Disclaimer: This is part of an original work of fiction. It's mine. Don't steal it. Thanks. Enjoy.
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A long-standing tradition between my parents and I is to wait up until midnight before important days- Christmas, New Year's, birthdays, et cetera, et cetera. So it's really no surprise that when I get home from Emily's house with bits of leaves and grass in my hair at half past eleven, my parents are still awake and watching TV.
While I boil some water for peppermint tea- my favorite right now- dad channel surfs and lands on an old rerun of Wheel of Fortune. He loves the show, though neither my mother nor I care for it at all. But we let him watch it, and we sit with him, keeping ourselves occupied in our own ways: my mother, with her May edition of Better Homes and Gardens; and I, with a cup of tea and my thoughts.
As the credits roll, my dad's worn-out digital watch lets out a feeble beep!, marking the hour, the day, and the beginning of the month of May.
"Happy seventeenth, Auggie," says my dad, holding out a thin, badly wrapped one-by-two-and-a-half foot rectangle he's just gotten out from behind the couch.
"Aw, thanks dad."
I take it from him and feel it for a second. It's a frame of some sort. I unwrap it and gasp, both hands over my mouth as I gaze in unbelief at the gift on my lap.
"Oh, my God."
"Do you like it?" asks my dad, looking afraid that he's done something wrong.
"Dad! How could I not like it?! I love it!" I say, beaming without taking my eyes off of it. "It... It's just... It's..."
It's an original poster from Alfred Hitchcock's 1963 classic suspense/horror film "The Birds". It features a picture of Tippi Hedren, the leading lady, screaming as she is attacked by a small murder of crows. As well, a picture of Hitchcock himself stands on the left side, under a quote saying "...remember, the next scream you hear may be your own!". It's protected by a thin black frame and a sheet of glass.
It's perfect.
"Dad, it's perfect."
"Really?" he asks. "I wasn't sure if Hitchcock was your style, so..."
"He's absolutely my style, don't worry," I say, carefully placing the poster on the couch next to me and rising to hug him lightly. When I break the hug, my mother smiles sweetly up at me.
"August, dear, happy birthday."
And she hands me a flat, carefully wrapped rectangular box. It's a clothing box- the type that girls behind the counters at department stores will gladly fold and wrap a newly bought shirt or sweater into, if you ask.
I hold back a sigh, because I know she tried. She's given me clothes.
"Oh, thanks, mom."
I take the box from her and move back to my couch where I unwrap it, making sure that I tear the wrapping paper into messy bits, just because I'm sure she thought that this year, I'd be too old to still do so with glee.
When I get down to the box, I see that it's from one of the big department stores in Baton Rouge that she always mentions when she talks about how much she loved to shop as a teenager. It's just another thing that she and I don't have in common, but I give her a lopsided smile anyway.
"Ooh," I say, keeping most of the sarcasm out of my voice, "Fancy."
"Yes, I thought it might be time for you to have something really nice in your wardrobe," she responds.
YOU ARE READING
Tea For Two
Humor"Just wondering, Shoemaker. Are you going to tell your parents? Or should I?" When I was little, I was terribly afraid of heights. One day, in a bleak attempt to rid me of this, my father climbed onto the roof of our one story house with me on his b...
