My Brain Takes Me Freaky Places

I twitch, gulp milk,

slam the glass back on the table.

A salad plate jumps.

Claude the Interloper frowns.

Mom winces.

Sister giggles.

“Hey, squirt,” I say,

pinning girl-thoughts

to the mat and

gaining control

of my brain.

                “Do you like my princess hat?”

She tilts her head toward me

like I might not otherwise

notice the pink cone,

its lace ribbon dangling

close to her mac and cheese.

I move the plate a little.

“So you’re a princess now.”

                    “No, Brendy, it’s just

                      for Halloween!”

A gap    toothed smile.

I was twelve

when she was born.

Everyone said we looked alike.

Mom’s gray-blue eyes,

Dad’s cheekbones.

But Courtney has it all over me

in the hair department—

hers thick, wavy, and long.

Mine straight, short, and,

I swear, already falling out.

Still, she’s my favorite person

besides my girlfriend, Vanessa.

(Sounds lame, I know.)

I’m not religious; in fact

I’m not sure I even believe in God

           (though we used to go

           to church religiously [ha]),

but from the second Dad

put her

into my arms,

burrito-wrapped

in a little pink blanket,

innocent face

and tiny fingernails,

I saw Divine

attention to detail.

So small.

So perfect.

It’s not a guy thing,

but I like babysitting.

Andy called her chick bait.

We used to push her stroller

to the park

and girls would wander over

to oooh

to ahhh.

When Courtney

took her first steps

toward me

Dad called me smitten.

Mom called me Little Mother.

That homey scene in eighth grade,

on my baby sister’s first birthday.

Exactly one month before

Mom, the harp player, left

Dad, the biomedical engineer, for

Claude, the Interloper.

Conductor of San Diego Philharmonic.

His orchestra’s music

poison to my father’s ear.

Dad’s banished—2,000 miles away.

          (Not that we hung out a ton

          when he lived closer

          but at least it was an option.)

Now he’s president of a biotech firm,

seen only in summer

when Mom needs to dump us—

          “Thanks, James! Ta-ta!!!”—

so she can tour with

her new                    (and improved)

husband.

          “Big plans tomorrow?”

          she asks.

“Party at Andy’s.”

          Claude the Interloper

          raises an eyebrow.

He doesn’t like Andy,

hates the way he just walks

into the house without knocking.

Thinks it’s rude that Andy

checks out the food in our kitchen

when he’s hungry

and maybe it is—

but I do the same thing at his house

and have since seventh grade,

a year before any of us were aware

of the Interloper’s sorry existence.

                    “I wanted to ask if you’d

                    take Courtney

                    trick-or-treating first.”

Don’t mind the trick-or-treating

but I’m tortured by the reason

Mom’s asking.

She’s recovering from

“an enhancement procedure”

and SURPRISE she’s sore.

Still, I avert my eyes

from her new shape

and nod yes.

                     “What are you going to be?”

                     Court asks.

Now there’s a question

and a depressing memory.