Love Ya, Unc
Chapter Seven: The Realm of Silence

Seconds ago, I learned Preston Ross wants to be a doctor. I know, what? Not that there's a problem with it at all—doctors are beyond excellent when, you know, you're having cerebral edema or something—but I just can't believe he never told me. Sure, sure, he's always been concerned about his grades (well, no, he's always gotten As effortlessly) but he never mentioned all that was for a purpose. I just thought that it was because he's a band geek and you must have As or they'll lock you in a tuba case. I heard it's a kind of hazing, cult thing: they put you in the sound proof (and air tight) practice rooms, fill them with dry ice until you pass out (or die), and then blow into your ears with trumpets (IF YOU SURVIVE!). Not that they did that to me during my stint in band, but, you know, I'm fairly terrifying. I have Phineas on my side, and Phineas has connections with the office supply mafia—if you know what I mean.

I know my other friends' job aspirations. Chloe, for instance, wants to be the female embodiment of Jay Leno. My words. I completely believe this is actually a likely happening, because one day, I told her she needed to change her name to something less "please tease me" than "Sexton", and she said that no way was she changing it, because not only does it give her material on her own show, it would give her attention if the media made fun of her for it, and, if not, it might call attention to her show just if the audience heard it and was intrigued. I kind of gaped at her for a while. And then I came up with my female embodiment/this-life-reincarnation theory. But all I said to her was, "Hell-o, Len-o!"

Caleb says he wants to be a professional foot player. Make that football, sorry. Hehe. However, since there's no way in hell I'm letting a friend of mine become so… so… (I'm giving up; there is no word), I've decided he should either become a Buddhist monk, the CEO of Clinique, or a subway driver. Because in life, you've got to have options.

Scott changes his mind a lot. Right now he's toying between lobbyist, comedian, and astronaut (he only confided these to me, because he says they're so "little boy-esque" he can't tell his counselor, or parents, or custodian, et cetera) but away from me, he tells everyone he doesn't need a job. He was ranting about Bill Clinton and how we should judge him for what he did as Mr. President, blahdedah, and not about what he did as Mr. Pimp (his words), for the umpteenth time (hehe: one, two, ump, three...) after Chloe commented about Hilary again, so I decided that he would be marrying Mr. Pimp. And he agreed that was where his life was headed, for they were soul mates. An eight ball thingy told him so. Three things crossed my mind, and they were: Scott had thought about marrying Bill Clinton before this conversation? and asked a magic eight ball like a love sick seventh grader? and is comfortable with speaking about it in public (because, seriously, this took place at lunch, where about thirty kids eavesdrop on our conversations daily)? Wow. And not just about the rapid, semi-coherent thinking part.

So, anyway, Scott Clinton won't have to work a day in his life. (He cried when he learned dear Billy had heart disease. Seriously. And ate mass amounts of dill pickles. Course, when I left the room he ceased sobbing, but that's because of my other-worldly gravitational pull that makes people feel they can be their true self around me. Whether that means telling me they've got the hots for Bill Clinton, or for other things, like that they had a benign tumor removed from somewhere near their colon or that they once caught their sister eating paper).

And why am I telling you this? Why, to distract myself from the fact THAT A DOCTOR IS SEWING MY CHIN SHUT. Also, I think I might be high.

I ask Preston vaguely whether a localized painkiller can sprain over your entire body or, at least, to your brain, and he answers something to the effect of (I wasn't really listening, seeing as if I cross my eyes, I can see a NEEDLE), "No, I don't think so. Hence the 'localizedment.'" Course, being Preston, he said it in a much more eloquent, "I know a lot about medicine, you ignorant fool" sort of way. Not that I knew that before. But now, it's completely evident in his entire demeanor/stance/EXISTENCE. God, I swear I'm high…

"It's a good thing your dad is so paranoid," Preston says, closely examining my stitches. It makes me kind of uncomfortable to have him so close to my face, but that's probably the not-highness talking. Maybe my eyes are acting like reverse-rear view mirrors. You know, instead of, "objects are closer than they appear," it's "objects are farther away than they appear, and Preston did not just poke your chin"? Yeah, I'm not sure how that's relevant, either… "Otherwise, we could've been here a while." My dad makes me carry around our insurance card thingy everywhere. Just in case stuff like this happens. Cue much sighing.

"No kidding. I could've needed a blood transfusion on top of the chin-tailoring."

Preston rolls his eyes. "It wasn't even bleeding that much." I point to my blood-soaked (okay, blood-stained) t-shirt, and he amends a bit. "Fine. It was a nasty gash. But still."

I stick my tongue out at him, and we wait for the doctor to come back in silence. It was really nice of him to stick around with me, even if it was just so he could get some experience in the medical field. I would tell him so, but he's insisting that I did not, in fact, just have a near-death experience, and therefore keeping me from enjoying the emergency room. That blood-sucking parasite carousel…erm…jerk!

x-x-x-x-x

Phineas's debut is quite lovely. He is wearing a frilly, green gown (to match his eyes) and even allowed me to part his hair on the side. His eyes are slightly less crossed, and more… well… staring-in-opposite-directions. It is very becoming. Scott is in attendance, and if he's noticed me being more in-my-own-little-office-supply-people-world, he hasn't mentioned it. I'm doing my best to give him the cold shoulder (in my own little spastic way), but so far I've just ended up making him laugh nonstop for about ten minutes when I got his old afro from last Halloween stuck on my foot and accidentally crushed my tape dispenser, Wiggins.

Wiggins is now in intensive care, not to mention post-traumatic stress therapy.

Aside from that shenanigan, I'm having fun. The swelling in my face is almost gone, and even though my chin is bandaged and yellow from that sterile stuff they bathe cuts in, I'm feeling much more optimistic about tomorrow.

Which, in case you're an insensitive, uncaring sociopath and didn't mark the day in your calendar in red sharpie and glow-in-the-dark gel pens, is my date with the thus-far elusive Sasha!

But of course you already knew that. Cue an eye-narrowing, skeptical, penetrating glare. YES, QUIVER IN YOUR BOOTSY BOOTS, MY LITTLE MUFFIN CAPERS!

"So, what've you got in mind for us to do tomorrow?" Scott asks, sitting cross-legged on my floor. He lays down sideways and turns his head towards me.

I give him a look. (It's just superfluous to say "weird look," you know?) "I actually have a date. With Sasha. In the morning."

"Really?" he asks, looking genuinely surprised for a moment. He sits up, facing me with his hands dangling between his knees. "Where're you going?"

"I'm not sure. It's a surprise, I think."

"Sounds fun." He stares at me, and we lock eyes. We just sit there, gazing at each other for at least three minutes before I finally can't stand the squirming.

"Look! A rooster!" I yell, pointing behind Scott, into the hallway.

"Where!" His head snaps back to where I pointed.

"Aww, you just missed him. Well, it's been fun playing with you. Night! Biting bed bugs, and all that…" I push him out the door, grunting somewhat obscenely with the effort, and he takes the rug with him, somehow grasping it with his toes. Ah, well. I'm getting a bit old for Thomas the Train anyway.

I go to bed soon after, but Phineas, that little womanizing devil of my dreams, parties well into the night.

x-x-x-x-x

The morning brings with it the kind of longing for your purposely-estranged uncle only the prospect of spending a date with a face looking like a zombie tomato can induce.

Needless to say, I'm a bit freaked out.

But, luckily, it's seven o' clock on a Sunday, and so thoughts are very slow in coming. For instance, I accidentally stuck my hand in hot oatmeal, and the thought "ow" only crossed my brain as I was heading upstairs to get a pair of sandals.

Sasha comes 'round at 8:12, carrying a giant package up the walkway to my door.

"Presents?" I say, full of wide-eyed hope. I might have just drooled a bit. Oops. Oh, well, worse has happened.

He stares for a moment, speechless, at my face, but then recovers. I refrain from sulking or shooting flames from my eyes. "For your mom, actually."

"My mom?"

He looks kind of sheepish. "My mom got two orange juicers at some party or other. Met your mom at another such party and said to bring this over."

"Well, I'm sure she'll like it," I say, smiling. I love when life is so sweetly random. "You can just set it on the kitchen counter." He does so, and then whips one of those mini-sharpies that hang around your neck from under his shirt. It's teal colored. To Mrs. Harris from Lana Miller, he writes on the outside of the box, going over the manic-smiley lady juicing an orange like it's giving her a fix. Damn, after those conflated painkillers, I just cannot quench this high-talk! I notice that his handwriting is a good deal nicer than mine. So, so wrong.

Scott enters the kitchen in his boxers holding something that looks suspiciously like a rubber rooster, but sees me and Sasha standing there, and quickly ducks out.

"Your family is so… eccentric," Sasha comments politely.

"That's one way to put it," I concede.

"Um… Lacy, what happened to your face?" he asks. We're in his mom's car, a giant blue van, and I feel very high up. The tires are monster-trucky, and I'm almost positive I saw it on "Pimp My Ride" at some point while channel flipping.

"Long story short, I'm allergic to cucumber and hit my chin," I say, not looking at him.

He laughs. "It's not bad, don't worry. I was just concerned."

Awww. Cue girlish giggling.

"So, where we headed?" Unfortunately, the words come out in a strangled, I-meant-this-to-be-flirtatious way, so it's at least an octave higher. It's a pity I'm a horrible singer, because Sasha really brings out the opera in me.

"Brunch," he says, flashing a grin.

"At 8:30? You know, most sane, brunch-eating people are sleeping right now. Hence the brunching, verses the breakfasting."

"So little faith," Sasha laughs. "We're taking a stroll first."

I grimace. "In public? Are you sure you want to be seen with me?"

"If anyone stares, we'll just stare right back." I put on my big, orange sunglasses (we made up at Phineas's party, thanks for asking) anyway, and he laughs again. "Oh, that'll keep them from staring, all right."

"It'll be in a 'look at that crazy person in the orange glasses—she must be a billionaire' sort of way, verses the 'lord have mercy, that chick got whapped with the ugly stick' stare."

"Ah, I see the difference." Silence falls, and as hard as I try to beat it off, it still hovers above our heads. Stupid van with its ridiculously tall hood.

"What are you trying to reach?" Sasha asks, looking troubled.

Instead of answering, "silence," I manage to squeak, "Sorry, I had a cramp."

I really am improving.

Sasha nods, still looking fairly worried. Luckily, we reach the park, and we are able to get out of silence's reach.

"The park?" I ask skeptically. It's very green here, in that radioactive waste kind of way. The walkways are gravel, and there are manmade ponds and playgrounds evenly spaced. I guess it's a nice park.

"Yes, the park! Fresh air, trails, swing sets…" He trails off.

"Horse manure, rabid dogs, drunken hobos…" I finish. He passes me an underhanded grin. I toss it back, undaunted. I think that was the first time I've caught anything in weeks. Cue a much exaggerated wink.

We set off on one of the gravel walkways, and after skirting around a rather avid-Frisbee chaser, Sasha takes my hand. I blush and look at him in that snazzy, girl-instinctual, under-my-eyelashes sort of way. I'm quite proud of myself for pulling this off, and promptly trip over some beyond-obvious obstacle in my way. Sasha laughs. Again. I wonder if that's just how he "deals" with me. Not that it bothers me, really.

We don't talk much. He'll occasionally comment, "the weather's nice." And then, in fear of coming off as a freaky person, I just say, "yeah. I hear it's going to be like this all week." Then, he nods, and we keep walking.

We find a swing not occupied by diaper-wearing monkey spawn, and he insists I sit down. It's kind of weird being pushed by someone when you're sixteen. And I'm feeling really, really self-conscious having my butt in his face every three seconds or so. So, I jump off, doing a sort of side-roll/collapse when I hit the spongy recycled tire shit that really, very much hurts.

"Your turn!" I squeal, springing up. He adamantly refuses, though, no matter how much I beg, grovel, and plead, and so we set off on our walk again.

I think I just yawned. I'm such an ungrateful little twerp.

"Late night?"

"Yeah," I lie, not wanting to hurt his feelings. I really am having a nice time.

"Ready to eat?"

"You're seriously asking me that question?"

Sasha laughs.

x-x-x-x-x

Greek food is rather odd in the morning.

"I didn't know your parents owned a Greek restaurant," I say with a combination of eggplant and yogurt stuffed in one cheek. Like a lopsided chipmunk! That recently suffered from a stroke! Man, my humor's demented.

"Yeah. My mom's from Greece, so it would figure." So that's what that olive-colored skin is! Mediterranean! Huzzah, logic comes back into play!

"This is really good," I gush, desperate for a lasting topic.

"Hey, why don't you meet my mom and tell her!" Sasha exclaims, evidently as excited as me for something to do. I really think we should stick to movies from now on, because I'm so hopeless in day lit situations. He grabs my arm, and I'm suddenly glad that Greek food isn't that popular at 11:00 on Sundays, because my entire plate of food falls in my lap. "Oh, man," says Sasha.

"It's fine," I say quickly, putting piles of mush back on my plate.

"Oh, man," says Sasha.

"Really, it's okay," I assure him. The stain looks bad at the moment, but I'm pretty sure it's mostly water. "Let's go meet your mom!" I say with gusto, one arm extended like a general shouting, "CHAAAARGE!"

Only, you know, I'm going to meet Sasha's mom, so I don't actually shout anything. I do, however, shuffle.

"Mom?" A dark-haired woman with olive-toned skin comes out of a well-concealed back office. Her grey skirt-suit is unwrinkled, and her white undershirt pristinely white. I feel decidedly… well, filthy. Definitely not worthy to date her equally clean son. Dear God, my face is bloated, I have a yellow, bandaged chin, I'm wearing a "Writers Do It At Their Desks!" t-shirt, and there's a giant food stain on my pants! Freaking peanut butter patties and talking applesauce!

"Hi! You must be Lacy!" I try to smile, but I think I look like I'm trying to pass gas or something, because she forgoes shaking my hand.

"We just came from the park," says Sasha.

"I told you that was a good idea!" Mrs. Miller says, giving her son a giant, obvious wink. I really wouldn't mind being swallowed by the floor just about now. And to think, I used to worry about that happening. "Oh, Hun, your pants!" she tuts.

I actually—no joke—bend over to look at my own pants.

That improving comment? Yeah, I don't know what the hell I was thinking.

"That was my fault, Mom," Sasha says loudly, obviously trying to cover up my continuous blunder. It just makes him sound like a grumpy old man, and I think of ear trumpets, and giggle dementedly.

"Sorry," I manage to choke through my acute embarrassment, "Sasha was very excited for me to meet you. And, um, I was too. Definitely."

She laughs a little tinkling laugh, and I guffaw a bit, before purposefully swallowing my tongue. At least I did one thing right. Sasha looks rightfully afraid, and takes my hand gingerly.

"Well, we'd better be off," he says.

I take the cue. "It was really nice meeting you, Mrs. Miller."

"Call me Lana," she simpers, but it somehow comes out like a question. Her eyes are narrowed and her head cocked to the side, like I'm a particularly convoluted sentence she's trying to reason out.

Yeah, good luck with that, lady.

Breaking News: Lacy is an honest-to-God screw up.

Thanks. Really guys, your support is touching. I might cry.

This Just In: We would, too, if we were you.

Cue me stumbling through my door, on the verge of very, very stupid tears. I either want my uncle or my blankie—both of which probably aren't good for me at the moment. Scott because he's being a weird, slightly bipolar good-influence, and my blankie because it currently resides in a dump somewhere in Southern California. Actually, on second thought, San Diego sounds excellent right now. I strip off my stained pants, jump face-down on the couch in my Nacho Power underwear, and pound the leather with my fists.

I just completely screwed any hope of a relationship with Sasha, let alone the rest of humanity, and I take it out on a dead cow.

You know, life just sucks sometimes.