u/bitesized778

This is a short story I wrote for the monthly writing challenge on peliplat.com! You can access the link on my profile (I go under the pseudonym SUNS -- IG: suns.778).

If you like this short story, check out the site and submit your own work for this months theme: Dinner Party From Hell.

STORY:

Out of the two of us, Matilda is, by far, the most unpredictable of the family. This is not a critique or slam on my sister. It's a fact. Matilda, the fire starter, the thief, the kid years ago who started selling pirated DVDs at her high school for no reason at all other than the fact that she was bored, and she wanted money. Back in high school, my parents shook the misdemeanour, claiming it was just a phase redefining Matilda's strength: she wanted to prove her independence; an entrepreneur at heart, she was. The not-so-golden, eldest sibling.

Although Matilda quickly outgrew her criminal ways, it was just the beginning of her chaotic lifestyle. It all began with Gilbert, her grade-twelve beau, who was simply remembered for his lack of hygiene. To be fair, I barely remember Gilbert. He came and went with the wind, but he left a definitive stink in his wake, one that Matilda had seemingly absorbed over their two-week romp and now exuded. It took her a solid year to return to normal; a full week before she finally showered, and even then that smell persisted. Until she met Mick, in undergrad. On the surface, Mick was much cleaner. Admittedly, he had greasy hair, but he also had the decency to wear deodorant and perfume to cover things up. The only considerably unforgiveable trait that Mick had was the gross habit of grabbing his feet whenever he sat down. That, and also being a two-timing liar. For some reason, the foot-grabbing thing was so much worse for me (not for Matilda). Barefoot or socked, his hands always managed to find a way between his toes as he talked, and for whatever reason, soon Matilda took on the habit as her own.

We learned the lesson quickly with foot-gate. My mom tried to wean Matilda out of that bad habit as discreetly as she could. However, things went sideways fast. Doors were slammed. Matilda ran out of the house crying. She stayed with Mick for a week while my mom wailed about her failures before heading to bed. When Matilda came back, that habit lingered for ages. I think she still does it now.

So, over the years, as the men Matilda fraternized with got weirder, we became adept at skirting around the subject. At least, I thought so.

It was only a few days ago when our mother pulled me into the kitchen, disgust on her face, and said: "That new fella of hers, Lorne, has to go."

Of course, I nodded emphatically. He did. It was clear. He wasn't good. He changed Matilda for the worse and it was noticeable as hell. Like, last time we hung out, Matilda was second-guessing everything about herself. She thought she looked too fat. She couldn't make the basic decision of eating at home or going out. When I asked her what she wanted, she looked to her new man for an answer. Don't even get me started on how she's decided that our mutual passion for The Clockwork Angel trilogy is lame now.

And my dad added: "Lorne, what in the hell kind of a name is Lorne?"

And, I nodded because it was true, what the hell kind of name is Lorne?

But I thought we were just ranting. Taking things off our chest because it'd been about two weeks since she started seeing him and we met him once, which was enough. He was mean, okay? He was needlessly judgy and rude and he called me a geek for liking Avatar: The Last Airbender, so yes, I was peeved. I didn't think I was agreeing to anything, definitely not an intervention of all things seeing that Matilda and I were already on thin ice from last time, but apparently my parents had different plans.

It all starts over the passing of peas. Mom is flustered because Lorne is here and that means Matilda is going to be meaner than usual. She is dumping a plateful of peas on her daughter's plate when Lorne, Matilda's new boyfriend, offhandedly mentions: "The chicken is a tad on the dryer side."

He plays with his bite as he speaks, using his fork to turn the limp piece of chicken over on his plate.

He had that nonchalant expression that most assholes do. The kind that is hard to pin blame on just because of how innocuous the sentiment is. Matilda doesn't seem to mind, at the very least. She doesn't even seem to notice the sudden tension in the room when mom sighs and takes the bowl of peas with her back into the kitchen, claiming that she had a cake to check on in the oven. And, so, I, her other daughter, am left with a mere piece of chicken on my plate and no peas.

And stupid Lorne just chews on a piece of lettuce like some half-tranquilized cow with his tongue all droopy and eyes red.

So then our father pipes up, staring at his beloved eldest daughter and says, "Your mom worked really hard on making dinner, you know?"

"I know," said Matilda, still completely unaware of the conflict that is transpiring in front of her.

I grab the wine and pour until my glass is full.

"You know, she spent the whole day yesterday in the kitchen, working on that chicken," he continued. His voice gets louder. He starts to emphasize random words, waiting for Matilda to catch on. Still, Matilda takes no notice.

"Yes, it's good," she nods innocently, taking a bite.

"Tilly," sighs our father, clasping his hands together. Oh boy, here it comes. I take a big swig. The alcohol burns on the way down but it is nicer than the next few words that come out of our father's mouth, "I think we need to have a discussion."

Fuck. Okay, so this is happening. Matilda looks up from her plate slowly. She forms a loose fist around her knife. I take another dark, red swig.

I'm thinking, we're in for a shit show. She did the same thing when I called Lorne an insecure little bitch with masculinity issues after he made fun of me. First, her hands turned to fists. She always does that when she's upset. I told her, "I'm kidding, but seriously, he's a little bitch"– not the smartest move because she didn't find it funny at all. She left that day. Just stormed out after declaring that she never wanted to talk to me again. And I screamed at her, "And fuck you, too!"

Not my finest moment, but at least she showed up to dinner today.

Anyways– I chug my first glass– mom sucks for pulling this.

"It's about... the company you keep," our father speaks carefully, trying not to look directly at Lorne.

To Lorne's credit, he politely continues picking at the veggies and chicken.

Dumbass, I think harshly. He knows Matilda's there for the rescue. He doesn't need to do anything.

"What?" Matilda chews open-mouthed. I refill. I take another swig.

"The company you... keep... defines who you become. People can judge you for it, you know?" Our father tilts his head obviously at Lorne, begging her to get on the same page. Matilda resolutely plays innocent, scrunching her eyebrows together, daring my father to say it.

I'm thinking of ways we could end this now. Maybe a knife to the eye. It would feel less painful than whatever this is. Lorne grabs Matilda's hand over the table. To stop her? Restrain her? Comfort her? I can't tell but her shoulders noticeably relax at the touch.

Just then our mother walks back in with oven mitts on, ears perked and ready. I wonder how long she's been listening in for. She plops herself down. I wonder what happened to the cake. Or the peas. Compared to everyone else's plates, mine is nearly empty and it is way too late to do anything about it. I help myself to another drink.

"Your mother is a big part of who you are, and who you bring in can't only be compatible with you, you know?" Dad continues, now on a roll. He moves his burly hands in a circle as he talks about compatibility.

"What are you talking about? You literally told us how Nana hated mom," Matilda rolls her eyes.

"That's different," our mother snaps, "and she didn't hate me. She just... didn't know me."

"Okay, cool." The room falls silent. Matilda spears a carmelized carrot and pops it in her mouth. Lorne keeps his head down.

My mother looks at me. I keep my eyes on the chicken.

"It's just that," our mother hedges, "when you come over for dinner and see that someone has cooked a whole meal for you, the only polite thing to do is eat the food given because you know how much labour she'd put into it–"

"Oh my god," Matilda releases her cutlery so that it clatters loudly on the table, "Is all of this because he said the chicken was dry?"

"I was just joking–" Lorne tries to say, but everyone ignores him.

"Liar," I mutter under my breath, downing my drink.

"So, you heard him say it?" Our mother raises an eyebrow.

"Of course, I heard him say it! Why are you making such a big deal–"

"Well," our father interrupts, but Matilda jumps up in her chair, all red-faced.

"He's literally eating it right now! Look!" All of us turn to face him. Lorne's face turns bright red; he forces another bite of chicken down. Matilda scoffs, "Who's judging now?"

"We aren't judging," begins Dad, all plaintive now. The world is spinning slightly now, which is a good sign. I take another swig, "We just want what's best for you, sweetheart."

"Best for me?" Matilda yells, a little louder than what is necessary for the occasion, in my opinion, "What's best for me is having supportive parents who accept the people I love."

Woah, I take another big gulp. That is a huge declaration. I'd never heard Matilda use that word for a guy in my life. My mother glares at me, waiting for me to speak up. I stare at the plate of veggies, stomach growling. I could stand up and grab it, but it'd draw too much attention to me. Mom would definitely make me say something.

"Love?!" Now it is my father's turn to stand up, "What the hell has he done to deserve love? He couldn't even be bothered to help with the dishes last time!"

Out of most of the men Matilda hung out with, Lorne was probably the best. He was still an asshole, though. He was really good at putting people down without getting in trouble for it. Like when Matilda talked about her favourite book, Persuasion, one time and he scoffed, saying how those books are substanceless and require little to no thinking.

Maybe the real question nobody is willing to ask was why Matilda felt drawn to insecure assholes. Whatever the case, though, Lorne was right about one thing, I think as I chew on the scraps of food still on my plate, the chicken is a little dry.

"Yes! Love!" Declares Matilda, jutting her lower lip like she did when she was younger. Her eyes flash petulantly as she grabs Lorne's hand and holds it up. He grips his fork like his life depends on it, and as Matilda yells, the small piece of chicken on the single spear that had pierced through it, flies one way and then the other, "I love him!"

"You've only just met him!" Yells mom.

"So have you!" Screams Matilda through gritted teeth.

I take another swig, surprised to find my glass empty. Well, it makes sense because I am getting a little bit giggly now. Matilda's head snaps towards me.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I hiccup, taking another sip. I glance at my mom, trying to change the subject, "Dinner's delicious."

At that, Matilda flings her lover's hand down. The fork goes crashing into the carpet, I'm sure, leaving an oily stain on the silk strands. I'm sure my mother's heart twists in fury, although she keeps shockingly quiet. I'm sure I make things ten times worse by bursting out in a fit of laughter. I can't help it. The moment is too tense, too dramatic to stay sane. And it hits me, what I just said. And, besides, the wine is delicious.

"Sit down," commands my mother in her scary-still voice, so effective that it instantly works on Matilda.

Matilda sits down.

"Mrs. Owens, the food is good. I didn't mean–"

"Oh, shut up Lorne. They don't deserve your apology."

"I was just trying to–"

"It's just that we want you to be with someone who is good for you," our mother interjects.

Lorne looks down again. I stare at the growing bald spot at the top of his head. A recessive crown pattern, I think. An inverted halo. Or a volcano because the top of his head is going red now, too. Any second and he was going to implode.

"June agrees with me, too," Mom adds, pointing at me.

Fuck. I look up, swaying slightly in my seat.

The betrayal that flashes in Matilda's eyes is heartbreaking. She doesn't have a word to say.

"June?" Mom urges.

I sigh and take a sip from my empty glass, and when I find it empty, I pour myself another drink.

"Spit it out," Matilda seethes, "Everyone's already said their part, so just do it."

"You just deserve better," I slur.

Matilda rolls her eyes.

"Right, and?" she challenges.

"And... he puts you down and makes you feel bad and you deserve better and we love you," I continue against my better judgment.

Matilda is ready to slap me, I can feel it.

"He doesn't," she declares, visibly shaking with anger, "He is supportive and friendly and–"

"He stares a lot," my dad piqued up. Everyone turned to look at him, "He just sits and stares and doesn't say anything sometimes and it makes me uncomfortable."

"I can't say anything to that..." Matilda drifts off, shoulders slumping.

"He made fun of your books," I add.

"I was talking about a stupid series anyways!" Matilda exclaims.

"It's the Clockwork series! We loved it!" My indignance overtakes me even though I hadn't touched those books in years.

"In high school!"

"He doesn't respect you!" I yell back.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Matilda throws her arms up. She grabs Lorne and forces him to his feet, "I'm done. I'm not going to listen to a drunk still living with her parents about who I can or cannot see. I love Lorne, okay. I love him."

"He still lives with his parents!" I throw my head back laughing, "You both live with his parents, how is that any better?"

"Hey–" Lorne opens his mouth.

"Shut up!" Matilda screams, cutting him off.

The fire alarms go off. My mother jumps up and runs to the kitchen again.

"I forgot the cake!"

"You are all fucking crazy!" Matilda yells over the sirens.

"Dinner was great," Lorne says to nobody in particular, as Matilda yanks him away. The front door slams shut.

"That went well, don't you think? Considering the circumstances?" My father asks me and, to be honest, I agree. It could have gone much worse.

END