MISC «morose! morose! morose!»

XXIV. (rewritten)

XXIV.

THE CHILDREN DO NOT take after the mother.

In case of Eleanor Penn, it came as a form of relief. Like religion. Lady Penn developed faith in her abilities to leave her oldest daughter in the middle of, well, anywhere. Yacht parties, charity functions, PTA - you got it.

It confused the other two, who held onto her either arms like she could make the red sea part.

Knowing Eleanor, most probably true.

Eleanor Penn owns a head so bright and made of pale gold. Her eyes, feline. Her walk, undaunted. The way she spoke to her mother, well, toxic. She was only four feet, although figuratively - she was inches larger. "I'll be studying in my room, in case you need anything, mother."

"I'll be dying," comes the reply. "In case you need anything, wretched girl."

—

The most vexing task, perhaps, is to educate the young male called Westerly Penn.

Eleanor peered over her shoulders. "Why does your Fox begin with a P?" She smirked. "Isn't that pox? Kind of like pollen."

She heard a bang and became certain her brother collapsed. His table was much spacious - well - the ancient belief a man's education is of more value.

"This is hard! Why are we doing this! This, this-"

"Writing."

"Yes writing! Why do we gotta?" Here we go again.

Eleanor continued messing with the Oxford thesaurus. She had little time to see him pacing in circles, getting mad over linguistics.

"Why can't we just talk? Why need letters? Why can't you say it yourself? Who you fooling?"

Some days, Eleanor Penn feels grateful that she doesn't have to deal with Lady Penn. One less person, one less antic.

—

For lunch they ate grilled cheese and tomato soup bake casserole, rosé from the other night no one asked for, lentil veggie soup, completed with flan.

"Can I have the chocolate flan, mommy?" Spoke a voice, Eleanor imagined the source to be the fork. "Of course, my lovechild." Or the knife.

But of course, it had to be Normani Penn. Lady Penn hoisted her up and set her down on lap, affectionately. Momentarily, Eleanor yearns for the same warmth, the coziness.

Then it's over.

Because, well, Normani Penn has the esophagus of a flute - anything with a narrow, stocky passage really. Only air could get in. "Nora, are you okay?!" Wes queried.

"Don't ask her that! Get her water! Somebody get her water! Geez!" Calm down, mother.

Eleanor politely excused herself. Vomit on the table certainly does a lot to one's appetite. For that, Eleanor would be addressed as the bitch for the rest of the week.

—

Eleanor is eight years old. Wes is too.

"Ella?"

"Yes, Wes?"

They have a swing. A broad one. A two person swing, although the rocking is done by Wes mainly. "Do you know when father's coming?"