Jiff sucks!

I paid a hefty price for breaking off our date so early two weeks ago. The sky was a golden purple today, and the community improvement volunteers had come to Irch Court and painted the fading leaves pink. I cared for none of that, however. Even the sight of the newly-built bicycle airport, our senator’s pork contribution to our area, could not excite me since I am not a bicycle and can therefore never use that airport.

“I can’t believe Jiff did this to me again,” I was saying through clenched teeth as my best friend Juice, currently in her Native American phase, walked home from school with me. “He said he chopped his hands off.”

“I keep telling you, if you wore a flea collar with a heart tag--”

“I know, I know. ‘This never would have happened.’ Daddy!” We had reached my house and my dad was looking in the mailbox. “Thanks for making us walk home instead of waiting for us and giving us a ride.”

“Don’t you have anything better to say to me?” he asked.

“Yes. My boyfriend cheated on me again. Now he’s writing love letters to Cece. Can you beat him up?”

“Not while I’m reading my mail, Jolly.”

“If I twirl my hair till I pull it off, then will you?”

Dad didn’t respond.

“How about if I play with your collar?” I pleaded, flicking at the pointy ends of said collar. “Kill him, Daddy.”

“No, but I’ll hold the door for you and Juice. Come on inside.”

“Hi, Jolly. Hi, Mr. Rogers,” said the door. “Ow, don’t push me around so much!”

“Shut up, door,” said Dad. “Juice, why are you resting your chin on Jolly’s backpack?”

Juice didn’t respond, nor did she move her chin from its resting place as she followed me inside. When I turned around to see how funny and unrealistic she looked, my backpack mysteriously flew out from under her and she fell face first to the floor. After helping herself to her feet, she began to roll her eyes and they froze looking upward, as if she were suddenly trapped in a comic strip box. Mom came into the hallway to stare silently. I didn’t like the look on her face. She’s been wearing it ever since she went to an Age Bank conference last weekend to learn about the national push to donate age to those who needed it.

“Please stop chewing on your finger,” I said to Dad, trying to laugh off the entire previous conversation. “You know I hate it like Slurpies.”

“I can’t help it,” said Dad between nibbles. “I love eating flesh.”

“Well,” I giggled in panic, dragging Juice up the staircase, “munch away on flesh that doesn’t belong to Juice or me. Hey, look! Juice is kissing the air.”

She actually was kissing the air during her unrealistic post-fall trance, but Dad remained undistracted, holding up his index finger a la E. T. “Look, I bit my fingertip off.” He reached over Juice’s head to write an exclamation mark on the staircase wall above her. Sufficiently intimidated, Juice bowed her head and began to back down the stairs. “You two young ladies are going to be eaten, alive and uncooked, whether you like it or not,” Dad continued. “I will share your luscious flesh with your mother, and we will both become youthfully envigorated.”

Mom folded her arms and looked at me sideways as if to say, “Yeah, so there.”

My parents walked away in satisfaction at having put me in my place--I’m not sure how since they didn’t end up eating us. Left alone with Juice, I slumped down to sit on the steps and she followed suit.

“What does Mom have to do with this?” I asked. “She wasn’t even in our conversation.”
“Maybe if your Dad eats you, Jiff will suddenly realize that he truly loves you.” Juice smirked, patting me on the back.

I hate it when people smirk, but a good point is a good point.