This is
our first year
at Jeff's
parents' house
for Thanksgiving.
Last year,
we took him,
the step-siblings
and unborn Jason
to my grandpa's.
I haven't really
interacted with
Jeff's family
much.
Whenever
the step-siblings
visit their
extended family,
I find
a friend
to hangout with.
I met them
at the wedding,
what other
interaction
do we need?
Dinner is
even more
awkward
than I expected.
I'm in pain
so I'm not
exactly
the happiest person
at the table.
I hope
and one asks
what I'm
grateful for,
because I doubt
Ibuprofen
and long naps
are going to
impress
Grandma Jeff.
I get
interrogated
as soon as
Jeff's mom—
who's a
stereotypical
pink flannel apron
cookies on
the counter
grandma—
notices
that I've eaten
a slice of turkey
(dripping in juice,
dark meat,
absolutely
delicious),
half a roll
(fluffy,
already buttered),
and a
two spoonfuls of
cranberries
(they don't taste
canned).
This lady
is a fantastic
cook,
and I wish
I could
stuff myself
and ride home
more bloated
than I've ever
been.
It shows up
my grandpa's
for sure.
Not that
anyone would ever
tell that grouch
he was less than
112% steller.
I go to
explain about
my condition,
my face starting
to tic.
I chose the spot
in our
designated family
area
as far away
from her
as soon as
I found out
she did
the cooking.
Grandma Jeff
glowers at me
from across
the dining room.
Quinn catches
my eye from
the other side of
the table.
Grandma Jeff had been
asking her
about
musical theater
and last month's
field trip.
I'm sure
Quiana,
with her
traveling
volleyball team
was next,
followed by Sam
and then
his cousin
he's pretending
to listen to.
Quinn is
shaking her head,
a threat looming
in her eyes.
She doesn't want
anymore of
her attention
rolling over
to me.
I make up
an excuse about
feeling sick,
which sends
Grandma Jeff
into a flurry.
She demands
to know
my symptoms,
and I laugh
internally
as I pretend
my cough
is from
a cold
and not
a pulmonary disease.
Quinn is not
satisfied with my
attempt to
return the attention.
By this time,
Quiana is
glaring at me, too,
Grandma Jeff has
stood up
to whip me up
a remedy,
and Mom is
staring at me,
wondering why
I lied.
YOU ARE READING
Remember; You Have the Universe
Teen FictionCover by kyromaniak Everyone wants to be different. I just want to be like everybody else. ---- Seventeen-year-old chronically ill Emma has traded dreams of flying into space for, "Support Therapy," aka, "The Dying Kids Group," and Student Council...
