Year of the Chick (book 1 in the "Year of the Chick" series)

Chapter Twelve

I entered the kitchen with a cautious set of baby steps.

Those are not real estate contracts on the table. They are not, they are not, THEY ARE NOT.

“Romi, come in here and sign these contracts!”

Fuck!

I was five feet away from the kitchen table, but I didn’t move another inch. My thoughts were a bit of a blur, but I knew if I stood there frozen, I wouldn’t be able to reach far enough to grab the pen. Which meant I wouldn’t be able to sign the forms, which meant that everything in life would stay the same.

“Come in here,” my father repeated, as he straightened the collar of his shirt. “You have to sign these forms in seven different places.” His voice was leaving traces of annoyance in the air. “And did you even hear us when you walked inside? We sold our house back home! And we found the perfect house over here!” His annoyance disappeared, to be replaced with boyish glee.

“And it’s huge!” exclaimed my mother as she giggled. Since when did my mother giggle?

I had never seen my parents as happy as they seemed right now. So why did I feel like I had thirty days to live?

Do I even HAVE thirty days to live?

It was best to hear the facts, so I dropped my big satchel on the hardwood floor, and moved towards the kitchen just an inch at a time. “How did you sell the house so fast?” I was getting too close to the contracts now, so I slowly inched back.

“Someone came to see our house a few days ago,” said my father, as he folded the corners of the pages I needed to sign. “And they loved it so much, they made an offer on the spot. And their mortgage was approved this morning!” He looked up and smiled at my stoic face.

“What about this house you bought? I haven’t even seen it and you already decided? And how can you afford a new house, you haven’t even sold THIS house!” I raised my hands at these walls, these walls that had enabled so much drunken misbehavior.

“What is there to decide? It’s big, it has a beautiful yard, and it’s in a quiet neighbourhood. I couldn’t believe it was still for sale. A miracle!”

If by miracle he meant a horrifying twist of fate.

“And remember, you girls better help with the mortgage payments!” My mother narrowed her eyes as she looked my way. Was she staring at my face or the dollar sign in front of it?

“Yes, and that’s why you girls have to co-sign the contract.” My dad grabbed the shiny brass pen and stabbed the air in my direction. “Go ahead, sign!”

At the risk of painting the kitchen walls with vomit, I opened the fridge and pretended to look for a drink. The instant cool-off helped, but I still hadn’t asked the ultimate question that would seal my fate (or coffin).

“So...when are we moving?” My face was now deep inside the fridge, to hide myself in case I started weeping.

“Our buyer wants us out by August fifteenth,” said my father. “So two more months!”

So it wasn’t thirty days until the death of my soul, but a much more forgiving sixty-one. Was there some poison in this fridge that I could take?

“What are you doing in the fridge?” said my mother.

I’d had my head inside the fridge for ages, and for some odd reason I was clutching a carton of eggs.

“Nothing!” I closed the fridge and sped right out of the kitchen.