This small act of rebellion set my heart racing when I realized I would be wearing purple nail polish during dinner. My parents would see it and mother might not like it . . .
But then I remembered how they’d accused me of being a liar the night before, how they’d been proud of me because of Billy Winston’s phone call, how they’d been upset one moment and elated the next.
And my heart hardened.
My father usually cooked dinner. He was very particular about food, how it was prepared and what ingredients were used. He was so particular, he never ate anything I baked, not even my banana cake. I guess one could say he was a health nut.
“Jennifer. Come out and set the table,” he called.
I jumped slightly in my desk chair. I’d been absorbed in a letter from one of my pan pals. Anne-Claire Noel lived in the south of France and—for the last six years—had the most enthralling stories about the local nightlife.
She always started all her letters with Jennifer, tu ne croiras jamais ce qui est arrivé ! (Translation: Jennifer, you’ll never believe what happened!)
And she always ended her letters with Quand vas-tu faire payer ces gens pour te faire bosserquatre-vingt (80) heures par semaine ? L'esclavage sous contrat est illégal aux Etats-Unis. (Translation: When are you going to make those people pay you for working eighty hours a week? Indentured servitude is illegal in the USA.)
After so many years of writing letters to my pen pals, I could read and write in French, German, and Japanese. Luckily, my father couldn’t read French. Nor could he decipher my Japanese pen pal’s letters (written in Japanese) which oftentimes included stories that were even more salacious than Anne-Claire Noel’s. He’d tried intercepting a few letters and attempting to translate, but lost interest after a few days.
Thank goodness he didn’t know about Google translate; at least, he didn’t know about it yet. I dreaded the day he discovered its existence. Just in case, I kept the most scandalous letters hidden in various books on my shelves.
I’d only met Anne-Claire Noel once, at a pageant when I was seven and she was eight, but we’d been writing each other since. She was now in law school and had been urging me to formalize my role with the Donner Bakery since I was fifteen. Her most frequent suggestion was that I establish my own corporation and have my momma pay me as a contractor.
I lived vicariously through her capering and I hoped to visit her . . . one day. Of course, she always brought up the fact that—as soon as I formalized the terms of my employment with the bakery—I’d have a lot more of my own money to spend however I liked, including flying to the south of France if I so desired.
I brought up the idea of paying me to my parents when I was nineteen. The conversation did not go well. My father had been furious, so I never brought it up again. I didn’t even like thinking about it, as I knew they would take offense. Besides, I had some money; not a lot and not a bank account. But it wasn’t like my parents were stingy with me. I drove a brand new BMW; it had been a gift for my birthday.
But your momma’s name is on the title, not yours . . .
I set aside the letter and gave my newly painted nails one more glance, then left my room. Without a word, I set the table while remembering the conversation I’d had with my father when I was nineteen, how upset he’d become when I suggested being paid for working in the bakery.
Come to think on it, my parents seemed to get offended no matter what I did.
I bet they’re going to get angry about my nail polish.
Tonight my father was making baked chicken and broccoli with no sauce. I suspected he took perverse pleasure in preparing flavorless—and therefore joyless—food. Therefore, I felt apathetic about his grilled chicken and broccoli, but I’d talked myself into a passionate tizzy about my nail polish by the time dinner was ready and we sat at the table.
I decided if they didn’t like my nail polish, then they could just . . . just . . . not like it, that’s what. They didn’t have to like everything about me.
They aren’t me.
I’m me.
I have to live with me, all day, every day.
And I like the red polish!
“Jennifer?”
I shook myself and met my father’s questioning gaze.
“Yes, sir?” I asked.
“Are you listening?”
I shook my head, balling my hands into fists under the table, preparing myself for a confrontation. “No. I was thinking.”
My parents shared a quick, amused glance, then my father said, “Your momma said you made a butternut squash pie yesterday?”
I nodded, scratching my forehead. “Yes.”
“You didn’t bring it home?”
Why would I? You would never eat it and momma would get after me about my diet.
Quelling these rebellious thoughts, I endeavored to answer without emotion. “Uh, no. I took it to, uh—” I caught myself before I said I took it to Cletus, instead saying, “I took it to the Winstons, along with the compassion cake.”