Gingerale 3

"Mom?" I croaked out, when I stepped across my threshold. I needed some T.L.C from my good old mommy. You'd think that I'd hold a grudge against her for that fateful day sixteen years ago when she named me, and I do. It's just deep down inside, festering deep inside a pit in my stomach. That's where I keep everything that angers me; Susie Webber, Tammie Shaw's Shawesome Extravaganza, Jason the Giant, things like that. Monica says all that will get me is a tumor and a shorter life expectancy. I say, who wants to live until they're old and senile anyways? Not me.

If you can believe it, this probably wasn't even the worst day I'd ever had. Though, I wasn't thinking this as I stumbled through the house in need of comfort from Eileen Sullivan.

"Mom? Mom, where are you?!" I wailed, on the verge of tears. This went on for a good five minutes before I let myself come to the realization that my mother wasn't home. I would have had a nervous breakdown, crawled into a corner and rocked myself back and forth until she came back, if it wasn't for the fact that I heard the garage opening.

I actually shrieked with relief. I, Ginny Sullivan, had shrieked. Never before had that happened. Ever. It was one of those super girly shrieks too. You know, the one preppy girls give when they see their friends, even though they just saw them twenty minutes aforehand. Shriek. Oh My Gosh! No way! Insert hair toss and mindless babble. I would have taken this as a bad sign, if I hadn't shuddered afterwards with disapproval of the shriek. That made me feel a little better. I probably would have sat down and called Monica about this latest development, (maybe the two falls that day actually did some damage) but I was too preocuppied with the fact that my mother was home.

I was so excited to see my mom, so I could fall into her arms and cry devastatingly, that I actually forgot the entire layout of my house. Trying to walk into the kitchen and go out to the garage, I ended up in our living room. Just trying to leave the living room, I ended up in the hallway closet. Ugh! Those two collisons definitely did something to my head. I had to force myself to stay still and think.

By then, I figured I might as well go inside the living room and wait for my mom to come in, seeing as how it might be easier. I headed toward the direction of the living room, and landed right into the kitchen. Oh, God! I'm going crazy! Instead of walking right outside using the garage door that's located in the kitchen, I plopped myself down on the floor, sure that if I went through that door, I'd end up in that closet again.

As I laid there, anxious for my mom to come inside, I let my mind wander. I mulled over everything that had been bothering me; the dull roar in my head from my two accidents, how cold the kitchen tiles were, and finally, Kevin. It surprised me how crestfallen I felt when I looked back and he wasn't there. He was probably embarrassed that he was actually going to come and talk to me. Great. Like I needed one more person to think I was a loser.

If, anything, I should have been the one ashamed. I mean, I'm the one who managed to do a face plant in front of the entire school. Way to go, me. If anything, this meant that he was a coward. Too afraid to approach me because of a little mishap with a microscopic table. Yes. If anything, I should spurn him. After all, he's just another person. No more important in my life than the kid who sits behind me in chemistry, or the girl in front of me in the lunch line. I don't know Kevin/Vinny Shore, therefore it will be easy to forget him.

Unfortunately, I didn't get to test my new resolve. That was because at that precise moment, the garage door swung open. I jumped to my feet, too fast, and got vertigo. I immediately collapsed under the weight of my body, and felt my head bang against the frigid kitchen tiles. Three. Three falls in one day can not be good for my health. I heard the sound of plastic bags being put down, and a flurry of movement. "Oh my--Ginny! Are you okay honey?"

This was not my mother. I was dumbfounded. She wasn't home after all. I did feel relief though. It gave me slight comfort to know that at least it was a voice I recognized. "Dad?" I moaned.

"Honey, are you all right? What happened?"

Wow. That's a loaded question. "Uh, I fell," I answered dumbly.

My father cannot stand stupidity. So, of course this was the wrong answer to give him. With his voice curt, he replied, "Yes. Ginger-Elle, I realize that. But the real question, is why?"

"Just clumsy, Dad. You know... just me being me," I offered.

Of course he didn't believe me, not for a second, but he helped me to my feet anyways. "Thanks," I muttered after I was up.

My dad, over his annoyance, just smiled and continued picking up the grocery bags he dropped when he came to help me. I stood there blinking. Blink. Blink. Blink. I finally understood that expression about seeing stars. I couldn't make them go away. Blink. My dad looked over to me after a while. I realized how crazy I must look to him, and just stopped blinking all together. Now my eyes were burning. Blink. Crap.

"Ginny...Are you sure you're okay? You're looking kind of weird," my dad asked concernedly.

"What do you mean Dad?"

He stared at me, hesitantly. "You keep blinking. And you look like a child that's lost in the mall. Like you're really confused and about to cry."

He could read me so well. But that was his job after all. See, Stanley Sullivan is a litigator. That's pretty much a fancy term for a lawyer who goes to court. He has to be persuasive, quick and able to read people very well. Which he is and he does. If you've ever seen my father in court you'd understand why Monica is actually afraid of him. That's because when we were twelve, my dad had to bring us to the courtroom; Mons parents were out of town and Mom was working.

My dad worked with a celerity that was so surprising to me, but most of all he was truly frightening. He was yelling and badgering, (though no one called him out for the badgering. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?) and the total opposite of how he is at home. Monica never met my father before that day, and since then, she tries to avoid him as much as possible. She's under the illusion that he'll yell at her, first chance he gets.

Before that day I'd never seen him in the court either but if I didn't know him, I'd be scared too. I'd probably fear him more than Jason the Giant. See, Jason the Giant can break your spine, while Stanley Sullivan Trial Lawyer can make you feel spineless. It's a toss-up. Stanley Sullivan, Litigator, is terrifying; Stan Sullivan, My Daddy, is gentle and sweet and goofy. Just don't lie to him. When you do, the lawyer side comes out. Not. Pleasant.

At the risk of breaking into tears, I told him, "I'm just having a real bad day Daddy..."

At this, his eyes changed from wary to questioning. "Daddy? Oh, no. Gin, what happened?"

Dang. I shouldn't have called him daddy. He knows from past experience that whenever I do that, I either want something, or am majorly upset. I couldn't talk to my dad about this. See there's this really hot guy right? Ugh.Too awkward to even think about. "Uh...It's girl problems..."

Now his eyes were back to hesitant. "Oh.Well...I, I'd love to help you Gin, But I've got...work to do...and...you know, maybe your mom would be of better help."

For a lawyer, he was a pitiful liar. I worked to make my voice dejected, which wasn't very hard. "Oh...okay...I guess I'll talk to mom."

"Yea, sweetie. I'd think that be best." With that, he kissed my temple and proceeded to put away groceries.

I wrapped my arms around myself as if I was cold, and began to pace around the kitchen. The only sounds being made, were from the soles of my dad's leather shoes scuffing the tiles, plastic bags being emptied and the occasional sigh from me whenever another minute passed and my mom wasn't home. Pace, pace, pace, sigh. Pace, pace, pace, sigh.

"DAMN IT!" Startled, I turned to face my father. Surely that didn't come from him. "Motherf--" he began.

"Dad!" I interrupted, sure that he would have finished that word.

He looked at me, a mix of sheepishness and anger contorted on his face. "Sorry Ginny, but look!" He raised his hands to show me a half-open egg carton.

"I don't get it. What happened?"

With a sigh, he opened the carton even more and tilted it so that I could see right inside. "Oh, no..." I mumbled. Inside, more than half the eggs were fully broken, and the other half, cracked. Now to most people, this isn't a big deal. A couple of eggs got broken, so what? But to my father, you might as well have thrown a rock through his window.

That's another thing about my dad. He loves to cook. He pretty much has to, seeing as how my mother can't make anything more complicated than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a bowl of cereal. Not that she has time to anyways. Ever since I can remember, my father has made every dish for this household. Except for those two days back when I was nine, and he went out of town. My mom did fix me Choco-Squares, my cereal of choice back then, though she didn't make it right, filling it with way too much milk and not enough squares. Since then, I've either prepared food when my dad was gone, or had something delivered. I've even tried to talk my father into banning my mother from the kitchen following The Toaster Incident of '01. I swear, I've never looked at toasters the same way after that. Something good did come out of that though; at least we know toasters are combustible.

I have to admit, all those years of cooking, has made my father excellent at it. He honestly enjoys it, sometimes I suspect, more than his job. I mean, he's not "So You Wanna be a Chef" material, but his food is amazing nonetheless. He's been going on and on about making some weird spaghetti for weeks, I guess today was the day.

"Man! I was really in the mood for Spaghetti alla Carbonara!" he groaned, his jet black hair falling into his green eyes.

"If you were making the spaghetti tonight, why'd you need eggs?"

At this, his mood lifted slightly. Any chance to talk about food, was a chance he'd jump at. "See Gin, for Spaghetti alla Carbonara..."

I tuned him out. I so wasn't in the mood to listen to all the merits of Spaghetti alla whatever. I nodded at what I thought were appropriate intervals, and worked at keeping my expression intrigued. When I sensed him coming to the end of the spaghetti talk, I nodded once more. "Oh," was all I said.

"Oh?" He eyed me doubtfully, figuring out that I probably wasn't listening to him.
"Sounds delicious. Sorry," I added quickly, glancing behind me at the door leading to the garage. I could've sworn I heard it opening.

My dad looked confused. "Sorry? Sorry for what?"

I turned my attention back to him. "You dropped the eggs trying to help me up after I fell."

"Oh, well, no use crying over broken eggs. Besides, you can't help it if your clumsy," he sighed, though I detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Nope, he definitely didn't believe my whole clumsy excuse; though if he pressed the issue, he'd have to enter Girl Territory, which my dad just doesn't do.

Lifting both arms above my head, I stretched my aching back, and combed my fingers through my curly red locks. These simple motions relaxed and distracted me, which was just what I needed at the moment. Aside from my dad's constant grousing about the broken eggs (something told me it would take him a while to get over that), it was quiet in the kitchen. In fact, it was too quiet. Suddenly I became all too aware of how silent it was. I could hear a clock ticking from my living room, my dad's low even breathing, and if I listened really closely I could hear some kids playing outside. Too quiet, way too quiet. I needed noise, loud noise to distract me and quiet the low murmur of thoughts buzzing in my head.

As I contemplated whether or not to say something to my dad, who was still complaining about the eggs, (get over it, why don't you?!) the most amazing, most remarkable, most perfect thing in the world happened: my mom came home.

"MOMMY!" I shrieked again. I knew that second shriek, meant that I was crossing over to the dark side, especially in mine and Monica's eyes, but I didn't care.

This time it really was my mom. All five feet and three inches of her. I honestly don't know where I got my height. My mom's only 5"3, and my father is barely 5"6, yet I currently stand at 5"8 and see no sign of stopping before I'm as tall as Jason Thyme. I do know, however, where I get my hair. My crazy, curly, bright red hair, coupled with pale skin with loads of freckles, I got from my mom.

I hate my hair. I absolutely despise my hair. If there is a word stronger than hate --which there probably is, and Monica will tell me next time I see her-- then that's how I feel about my hair. Monica is in love with my hair. She says it's quite becoming. Whatever that means. I just know that she wouldn't love my hair so much if it was her head that looked like it was on fire wherever she went.

For one thing, I can never get it straight. And when I try, it seems like there are even more curls in my head, which has to be impossible, considering there are hundreds of curls cascading down from my scalp. And another thing, is that my hair, just makes it that much easier for people to point me out. Hey! See the freak with the red hair? Yea, that's Gingerale! I know! she's such a loser. It's even easier to point me out, considering there is not one other person in our school, that is a redhead. Yea, I know. And my parents won't let me dye my hair. It's the least they can do after naming me Ginger-Elle! But no...I have to be proud. Proud to be a ginger named Ginger (Elle).

My mom, on the other hand, miraculously pulls it off, the red hair, I mean. She's so...cute. I don't know how else to explain it. Maybe it's because of how small she is, short and super petite, but everytime I see her I just want to give her a hug. That's how cute she is. Not to mention, her crazy, curly red hair looks considerably less crazy on her shoulders than it does mine. Even now, when it's windy and her lipstick is slightly smudged and her shirt is wrinkled beyond belief, you can't help but smile at how cute she is; even for a 38 year old.

"Man! Is it windy! Just about blew me away out there!" my mother, Eileen Sullivan, panted as she put the bags she was carrying on the kitchen table.

How could she be acting so normal? Did she not hear the distress in my voice? Did she not know how my world just ended a few hours before? "Mommy!" I tried again.

She rushed over to me, stretched her body to plant a kiss on my cheek, and rushed over to my father to do the same, except on the lips. "Hi, babies. How was your guyses days? Stan, how was that case with that banker man? Ginny, how was your Chemistry test? What's for dinner Stan? Are you going to make that spaghetti thingie?"

That's another thing I love about my mom, she has this way of talking a mile a minute and making you dizzy. Before I got a chance to answer her question, my dad piped in.

"No! I broke the...dang...eggs," he growled.

"Oh honey, I'm so sorry...Why did you need eggs for the spaghetti?" my mom asked, truly sympathetic.

As my dad explained, again, why he needed eggs for the spaghetti, I was feeling more and more rejected. Tossed in the corner, ignored and forgotten because of a few broken eggs.

"It's really quite delicious," my dad finished.

"Honey that sounds delightful, but even without the eggs I wouldn't be able to eat it."

At this, I perked up and actually listened. "Why not, mom?"

My mom looked from me, to my dad, then back to me again. "Well, I was at the bookstore, doing my monthly search, and I walked past the health and fitness portion of the store, and it came to me. I've decided to be a vegetarian! Isn't that exciting?"

It really wasn't. I wasn't too surprised at this. I mean, it's not every day your thirty-eight year old mother comes home and decides to be a vegetarian, but that's my mom for you. Rash and Impulsive. Monica describes my mother as capricious, which is the same as rash and impulsive, but apparently sounds better. Still, there had to be a reason, hopefully, not the one my father and I have been dreading.

I mentally cross my fingers and hesitantly question my mom. "Uhm...Why are you becoming a vegetarian?"

Now my mom's eyes glitter with satisfaction, obviously happy that I asked that question. She took a deep breath, and began, "Well, I was with Patsy today, you know, at the bookstore, and as we were browsing the bookshelves, a young woman, couldn't have been any older than twenty, twenty-one, was wearing this shirt. On it, was three simple words." She paused, most likely for dramatic effect. "The shirt said, MEAT IS MURDER. I thought it was just lovely, and went to ask her about it. Her name was Julie and she was a vegetarian, such a nice girl. Well, when I was done talking with her, I thanked her for her time, and it came to me." She paused again, though this time didn't finish her sentence.

I counted to five, and then tried to urge her to finish. "Uh, what came to you?"

"Why my next book, that's what. I'm calling it Meat is Murder, you know, like the shirt. I'm even naming the main character Julie." she answered, as though this should've been obvious.

And it totally was. I knew as soon as she announced she would be a vegetarian. This sort of thing happened a lot in my household. See, my mother is Eileen Sullivan, or better known to her fans as E.J. Maxxleigh. Renowned author of many famous murder mystery novels such as: Wet Paint, Expiration Date, Dead by Midnight, and soon to be author of Meat is Murder. Great. Except that it's not. I love my mom. But when she starts a new book...well...I want to strangle her.

It's not just the weird hobby she always picks up, this time vegetarianism, but it's the other things too. For instance, she's always...there. When I'm up, so is she, always click-clacking away on her laptop. I can't watch television because she always complains the T.V is too loud. Can't talk on the phone, because apparently I'm throwing off her energy. Can't even listen to our radio because she's always there, music blaring away. It's not even enjoyable music. Half of the time, it's classical, and the other half it's stuff that came out at least a decade before I was born. And even when I don't do these things, mind my own business, and stay in my own room, she's still there. Constantly asking me questions, making me read over every little thing she writes, then makes me sit with her for an hour and explain every single thing I thought about what she wrote. Needless to say, I hate it. There are not enough words to describe how much I hate it. I hate it four times more than I hate my hair. Yea. That much.

But when all of this is done, the product is amazing. This fact is irrefutable; my mother is a superb writer. Even though she bugs the hell out of me for months, Her books are super fun to read. The best part about them, are the ways she came up with them. See, all her inspiration stems from something so seemingly random, that it's perfection.

For example, Wet Paint came into creation, because of a simple day in spring. My mother and I were at a dog park, (don't ask why, because we don't even own a dog) and we had just gotten double scoops of Chocolate Scream Ice Cream from a vendor. We were walking along, enjoying our ice cream and the perfect weather, when all of a sudden two big German Shepards bound toward us, looking as if they were going to mow us over. We knew what they wanted, our sweet, yummy, chocolate ice cream, and there was no way either of us was going to give it up. We turned around and hopped onto the nearest thing we could find; a park bench. We stood up there, until the owner, a frazzled looking college student, collected her dogs and apologized.

My mother and I hopped off the bench and sat down, giggling over our close call. We were all laughs as we ate our ice creams. When we were done, and my mother stood to go throw away the paper napkins that the ice cream came with, I'd noticed it. All down my mother's back and thighs, was green paint. It looked so strange along with my mother's red t-shirt, that I couldn't help giggling. She looked like Christmas, after all. My mother looked at me with curiosity before finally asking what was so funny. I told her: "We sat in wet paint." Sure enough, when I stood, there was green paint down my pants and a white sign that said: WET PAINT resting where my back was located moments before. My mom tilted her head slightly, furrowed her eyebrows, and smiled that familiar, dreaded half-smile. I'd know that look anywhere. That was the look. The look that said: New book! New book! New friggin' book...

Pretty much every one of her books begins from random events like the one for Wet Paint. Dead by Midnight, is my favorite. It's about a girl who gets a phone call that says if she doesn't follow every clue this psycho killer guy says, her best friend will be dead by midnight. The main character, Lacey Laurent, was based off of me.

I (involuntarily) gave my mother the idea for the story, so, of course, I get the honors of being Lacey Laurent. Now I know what your thinking: It's, like, totally awesome having a book written about you, right? WRONG! Try having your crazy, capricious mother following you around for a month, taking note of your eating habits, your sleeping habits, even what kinds of shampoo and conditioner you use. She watched me while I talked on the phone, asked me what celebrities I was into, and even made me tell her everything I liked in a guy. Fun, right? Ugh. That was the worse month of my life. It really is scary waking up at four in the morning to find your mother taking notes about how you were drooling and making weird squeaking noises with your nose.

All I knew, was that the next few months, were going to be torture. At least this book wasn't about me. It was quiet in my kitchen as my mom awaited our reaction towards her new book news. As much as I loved my mother, I just could not muster up enough fake enthusiam to spare her feelings. Lucky for me, my father could.

"Baby! That's great! It'll be a best seller, I'm sure!" Wow. My father's really good at that. It wasn't a complete lie. It probably would be a best seller. The "that's great" part, on the other hand...well, yea that was a complete lie.

My father embraced my mother, holding her close and tight, as if she were a rag doll. I looked away, embarrased. They did this all the time. It was as if they were hormonal teenagers in the backseat of my father's car, instead of almost middle-aged parents living in the suburbs. If I thought about it, it was kind of sweet that my parents still had the hots for each other after all this time. But I didn't think about. Because they're my parents, and it's gross.

"Yes, it's going to be great. Best one yet. Oh! A million ideas are just buzzing in my head! I just can't wait to start writing," my mom told us.

"Yea, me neither," I muttered, pasting a fake smile on my face. I can't wait for you to start writing either, because the sooner you start, the quicker you'll finish.

I think my mom saw through my fake smile, or maybe she just remembered how desperate I sounded earlier, because she looked at me with sympathy and cooed, "Oh, what's wrong Ginny?"

Yes. Finally. A topic that has to do with me. "Oh! Mommy, I've had the worst day!"

She looked at me, understanding in her eyes, and grabbed my hands. She looked back at my father one last time. "Stanley, could you start dinner, vegetarian of course, while I diffuse the emotional bomb that is our daughter.

"Trust me honey, I wouldn't have it any other way." my dad agreed, obviously grateful that the situation could be taken care of without him. With that, my mom lead me away to her bedroom, sat me upon her bed, bundled me in her arms as if I was her four year old little girl and let me unload.

One hour and forty-thousand tears later, my mom had fixed me. She put everything into perspective for me. Turns out Kevin/Vinny is a jerk for lying about his name, and for not helping when he saw that I fell, the second time. Also, if he was that embarrassed to be seen with me because I fell in front of an entire room full of strangers, then he isn't worth my time. I reached this same conclusion just minutes before my father came home earlier, but I needed to hear this from someone else before I could believe it.

I also learned some things I really didn't want to know. Like, apparentely Kevin and I had an amazing meet-cute, which is some literary term that I'm sure Monica will explain to me soon. And also that my mom is scheduling a doctors appointment for two weeks, because three falls in one day is not healthy.

But in all, my mother was right. Kevin or Vinny Shore was, and is nothing. He's not worth expending any energy even thinking about. He's a jerk, He's a lying jerk, He's an amazingly gorgeous, super sexy, beautiful lying jerk. But I don't like him. No, I hate him. As much as I hate my hair, I will hate Kevin Shore.