Page 39 of The PTA President
“Oh, trust me, the way I’m about to eat this pussywillbe all about me.” I let out a hungry growl, anticipating how delicious she’s going to taste.
ChaptEr 28
Natalie
I’m jittery the entire drive to my parents’ house. Nothing helps. Chugging two energy drinks only increased my heart rate, just like the warning on the can said it would.
“Dude, calm the hell down. You're shaking the car with your leg twitches,” Megan warns, driving like a madwoman. We left at the ass crack of dawn because she hates traffic and loves soaking up as much time as possible with our mom and dad. The drive is only a few hours, so there was no need to leave before the sun came up. Now, the sun is blaring into my retinas, causing temporary blindness, all thanks to her ridiculous planning.
“You’re one to talk, you’re practically scratching your skin off. Nobody’s gonna believe that’s not a stress rash building on your neck. It looks contagious,” I sneer, keeping a skeptical eye on her disgusting skin condition.
“Shut up. Iamstressed. I’m an empath, fucking sue me. I can feel your negative energy radiating through your body andmaking its way to me. Plus, there’s this couple who comes into the cafe every morningjustto flirt with me, and I don’t know, it’s getting to me,” she mumbles, digging her sharp nails against her jawline.
“Acouple? As in both the manandthe woman are flirting with you? Are you sure they’re not just cheap and trying to score free coffee?” It’s not the first time she’s had some strange customer pester her for free iced coffee.
“Oh, trust me, I’m sure. The wife wears these low-cut tops, and the husband practically gropes her right in front of me and asks what I think.”
“Well, how are they?” Playfully, I elbow her shoulder, teasing her in the way she constantly does to me.
“Grow up,” she deadpans, leaving me laughing by myself. “There’s nothing appealing about putting my face between a woman's legs, so don’t even test me. This couple, though, is relentless. I’m stealing Dad’s pepper spray.”
“Okay, that’s a little extreme. Just because the exhibitionist couple is spicing up their love life doesn’t mean they deserve to get maced in a coffee shop.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not being sexually harassed daily. I’m one more boob touch away from joining a support group,” she says frantically, turning into the driveway.
I don’t bother looking over at the house I lived in before. To me, that house doesn’t even exist. It could burn to the ground, for all I care. In fact, I’ve spent many nights contemplating it. Therapists say you should write your grievances and then burn them. The same goes for homes never filled with love.
“Coming?” she asks, slamming the door and grabbing her luggage from the backseat, bringing me back from my violent daydream.
“Girls!” Our mom rushes out of the house, short blonde hair sticking up at every angle. Bold, colorful makeup smeared allover her eyelids, and cheeks covered in flour. What she lacks in height, coming in at barely five feet, she more than makes up for with the tone of her voice. She’s all the things I love in a typical stay-at-home mom: warm and bubbly, but also loud and silly. This woman would live in the kitchen if she could. In all the years I’ve lived here, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her famous red and white checkered apron.
“Dennis, they’re here! Get moving!” she shouts, her voice echoing through the quiet neighborhood. When she’s not baking every muffin recipe from the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, she’s bossing our dad around, insisting he’s not moving at an acceptable pace. Somehow it works because they’ve been together for almost thirty years.
Megan rushes past her, bags in hand, heading for our dad first. Meanwhile, I’m left to fight off her million sticky kisses. She insists lip gloss is the greatest invention since the KitchenAid mixer, but she buys an off-brand that leaves behind the evidence and sticks to your cheeks for days.
“Come in, come in. It’s freezing out here. You two weigh about a hundred pounds together. You’re going to blow away if you linger out here much longer.” She pushes me inside, taking my duffel bag with her.
Instantly, I’m graphically attacked by nostalgia. This house was built in the 50's, and no one has changed anything since, except for the occasional appliance upgrade, or two. Our mom has stayed at home since she was first married and has kept this place in pristine condition. Dinner on the table by five, homemade breakfast buffets on the weekends, and holidays that would make an event planner jealous.
This part draws me to Candace, it’s a familiarity. Growing up with someone who was always around played a pivotal role in growing up. There’s so many similarities between those two: the way they’ve laid down their dreams for their children, andhave made their home a place of safety and refuge. Before this, I didn’t have that. Nobody was home cutting the crust off my turkey and cheese, and my former mother rarely remembered when crazy hair day was. Megan would show up to school with five different lunch options, and always had the coolest hair on crazy hair day.
I love my mom, and I could never thank her enough for what she’s done for me. The fact that she was home every day when I burst in from school, sweaty and complaining about the lack of diversity within the literature they were feeding us, was a lifesaver. Being a daughter to a stay-at-home mom isn’t the same experience as being in a relationship with one. For starters, my mom would nail me to the wall if I encouraged her to get out there and find a hobby or a job.
I literally can’t help it with Candace, and obviously, it keeps getting me in trouble. She’s just so stuck in her ways, and I don’t want that for her. I’m so freakishly obsessed with the chick, but I need her to take off this exhausting mask and let the real woman inside loose.
“Snap out of it, we’re here to relax,” Megan scolds, knocking me out of my trance once again as she barrels through the living room like a bull in a china shop.
“What’s she snapping out of?” Dad asks, finally joining us all in the living room, where apparently I’ve been staring at the brown paneling that hides behind our family portrait wall.
“She’s in love with a single mom. It’s their first time apart, and she’s tripping out.” Megan laughs, plopping down on the floral-patterned couch.
“Single mom?” he asks, pretending Megan hasn’t already filled them in on all my dirty gossip. “How wonderful! Did she use a sperm donor, or were the children adopted?”
“Oh, she’s straight. The twins came from their dad’s ball sack,” Megan puts her two cents in, as if she hasn’t done enough in the four minutes we’ve been here.
“Megan, what the fuck! You’re disgusting.” I throw one of my mom’s many hand-crocheted pillows at her face while my dad bends over laughing at his unfiltered daughter.
“Can we at least eat first before we start the interrogation?”
