Dear Apoocalypse

by Clark Sayre

​

apocalypse (noun) From the Greek apokalypsis: meaning "uncovering," "disclosure," or a revelation of hidden things.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

                  A gastric symphony explodes under my LES MIZ t-shirt. 

                  Thankfully everyone's more interested in lab partners than stomach noises.

                  The classroom screams "BIO"... except for the 25-year-old Twinkie pinned to the wall. That screams "BIO-HAZARD."  Mr. Evans, who towers over a life-sized human skeleton, says he's gonna eat that ancient twinkie the day he retires. 

                  World's shortest retirement. 

                  I pop up from my desk ready for my close encounter with frog kidneys and testes. 

                  BAM!

                  I’m staring at Brandon’s belly button. 

                  No. He’s not wearing a crop top. 

                  He’s tall and lanky with large hands. Basketball player? Nope. Beauty and the Beast rehearsal accompanist. 

                  Yesterday when we were rehearsing “Be Our Guest,” he made me miss my entrance. Well… he didn’t forceme to miss it. 

                  His face did. 

                  His face doesn't say "basketball" or "piano." 

                  His face says: “kiss me.” 

                  At least to me it does. 

                  Please, God! Strike that last thought from the record, and don’t make me look like an idiot, I pray silently. 

                  Brandon takes a step back. 

                  So do I. 

                  Squishing my strawberry jam sandwich.

                  YIKES!

                  My face turns jam colored. 

                  Just like my shoe.

                  Why did I have to take the darn thing out of my backpack? 

                  I hope he doesn't notice, but of course that's exactly where he stares. That's what I get for thinking impure thoughts. 

                  I try to shift my focus from my strawberry shoe to a piece of scripture I used to win my 3rd Waterbury Scripture Memorization trophy: if there is anything excellent, anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

                  God, does a high school crush count as praiseworthy? 

                  “Hey, how’s it goin’?” Brandon asks casually. 

            “Vibin’.” To avoid awkward silence, I quip, “Guess I’m having frog legs for lunch.”          

                  Shoulda just left it with the jammed shoe. 

                  “You going to the game Friday?” Brandon asks awkwardly. 

                  I hate football, but I say, “Not sure,” leaving him lots of room to invite me. 

            “Me either,” he admits. 

                  I guess, besides music, we both share a common disinterest in football. What now? My face turns the same shade as my jam. 

                  He blurts, “How ‘bout Winter Formal?” 

                  “Not sure,” I reply. 

                  His face falls. He starts walking towards the lab tables.

                  What were you thinking, Erika? I scold myself. 

                  How would his large hands feel against my back? Would they notice the small mole? (At least I think it's small. Haven't checked lately.) 

                  Guess I'll never know since my theater projection skills and cluelessness ruined any chance I had. 

                  Why can't guys be more articulate? 

                  I take a deep breath. “Hey,  Brandon,” I say loudly enough for him to hear, but not the rest of the English-speaking world. “Did you just ask me to Winter Formal?” 

                  All heads turn to me. 

                  Except his.

                 His head beelines for a lab table.

                  I scurry for shelter with my group, Rhon and Nette. 

                  "Fu-sterbugit!" I mutter. 

                  "Not even your random words will undo that moment," Rhon says.

                  "Thanks for the comforting words," I growl. 

                  I'll guess I'll have to self-comfort. 

                  It's okay, Erika. He didn't hear you. 

                  But everyone else did. 

                  No big deal. Everyone thought you were joking around like usual. 

                  You wish. 

                  Breathe.

                  You're not fifteen anymore.

                  Breathe.

                  You're beyond shallow crushes.

                  Breathe.

                  Think of something else. 

                  Someone else. 

                  I stare glassy-eyed at Rhon. She would know what to say. Or at least what to do. She'd find a good reason to stretch so the guy's eyes go straight below her crop top. A bare belly goes against dress code, but the male teachers would never report her and the female teachers are too envious of her perfectly flat stomach. 

                  Stomach envy is not helping me feel better. 

                  I casually glance at Brandon's backside. 

                  I hear whispers and giggles that are not frog related. I quickly shift my gaze to the dead frog, its guts on full display... just like mine. 

            I wish I could crawl under Nette's red plaid blanket, the one she wears to school every day over her pj's.  She's not a “Look at me. Look how hot I am,” type. More like a “You got me out of bed for THIS?!” type. 

                  They're both extra. 

                  I guess I'm kinda... mid.

                  Quirky mid. Hand woven cap that people who don't know me think I hand knit myself. Ha! I'd never be able to sit still that long.

                  Pig tails flop down that look like they could be extensions or the real thing. Keep them guessing. 

                  Today I'm wearing my "Warning: I Break for Legs" sweatshirt to see the look on non-theater kids' faces.  They probably think I'm a hit man—

                  —who wears weird sweatshirts, boring ripped jeans and jam-oozing Raeboks.

                   I've got lower cheekbones that envy Rhon and Nette's and a couple annoying, but well-hidden  zits. Thank you concealer creator. 

                  Hey, Gotta do whatcha gotta do. 

                  Competition's stiff since we're all in theater where guys are either trying way too hard or gay. 

                  Brandon's not either of those. 

                  He's NOT in theater.

                  Also, NOT interested in me.

                  Thanks to me.   

                  At the end of bio I quickly gather my things. 

                  I can do this. 

                  I can press replay. 

                  I just happen to "wander" towards Brandon. 

                  He dashes out, forgetting to take off his lab coat.

                  "Hey, you forgot your—"

                  He picks up his pace— away from me.

                  I sigh.  

                  Act One was cringy. 

                  But the curtain is not going down on Act Two until this girl gets her guy.  

_________

                  I left my lunch in the drama room, so I go inside and— Brandon's on the piano. When he sees me he adds a couple flourishes. At least I think he saw me. I move tentatively towards the piano.

                  Rhonette appear at the doorway.

                  Nette yells, "C'mon, Eri! We've got lunchtime rehearsal onstage."

                  "This is a more important cue," Rhon whispers as she yanks Nette out.

                  The piano stops. 

                  And so do I.

                  I quickly grab my lunch and dash out.

__________

 

                  Rehearsal's cancelled. So is my usual lunch date with Rhonette. They can't just abandon me  like that. In my moment of need all I got was a snarky comment about my "random words." They come in handy for diverting conversation, shaking things up and, most importantly, avoiding the F-bomb. 

                  I make my way past groups that eat lunch in their self-designated cages: band geeks in the band room, theater kids in the theater's back hallway, D&D nerds in Mr. Guttentag's room. A couple beefy guys toss a basketball back and forth on the way to the gym, that special spot on campus reserved for the torture and humiliation of us band, theater and D&D geeks.. 

                  I sit in front of the school under the famous graffiti-encased elm that holds decades-old carved initials, hearts, and nasty stuff.  

                  I didn't ask for a journal on my BirthdayBirthday. But I guess Steph thought I needed one so I'd stop dumping all my sixteen-year-old anxieties on top of her seventeen-year-old ones. 

                  I open my empty journal. Well, almost empty. I did tape a warning on the inside cover.

                  Journal Rules:

                  1) Don't depress me.  

                  2) Don't let me get overwhelmed with all your blank pages

                  3) DON'T LET MY PARENTS FIND YOU!! (If they do, please self-destruct.)

                  In return, I promise to tell you all my secrets. 

                  I start writing. 

                  Dear Jam Brain, "What JUST HAPPENED?!" 

                  Thoughts race out like they've just been handed a gallon of Red Bull.  “The Brandon Moment” took place just like ten minutes ago, so I scribble furiously and capture every horrifying detail while it's fresh. 

                  I thank the journal for letting me vent (what choice does it have, really?)

                  But even after pages of therapy, I'm still feeling anxious. It's like a constant state. 

                  My anxieties (in no particular order) 

                  1) Rhonette will turn against me (who'd want to be friends with someone who shouted out their romantic intentions in the middle of bio?) 

                  2) never finding a guy (back to jr. high as fifth wheel) 

                  3) someone will call me on my humor and ask, "what's What's really going on?" 

                  4) school safety (who doesn't have that?) 

                  5) Steph will ask me deep questions about God 

                  6) Dad won't ever find the time for me since he's so enamored with Steph 

                  I start to recall the exact moment when that all started. I do not want to cry right now. I continue writing instead.

                  7) crying in public 

                  8) accidentally dressing up as a bunny at a "come as you are" party (like I said, no particular order) 

                  9) Mom (enough said) 

                  10) Will anyone love me if they really "see me?"

                  Maybe I should have tried for a rank order after all. This definitely doesn't belong in the number ten spot. 

                  Rhon and Nette see me. 

                  The "Online Me." 

                  Mom sees the "Best In Show" Me.

                  And Dad still sees the "little girl" me. 

                  Steph is too busy dealing with her own issues. 

                  I know you "see me," God. But can you give me a better peek back at you? 

                  I return to my journal.

                  Can you see me?

👀

                  After spending way too much time drawing an assortment of eyes, I ponder. Am I writing a role for myself that's a walking cliche? Another teenager "wanting to be seen." 

                  I skip past the collection of eyes and write.

                  When did I catch this disease? 

                  I hold my breath awaiting a sudden torrent of insight that suddenly bursts from my pen onto page after page after...  

                  Several minutes later I'm still staring at the same blank page. 

----------

                  The next day we're in the drama classroom rehearsing the song "Gaston."  I can't wait to be onstage with the real Tavern set instead of a bunch of folding purple chairs and masking tape lines on the floor pretending to be walls and steps.

                  I'm Drunk Guy #3. As usual there aren't enough guys who auditioned, so us girls have to pretend to be guys (the last thing any of us would want to do.)       

                  Testosterone and peach fuzz? 

                  No thank you.

                  But there’s actually a much more important drama going down right now during break. And there's no room for error. 

                  Rhon, Netter,  and I have written a "script" for Operation Piano Man.

                  The scene opens with Brandon behind the piano and the three of us next to it.

                  Rhon casually asks, "You two going to Winter Formal?" 

                  Nette brags, "Oh yeah. I'm going with Todd." 

                  "Ooooh," I tease.

            Nette cuts me off, “He’s just a friend.” 

                  Rhon and I give her a wary look. 

                  "Could be more..." Nette grins slyly. "We'll see." 

                  Todd's gay. But Brandon doesn’t need to know that. 

                  Rhon delivers the line the whole scene hinges on: "How 'bout you, Erika? You going?" 

                  I "play" the fine line between disappointed and pathetic, "I don't think so. No one's asked me yet." 

                  They exit stage left.

                  Now it's just Brandon and I alone onstage.

                  Time for his "line."

                  C'mon! Say it!

                  I wait. 

                  And wait. 

            Finally… Brandon, man of many notes but few words, says the words I've waited for since my public service announcement. “Wanna go to—” 

                  WHAM!

                  The doors burst open and in flies MOM, big smile on her face, huge homemade cake in her hands!!! 

                  The room goes silent. I mean, here’s the last person anyone would want to see… a suspected "CABARET KILLER!" from the extremely vocal parent group who forced a last-minute Spring musical switch.

                  … but she is holding a cake and, judging from everyone’s wide eyes, they’d prefer devouring actual cake to drinking pretend beer in a prop mug.

            What the—?! It’s not even my BirthdayBirthday!

                  While everyone's distracted, Mom whispers as she yanks me to the door, "C'mon! We're late." 

                   OPM 2.0: Aborted. 

                  For now.

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

                  Twenty minutes later, six other frilly-dressed, bow-tie-adorned prize ponies and I sit in a row of especially uncomfortable tan metal chairs on a makeshift stage in Trinity Baptist's Fellowship Hall. 

                  I gotta get out of this Scripture Bee quicky so I can try to salvage Operation Piano Man. I decide to get eliminated by misunderstanding. I mean, the disciples didn't understand much of anything Jesus said, even though he gave them the entire answer key. I decide that "misunderstanding" is, in fact, a very Biblical way of going down. 

                  "Ms. Erika Mallory," the bald moderator motions for me to stand. 

                  I do. 

                  "Please recite John Chapter 1." 

                  I follow instructions, reciting, "That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes… 

                  "I'm sorry,  Ms. Mallory, that was from First John. I asked for John Chapter 1." 

                  "Is there a difference?" I ask innocently. 

                  The crowd gasps. 

                  Oh no! What have I done? 

                  I'm sorry God! I wasn't trying to upstage you.  

                  I spy my mom's horrified face.

                  Or give Mom a frickin' heart attack.

_______

                  So God doesn't smite me or send a bolt of lightning to "take me out" on the way home, I whip out my phone and pull up my Bible app.  I frantically search for a verse about not needing to be a drama queen all the time. But I can't focus. 

                  I blew it! I singlehandedly turned what was supposed to be a God-honoring event into Erika's Traveling Circus— embarrassing myself and completely humiliating Mom. 

                  And for what? To try to snag a Formal invitation at the end of rehearsal from a guy who probably doesn't even know my name?

                  Great priorities there, Erika.

                  All I know is that Plan C's gotta involve God, whose name I just smeared all over a church basement. 

___________

                  Thankfully, the silent but deadly car ride home with Mom is over. I knock on Steph's door, then immediately barge in.  

                  "You ever hear of knocking?" Steph growls. 

                  "I did." 

                  "I think the journal I gave you is calling," she says. Stephanie places her cupped fingers against our shared wall and pretends to be my journal "Erika! Erika!" 

                  "Yeah, yeah. I can take the—" I practically scream, "SUBTLE hint."

                  I slam her door.

                  "Don't forget to slam the door on the way out," she yells.

___________

                  I'm safe with Jeremy Jordan's sensitive blue eyes staring down from the poster above my bed.

                  I hug Cowardly, the stuffed lion I got at a Wizard of Oz sing-along. 

                  Back when Dad and I still had Daddy/Daughter dates. 

                  Back before DD-Day— Dyslexia Diagnosis Day. 

                  I wish I could click my heels three times and return to my pre-tornado home. 

                  PING!

                  I check my texts. Oh no! Rhonette wants to get back into the whole Brandon thing.

                  Rhon: U gonna let him kiss you at formal 

                  M: first date

                   Rhon: So? 

                  M: wanna get to know him better 

                  Nette: 'besties,' huh? fantasize about having a best friend 

                  Rhon: HA! 

                  I don't respond. 'Cause that's kinda what I do fantasize about. 

                  Being someone's Number One. 

                  Nette: Check out this reel!

                  She gives Rhon and I time to view it. The guy's lips are so close they look like they're about to kiss the disgusting thing. 

                  M: Ewww!

                  Rhon: Salamander Man.

                  Nette: No Reticulated Salamander Man. 

                  Rhon: TMI

                  Nette: Thats what he called the thing HA!

                  Rhon: 🤣😂

                  M: Least he believes in something.

                  The texts stop for a moment. 

                  That shut them up.

                  Enough with guys. 

                  I stand up, pretend I'm on the free throw line and toss Daddy towards the mini basketball hoop on my closet door. 

                  She shoots! 

                  The crowd goes WILD! 

                  Misses.

                  The Pigs are not great athletes. 

                  And neither am I. 

                  As the poster of Caitlin Clark reminds me daily. 

                  I decide to mix it up a bit in the chat since they're going off on their own guy issues. 

                  M: how bout that caitlin clark 

                  Nette: who 

                  Rhon: FUSTERBUGUT! 

                  M: ha ha! 

                  Rhon: random   

                  M: WAIT! I got a great idea

                  Rhon: what

                  Nette: ??? 

                  M: Tell you at school. gtg

                  I set down the phone. It's time to start prepping.

__________

                  At school the next day Rhonette think the scavenger hunt's a great idea... until I tell them that all the clues are scriptural. 

                  That's why I'm currently taping up the clues all around school without any lookouts. I already hit the quad, the band room, and the Greek theater and people's stares make me feel like a creeper. I tape a clue to the library's door while the librarian's turned away. 

                  Is this the right approach? 

                  Or will this send Brandon behind the piano for good?

                  I feel like it's God's plan.

                  But what if it's not? What if it's just my own guilt playing itself out in the school hallways?

                  Belle's Father (from B & B) passes me in the hall on my way to the theater. I hand him the first clue. He reads aloud: "Dear Brandon, 'Whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst.' " He looks at me with the confusion of a father whose daughter is about to marry a beast, "Wha—?!" 

                  "After school Brandon's gonna ask you for a clue and you're gonna hand him this," I explain. "Got it?" 

            "I... I guess." he stammers. "But what does—"

                  "We'll do a Q&A later," I promise. 

                  I dash to the fountain next to our rehearsal room and tape the next clue under the basin. It would be more fun planting clues with Rhonette, but the only part that really matters is Brandon's reactions. Will it take him 'til the last clue to get the idea and re-ask me to formal?

                   Unlike my sister, I am never late to class, so I don't get to finish planting all the clues during passing periods. Thankfully Dent lets us out a couple minutes before the bell rings.

                  I dash to the orchestra pit and I plant the final clue on a trumpet case. 

                  I hope it's a trumpet case. I'm not an instrument case expert.

                  I couldn't find a verse in the Bible about Winter Formals so this verse is the best I can do. Hope he gets it. I rush back to the back hall where everyone's busy snacking and gossiping. I look around eagerly. 

                  BRANDON'S NOT HERE!! 

                  Trying not to sound desperate, I offhandedly ask another musician who probably knows him, "Hey, have you seen Brandon?" 

                  "Oh, he's at a Kaddish. He probably won't be here till around four." 

                  "Darn!" Then I console myself. No problem. That may still give us enough time if we start right away. 

                  C'mon,  Brandon!

                  When Brandon finally shows up at 4:05, I don't waste any time in telling him about the scavenger hunt. He seems interested. 

                  YES!

                  Then I open my big mouth, "I didn't know you play Quidditch!"     

                  "Huh?" he asks as if I'd just used one of my random words.

                  "Ya know, like Harry Potter — Quidditch. Someone said you were at a Quidditch Game."            

                  "You mean Kaddish? Like the Jewish Kaddish we just recited at my Bubbe's funeral?"                  

                   Awkward. 

                  "Oh. I'm sorry," I apologize. "You're J… J…. Jewish?" I stammer.  

                  "Uh... um... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for your loss," I say.

                  "And my loss," I mumble under my breath. What can I possibly say out loud that my bright red face is not already broadcasting. 

                   "Uh, excuse me."

                  I dash to the restroom, stare at the mirror and come face to face with the idiot that said that. Why did I not check this out before?  He's gonna hate me! He's gonna absolutely hate me!          I want to SCREAM! But everyone in the hallway would hear. I pull out my hair instead.               

                  The moment keeps replaying in my head, Kaddish, Quidditch. Kaddish, Quidditch.

                  STOP! I'm gonna drive myself crazy. You can't undo moments. 

                  No delete button for stupidity. 

                  I take a few calming breaths and just when I'm feeling somewhat composed and ready for re-entry I open the door and

                  SLAM!

                  Peach  body blocks me.

                  I want to slug her.  

                  Instead I give her a death glare. 

                  She moves past me to do whatever Peaches do in bathrooms. 

                  I take another deep breath.

                  Ding! I check my phone notification. It's my Scripture Verse of the Day: Isaiah 55:9 “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”  

                  Interesting timing. 

                  I’ll pProcess that later.

                  I tiptoe towards Brandon who's reading The Bible.

                  I’m confused. 

                  He’s Jewish. 

                  But he’s reading a Bible?

                  I gotta ask. Couldn’t get any worse than it already is. 

                  I'll make it sound super casual.

                  "Whatcha readin’?"

                  He looks up for a moment. "The Torah." 

                  Then he goes right back to reading it.

[BK14]  Now what?       

                  I start backing away hoping to avoid another religious landmine. Maybe he won't notice.

                  Brandon pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. "A trumpet player gave me this," he announces. "Said you taped it on his case."

                  OH MY GOSH! He found the last clue! I'm done for! Now he's never gonna forgive me for my clueless comment and the Christian Treasure Hunt I concocted without knowing enough about him. 

                  Can you say desperate?

                  It's okay, I tell myself. He obviously isn't the one for you if every time you make an attempt, it just backfires in your face or squirts jam on your shoe. 

                  Brandon reads the words on the slip.

                  I think about slinking away again, but that would be even more awkward. Plus there's nowhere to slink since I'm up against a wall which ironically has a poster for Winter Formal plastered right behind me. So I stand there and get ready to take it - like any drunken tavern guy would. 

                  He reads aloud "Dear Brandon, Praise him with trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp! Praise him with tambourine and dance."

                  "I... thought it was a cool... uh..." I feel like my face is about to fall off.

                  "One of my favorite psalms," he says.

            “Wha—?!” 

                  My eyes widen. I forgot I had some Old Testament clues thrown in there too. 

                  I finally recover, "Mine too."

                  We stand there awkwardly for a few moments.

                  Not knowing what else to say, I bumble, "Do those words... uh... conjure up any images?"

                  He looks confused. 

                  He glances at the strip again. His eyes light. 

                  He flashes his cute little Peter Pan grin, "You just asked me to Winter Formal, didn't you?"

                  "Uh... uh... yeah?" I say tentatively. "But to be fair, I think you asked me first."

                  "I... uh..." he stammers[BK15] [CS16]  cutely.

                  Come on! Just say it!

                  "I'd love to go with you!" he declares.

                  THANK YOU GOD!!  

                  First date ever! 

                  Well... not exactly a date. 

                  More like a group date.  

                  But still. 

                  Time to break into the Snoopy "Suppertime" dance. It's the theater hallway— stranger things have happened. 

                  AHHHH! So many things to do: find a dress that hides my mole. Spa day. Watch YouTube videos about how to pin on a boutonniere—

                  WAIT! Have I even responded to him?

                  From the confused look on his face, I clearly haven't.

                  What do I say? 

                  Thanks.

                  No. That makes me sound like a charity case.

                  That's great! 

                  No. Sounds a bit extra.

                  "Cool," I say. 

                  We smile... 

                  At least that's what I think we're doing. It's what I feel like my face is doing. Hard to tell since it's completely numb. 

                  We interrupt each other with "Well... uh's." 

                  "See you there!" I say, instantly regretting it. I'm gonna see him in five minutes onstage and then again at school for the next three weeks.

                  I suddenly realize something. 

                  THE CLUES! They're scattered all across campus. Please, God, don't let anyone find them!

                  Private humiliation is one thing. 

                  But public humiliation— well, that's a whole different level.

___________

 

                  After rehearsal I sit in my room replaying the moment in my mind as Jeremy looks on with jealous eyes. I somehow manage to hear Mom's voice over her FOX News blaring from the living room flat screen. "Dinnertime!" 

                  Thankfully Dad doesn't blast his CNN too. Mom and Dad definitely did not meet at a political rally. 

                  Unless they were throwing rocks at each other. 

                  On my way to dinner,r I pass by Dad's office. He's talking on the phone. 

                  "But that's exactly when I'm going running with Erika..." he argues.

                  I eavesdrop. 

                  Who wouldn't? 

                  "Why there? Why can't you just reveal my calling to me here?" 

                  His calling? Is he on the phone with Verizon? 

                  "Okay, okay, okay! I'll go," he concedessays. "But what about Erika?" 

                  "What's she going do while you're giving me my calling? That's exactly when I told Eri I'd run with her." 

                  It's silent. 

                  "Hello? Hello? Hello?!!" 

                  Can you hear me now? I'm tempted to add. Instead, I peek into his office and say as sincerely as I can, "It's okay, Dad. We can go running another day." 

                  He starts to answer. 

                  PING!

                  I get a text from Nette: 

                  N: Yep your moms Cabaret Killer 

                  Of course it was Mom who headed up the whole Spring Musical switch. Who else would be so "out there?"  

                  "Sorry Dad, gotta go!" I say as I race from his office and text back.

                  M: what? 

                  Nette: Yep ringleader 

                  M: why didn't you tell me 😡

                  Nette: just did 

                  So, it's confirmed. The rumor that Peach had spread everywhere but on her sandwich.

                  I storm to the Kitchen to confront Mom. 

                  Steph's poking around in the fridge. "Congratulations, Mom!" I chastise. "You killed Cabaret. Because of youI'm "Third Fork From the Left” and “Drunk Tavern Guy." 

                  Mom stands there, clearly unsure of how to respond.

                  "And what did you get from all that effort?!" I press. "Besides forcing me to play a kitchen utensil and an alcoholic."

                  "I... I..." she tries to explain, but I'm not gonna give her that space.

                  I continue, "You basically guaranteed that I'll never get another good role in my entire high school career!" 

                  "I didn't tell her she had to do Beauty and the Beast." Mom defends.  "I suggested ‘West Side Story’—" - "     

                  "The one about rape and murder?" I interrupt.

                  "There's other classics too," she continues. "You know like ‘Oklahoma’  or ‘Guys and Dolls’. Shows with real moral values—" 

                  "Like the suicide in ‘Oklahoma’?"

                  "Uh... uh..." she stammers.

                  I continue, "Or did you want us to do ‘Guys and Dolls’ where the gambler intentionally gets a woman drunk so he can sleep with her?"

                  I can tell Mom's exasperated. She can't argue musical theater with me and she knows it.         Then Stephanie sabotages me from left field by holding her phone in my face. There's a picture of a scantily clad Kit Kat girl with my own face pasted on. 

                  "So you'd be comfortable wearing this in front of a bunch of middle-aged, divorced men?" she provokes.says.  

                  I cringe. 

                  She's right. 

                  I look like a tramp. 

                  Is this really the way I want to be seen?

                  Stephanie hands Mom the win. 

                  On the way out I mutter one last B&B barb., "So I guess Stockholm Syndrome is appropriate then?" 

                  Steph chuckles. 

                  Mom looks totally confused. 

                  And I'm feeling... crappy. 

                  I sprint upstairs three steps at a time and slam my door. As I catch my breath I think to myself: Maybe B&B's‘Beauty and the Beast’s not so bad after all. I still get to be with Brandon every day.

                  I plop on my bed and am greeted by Cowardly. I sometimes run things by him before saying something ridiculous to my dad. 

                  But why? I shouldn't need a feline filter. Why can't I just say whatever comes to mind?                Be spontaneous?

                  I mean Stephanie certainly has no filter. She can say anything she wants to him. And he'll be there for her. Empathize with her. Be on her same level.

                  My misty eyes gaze into Cowardly's glassy ones.

                  "What do you think of me dating a Jewish guy?"

                  Rather than waiting for the answer, I call downstairs.

                  "DAD, I'M READY TO RUN!" 

 

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