to the moon. /m.c./

f i f t y

"May I please have the potatoes?" I asked. My mother passed them across the table and glanced at Michael. "Thank you," I said, scooping them out and letting them fall onto my plate.

"So, Michael, how is the rockstar life treating you?"

Michael chuckled, swallowing his food. "It's been really great. We've got some really great fans--"

"Really great," I added. "Like groupies, I bet."

Michael looked down at me, shaking his head. "Not for me, no. In case you didn't know, I've got a girlfriend." 

I took some of the potatoes I had and, making it look like an accident, flung some in his face. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" 

"Sure you are," he muttered. "Uh, I'm going to go to the bathroom and clean myself up. I'll be right back."

Michael walked away and I sighed, eating in silence. When Michael came back, he sat down and remained silent. 

"Michael, you play the guitar, correct?" Michael nodded, still chewing. "Would you be willing to teach me?"

"Mom!" I shook my head at her.

"It's fine, Mrs.--sorry, Meredith. I'd love to."

Michael took a sip of his beer and smiled at me awkwardly. "Have the two of you had sex yet?"

And just like that, my entire face was covered in beer. Michael's eyes were wide open as he stared at the three other people in the room. 

"Dad, please don't ask that kind of question," I said, wiping my face. "Especially at dinner."

"I'm taking that as a yes."

"Actually," Michael said, "we haven't."

I laughed. "We all know that's not true. Remember the time you got me drunk and then forced me to smoke?" My dad's eyes bulged out of his head and Michael shot daggers at me, pleading with me to stop talking. "It wasn't a real cigarette though, dad. It was marijuana."

My father stood up, enraged. "Josie had better be messing with me, Michael."

"She is! I don't know why she's lying!" Michael stood up as well and I grabbed his tie, pulling him back down as he gasped for air.

"Josie, calm down." 

"Fine," I said, settling myself in my seat. I licked my lips, finding the taste of beer to still be present. "Why don't you ask Michael more about his groupies?" I asked, venom in my tone.

Michael sighed, throwing his head back. "I don't have groupies."

And then he screamed.

"Oh, shoot. My hand slipped." 

Michael whimpered, staring at the fork in his leg. "Why?! I think I need to go to the hospital."

My mother glared at me. "Josie, take Michael to the hospital. Now. And apologise to the boy."