The Living Statue

8.

That night my family decided we should have a family dinner at one of father's favourite restaurants, due to my sisters unexpected visit. She has been living with her boyfriend for the past few months, in some godforsaken cottage in the English countryside. Why? Only God knows. And my sister, but she's not exactly the brightest, most reasonable person out there, so I wouldn't trust her on that one. Around the same time my Arabella left, I moved out of my parents' appartment, which was such a pity considering I would have the jacuzzi my sister and I shared all to myself. Then again, I did get rid of her loud snoring and mawkishly over-sentimental sessions over the phone she had with her boyfriend, so I guess it's a win-win situation. Arabella was never the girl for the countryside, but I guess her boyfriend was a pretty good manipulator. Apparently, they ought to get married at the end of the year, something I wouldn't have expected to happen for a long, long time. Not when it comes to my sister anyway, a retired high-school prom queen and a party animal.

My family was already there once I arrived at Momo's, sitting at our usual table in the remote corner next to the window. As soon as I reached their range of vision, my mother and sister gave me a disapproving look, as if they had just seen a thresome unfolding in the middle of the restaurant. And no, it was not because I was dressed like Britney at the 2002 VMAS. No, my floral dress and black Dr Martens were simply outrageous for their upmarket, profined fashion taste.

I tell you what, they looked like an infamous evil Cinderella sisters in their uptight, grandma-like dresses. So I guess the dislike was mutual.

Dad, on the other hand, seemed happy to see me, so I forced a smile and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. The female part of the family, though, didn't earn its kisses. I promised myself not to make a scene because of my father. Otherwise, I'd think about providing them with a good stripper dance, for all their stiff, Methuselah acquaintances present, just for the fun of it.

I placed both of my hands on the table, giving them the biggest, brightest, fake smile I could muster. "Well, what did I miss?!"

"Nothing honey, what would you like to drink," dad gestured towards the tall, worm-thin waiter towering over our table like a freaking Eiffel tower.

"Ah there you are," I exclaimed cheerfully, glancing up at the waiter. "I would like a bottle of Mas de Gourgonnier."

Okay, maybe I won't exactly be the ultimate Goody Two-shoes tonight. I have to get on their nerves at least a little. It's in my blood.

My mother and sister exchanged puzzled, uncomfortable glances, batting with their lashes like eerie, porcelain dolls. Mr Eiffel looked as if I had just offered to work off the aforementioned stripper dance. Even my father squirmed in his chair.

"A w-whole bottle. Just for you, Miss?" The worm-thin fellow asked, his bushy eyebrows twitching in confusion.

"Why yes, my alcohol tolerance is very high Sir. You see, unlike my sister over here, who was rather famous in high-school for her vomiting sessions in the bathroom -"

"Stop it," Arabella hissed into my ear, nudging her elbow into my ribs. Wide grin spread over my face.

"Ah, how inconsiderate of me. I shouldn't tell off my sister's secrets like that," I waved my hand uncommittedly. "My bad." Then I turned to Mr Eiffel, "Go on, what are you waiting for. My bottle will not magically appear. Unless you have wine with little legs and cute yellow shoes?"

Dead silence wafted through the thin air, hovering over the table like Sword of Damocles. At last, Mr Eiffel cleared his throat and said: "No, Miss, certainly not. I will bring your drink right away."

I gave him my sweetest smile. "That's what I thought."

"What has gotten into you?! Come to your senses Miss, or -"