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Lips pinched, I stare into the food processor as it struggles pitifully with the lump of seasoned vital wheat gluten I’ve just stuffed inside it. It’s Thanksgiving today. And it’s my job to make the tofurkey. So, needless to say, there will be plenty of textured soy protein to go around.
I am overwhelmed.
I am tired.
After talking with monster-Pollux last Wednesday, I awoke in a cold sweat, so I shut my thoughts off and went through the scripted motions and routines I’ve sworn by for years. I’ve been off work for one day, but with all the dodging questions about my student’s single father who is a vegetarian and prime marriage material it hasn’t felt like much of a vacation.
It’s only because of the constant bombardment and the fact today is the day I will see him for Thanksgiving that the things I’ve blocked out for just over a week are oozing through the cracks.
Unpack a box, he said.
That’s a bad idea.
I’ll probably knock them all over if I try to climb and reach the top one. I’m used to sloppy kids, but that’s why I have systems in place to maintain something akin to order in my own brain, life, and classroom. My supply closet is sectioned and tidy. Every single shelf and item is labeled. Even though the items aren’t labeled by what they are. No. They’re labeled by who.
Kids care about things with names.
Or, at least, kids care about things with names a little more than they care about things without names. I still have to sort my boxes about once a week while my littles half-do their own designated chores, but Marvin the glue stick always seems to find his way back home.
In conclusion, magic isn’t real, because if it is, the fae can’t lie, and if they can’t lie, Pollux told me I was fae, and I’m not fae. I have two perfectly normal parents and a letter of apology about Santa claiming they would never ever seek to lie to me again.
Also, sarcasm.
I am capable of sarcasm, and sarcasm is often full of lies.
Me being fae incorporates about as well as the lump of gluten in the food processor in front of me.
Meaning it doesn’t.
“Kasserole?” Dad pokes me in the shoulder after he pulls a tray of cookies out of the oven. “Are you all right, honey?”
I look at him. “Yeah, why?”
“Your face.”
I fix my face with a tried-and-true smile. “Sorry. Testing is soon, so I was just thinking about school stuff. ” See? Little white lie.
“When aren’t you?” Mom laughs. “Are you sure you’re not thinking about him. The him whose name we still don’t know?”
Because it’s a stupid weird name and you won’t be able to giggle about it to his face when he introduces himself.
Dad’s head shakes. “No, her expression wasn’t giving off love. It was suggesting murder. Maybe she was thinking about a love rival.”
My mother gasps and covers her mouth to hide her words, as though she’s not talking at full volume and I cannot hear her conspiring against me. “What should we do about a love rival, Aaron?”
“I’ll get the body bag.”
“Guys,” I protest, adding a single awkward laugh for good measure. “There’s no love rival. There’s no love. Please don’t embarrass me in front of a parent. If you make things awkward, he may take my little out of school.”
Hands still tucked into the pair of oven mitts I made for him last Christmas, Dad crosses his arms. Side-eyeing my mother, he says, “I think our only child is embarrassed by us.”
“I think so, too.”
“Imagine that. We aren’t even the ones wearing a turkey costume.”
My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
“So many frills,” Mom tuts, eyes fixed on my clothes.
