Playing The Game

Sunday Church

  Back again!!

   Vote!

   Comment!

   Follow!

*

   "Avery, if you're not ready we're gunna be late!" Dad hollers.

   "Just a minute!" I shout back equally as loud.

   Mother always gets on my case if I don't appear damn near amazing for church.

   We are faithful Christians, we love our Lord. Every Sunday at eight in the morning we attend the local church, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. A place where the snoody women of this town constantly compare themselves and put their friends on a pedestal. Acting like the queen of England, who I'm sure is considerate and caring for those around her and not because she's supposed to.

   To them the larger your hat, the larger your faith. Along with your husband and the name he carries whether he is honorable in this town, in short words, his bank account. Southern women can agree on a single saying; the bigger, the better.

   I check my appearance in my full body mirror before I leave, I strive for what most call impossible- perfection. Lacey pink sundress with simple white heels. I left my honey blonde hair in loose curls tumbling down my back and moving with the smallest of motions. An assortment of bracelets, a necklace and earrings complete the look. I check my french manicure, yeah, still intact though I will be making an appointment. Nasty cuticles are not an option.

   Makeup wise I did a dab of shiver eye shadow and a smudge if eye liner. Also my favorite peach lip gloss and some blush. It's church, not a night club, light is best. The old timers there have a habit of using one teenage girl to compare the rest with and I refuse to be in that paring. Gossip such as that eventually reaches Mothers eavesdropping ear, best to dodge that bullet while I can.

   "Avery!"

   I grab my denim jacket and run out the door, I prefer Mothers anger instead of Dads. For Mother I know my way around that minefield but with Dad its a different story. With him I sense what he feels deeply, I am not used to him scolding me on a serious level.

   Flying down the staircase I meet my dad at the front door. We share a quick grin as the haunting click of heels approach. Mother steps out of the kitchen looking absolutely fierce as always with a large blue hat and dress to match. Its her sour expression and the way she arches her defined brows in distain that scares you. She must've sucked on a lemon.

   Dad sighs, "Whats wrong, dear?"

   Mother's judging eyes go over his plain jeans and football sweater, "You. Don't you realize people will be there?"

   "I do. People I've seen a million times."

   She stiffens, blood red upper lip twitching, "Our daughter is present, must you make such horrid examples for her?"

   "Avery is sixteen. She can think for herself by now I'd hope." Dad says in a dry tone.

   "We'll be late if we don't leave." I mumble. Mother intimidates me, around her I can never find my voice. When they start arguing like this it begins out as grumbled disagreements to Dad sleeping on the couch in his own damn house. Dad sticks up for me which I appreciate but I'd rather avoid pissing Mother off. The woman is hardly tolerable in a 'nice' mood.

   "Yes, can't have that. Speak up when you speak, its rude otherwise. Lift your chin also, that way you show that face I gave you. Men need to know your beauty and women need to know you're a threat. If not you won't last long." She then properly glides out to Dads grey Dodge truck.