A/N: Guys, this is fiction.
I hate getting dolled up, but I’m wearing a dress today for Mark. It’s the only thing I own that’s black.
Normally on Saturdays I sleep until nine, roll out of bed, and pull out my Last Supper panoramic puzzle box. I don’t much like puzzles – I lost most of the pieces years ago – but it’s the perfect hiding spot for my favorite t-shirt. It’s got a picture of Jim Morrison, the one that reminds me of Jesus. Mark really likes Jim Morrison, too, but he doesn’t remind Mark of Jesus. Nothing reminds Mark of Jesus. Mark says we’re going to go to France together one day and visit Jim Morrison’s grave. I’ve never been to France before.
But this morning, real early, I think, my phone was hissing and shaking under my ear like it was time to get up. But time to get up doesn’t happen until nine, and I was confused until I saw the little envelope in the corner of the screen. The only person who sends me texts is Mark, so I opened it, even though I was tired.
The writing in the text was oddly formal, not like Mark at all. Mark’s white, but he likes to speak in Ebonics, especially around adults. There aren’t many black people around here, so Mark taught himself Ebonics from these language tapes he found on the internet. It drives Mr. Cohen, Mark’s dad, nuts. Mr. Cohen went to an Ivy League school and whenever Mark says “dawg” or “G” Mr. Cohen’s rheumy eyes squint and cross, his face flushes purple and he shakes his hairy knuckles and asks “Gee dash Dee” why he wasted his hard earned money on private school just so his son could become a hoodlum. This always amuses Mark, and he corrects Mr. Cohen: “It’s ‘from the hood,’ Pops, not ‘hoodlum.’ ” Mark hates his dad. I can’t say I like him too much either; Mr. Cohen always refers to me as “the Shiksa” when he thinks I can’t hear. I asked Mark what it meant once, but he just told me not to let Pops get me down. He said it wasn’t actually an insult, but Mr. Cohen’s lips purse like he swallowed a lemon whenever he says it, the same way they do when he’s calling Mark a hoodlum or the Neighbor Lady a bitch. Mr. Cohen wants Mark to marry a Nice Jewish Girl.
The text asked me to come pay my respects at the funeral this afternoon, and then extended an invitation to “sit shiva” at the Cohen home. Today is Saturday, my favorite day of the week, so I didn’t really want to go. Sundays I’m at church for practically the whole day, and on the weekdays Mom has me on a strict schedule from 8 a.m. when we sit down to breakfast and read the morning proverb ‘til 10 p.m. when I’m in bed. It’s the same thing every day – chores until 9:30, math and science, break for lunch, then English and history. 5 until 6 is “downtime,” where I can either read the new book recommended by Mom’s Christian book club, or I can watch TV. It used to be that I could only watch the 700 Club, but Mom bought Dad a subscription to the Faith and Family Network for last Father’s Day, so now we get seventy channels of Christian programming. I guess it’s an improvement. When I was little, I used to quickly switch to Nickelodeon whenever my parents left the room. But after Mom caught me watching the Simpsons, her eyebrows scrunched until they were vertical, and her mouth started forming words like “blasphemous” and “evil.” Luckily, by this point, I had already learned to tune out her shouting; it’s funny, really, her flapping lips remind me of a fish glubbing away. Dad figured out how to block channels after that.
After dinner, Dad reads a passage from the bible and we spend the next hour discussing it. We’ve gone through every passage seven times; I know them all by heart. Then Mom plays the piano and we sing a few hymns. Mom and Dad always seem to have a rousing time of it, at least. Once lights are out, at 10, I take out my headphones and CD player from my puzzle box and listen to the entire Doors album. This is my favorite part of the day, except for Saturdays. On Saturday, Dad goes hunting with “the boys”, and Mom goes off to meet the Church Ladies and talk about the Holy Bible and plan church stuff. I guess there’s a lot to say about Jesus because she doesn’t get back until 10 pm. Mom invited me to tag along once, but I don’t much like the Church Ladies. They look like clones of one another, with their highlighted hair pulled into tight buns and their matching pearl necklaces. And as Mark says, it looks like J. Crew threw up all over them.
