Black has always been my favorite color. From the time I was a baby in the cradle, it called to me. While my parents draped my nursery in pink, peppered my wardrobe with purple, bedazzled my boudoir in beaded splendor, I caterwauled from my crib, protesting the abomination of color surrounding me. No doubt, my bewildered folks just thought I had a case of colic, but my unhappiness had nothing to do with gas or mysterious baby ailments—bawling was the only way I could rail against the indignity of being forced to don pastels and frills.
As I grew, I insisted black was my favorite color, even when those around me, kindergarten teachers included, insisted it wasn’t a color at all. My black marker was always the first to run dry, my black crayon always the first to wear down to a nub. When the other girls scrambled to compete for the pink and purple construction paper, I grappled with the boys, desperate to pluck my preferred pigment from the pack. So, basically my point is this: I like black. A lot.
Weirdo. Emo. Freak. All these words have been hurled at me, but I am none of these things.
I erased the last paragraph before hitting the Publish button. Other people would read it after all. Well, maybe. This happened to be my very first post on my new blog and I didn’t have any followers yet, but if I did happen to attract readers, I didn’t want to repel them by pointing out what an oddity I was among my peers.
“Abby,” my dad bellowed from the foot of the stairs.
I rolled my eyes and shouted in the direction of my bedroom door. “Uh, yeah. I’ll be down later. I’m doing homework.”
“Homework can wait,” he replied, sounding testy. “Come downstairs. We have a surprise for you.”
We. Ugh. We meant my mother was home. And, surprise meant something horrible awaited. Super. I’d rather do homework.
“Be right there,” I shouted. Snapping my laptop closed, I jumped up from my bed and reached out to lock my door. With hurried hands, I removed my skull earrings and placed them in the tiny crystal bowl on the dresser. Then, I yanked my black shirt off, hurled it in a corner, and replaced it with a pink sparkly designer shirt from my closet. It was a garment I’d never be caught dead in outside my house, but I figured it was easier to change clothes than listen to my mother complain about my outfit.
“Abigail?” My dad sounded really irritated now.
“Coming,” I yelled as I flung open my bedroom door and ran down the stairs. My parents were in the kitchen, sitting across from each other at our unused kitchen table. It was unused because every night, my dad brought dinner in a paper bag. We usually ate Chinese, but not always. One ritual remained the same—we never ate together. Every night, we scooped our takeout offering onto a plate and scattered in different directions: me to my room, my mother to her office, and Dad to his favorite recliner in front of the TV.
The first thing I noticed when I reached the kitchen was the countertop was empty, not a morsel of food in sight. My mom was home earlier than usual, so maybe that was why Dad hadn’t picked up dinner. Maybe we were ordering in. Or maybe we were going out to celebrate the end of my first week of high school.
My father looked up and smiled. “How was school, Princess?”
“Great.”
“How does it feel to be a freshman in high school?” he asked.
“Awesome.”
My mom’s face was pinched and strained, but that wasn’t unusual. “Why aren’t you wearing your new jeans? Those jeans are too small. They make your thighs look big. I hope you didn’t wear those to school.” Her eyes traveled up the length of my body, finally resting on my hair.
“I changed when I got home,” I lied. Relief relaxed her features just a little. “Yeah, I spilled a glass of water on my new pants, so I put these on.” When her gaze left mine, I leaned over slightly so I could see my thighs. They did look big, but I couldn’t really blame that on the jeans.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked, scanning the kitchen. It was after seven. My stomach growled.
“Your mom and I have something to tell you.” Dad reached across the table and grabbed Mom’s hand.
Mom smiled at me, but her face looked tight, her eyes watery. “We’re having a baby, Abby.”
All the air was sucked from the room. I couldn’t breathe. Baby. How was that possible? My parents were old. They didn’t even particularly like each other. How could this have happened? Well, I knew how it happened obviously, but ewww! Gross.
“Aren’t you excited, Abby?” my dad asked after several heartbeats of strained silence. “A new little brother or sister. Won’t that be fun?”
“Um, yeah.” My mouth struggled to curve into a smile. “That’s great.”
But, I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t great. Not at all. Did this mean Mom would be home more often? Or, did this mean I’d be pressed into babysitting duty every weekend when she had emergency meetings with clients and Dad was busy in the garage working on his car? Maybe it was a selfish thought, but I couldn’t help but think about how the new baby would affect me.
“We’re going out to celebrate,” Dad said.
“Cool. Where are we going?” I asked, hoping for something besides Chinese.
“Oh, sorry, Abby.” Mom stood up and grabbed her purse from the back of the kitchen chair. “Your dad and I are going by ourselves. We have a lot to talk about.” She fixed my dad with a steely look. It occurred to me she wasn’t very excited about the baby at all.
“I’ll have Ming’s deliver something,” Dad reassured me. I resisted the urge to gag. “Mongolian beef okay, Princess?”
“Sure.”
Chinese food again. Alone. On a Friday night. While my parents talked about the new baby who would soon take over our house. Great start to the school year. Happy Ninth Grade.
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