for an apartment to sublet, but knew the reality of me getting my own place was months away.
“Yes,” I said, in order to avoid getting b*tch-slapped. “I understand.”
“That’s enough, Melvin,” my mother told him. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you some porridge.”
Even though porridge is a perfectly appropriate meal for a bear, I couldn’t resist asking my mother if we were having Goldilocks over for dinner. My father was still in earshot as he headed over to the living room couch, where he normally took his three o’clock feeding. It took one look from him to send me airborne in the direction of the staircase, which I took two steps at a time.
Once safely inside my room, I weighed my options. I could either tell the truth to all the kids at school and endure that embarrassment, or go for the more palatable option—enroll myself in a performing arts boarding school.
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