Page 4 of Fatal Sloth
The thrill of having fun became a distant dream, so I found solace in staying in, focusing on school and dance. Those were the only outlets I had during my four years at Juilliard. But even so, I was always looking over my shoulder, anxiously awaiting one or both of them to materialize from thin air and reprimand my choices. Freedom was never real. It was more like a leash. Let out of the cage, but not able to roam freely. My reach was only as long as Dad would allow me to go.
After my trip down memory lane, the idea of ordering something brings more worries than it’s worth. They would see the charges, and the risk of being caught is just not worth it. Who knows what twisted methods they would use to torture me with this time. Without classes to get me out of the house, I’ll be here biding my time until I’m married off to God knows who. Going to Juilliard was a privilege, not an escape plan. I knew that it wouldn’t get me out from under their control––nothing probably ever will––but it was fun while it lasted.
I heave a sigh, grabbing a premixed protein shake from the shelf and the celery from the crisper drawer. Setting the shake on the white marble countertop, I take the celery over to the large sink and start to rinse off the stalks. I grab a knife from the block and the cutting board from behind it and begin to slice it up. The chopping of the knife echoes around the empty kitchen, and I get lost in the peace. The heavy sound of the front door slamming shut and two sets of shoes clipping against the wood floors has my anxiety ratcheting up.
"Dad, Karen," I murmur, not bothering to look up from the task at hand.
Karen gets right to it, not wasting a minute of her precious time. "Have you lost weight?" she probes. The intent behind her words is incomprehensible. Most would find this to be a compliment, but anything she has to say about my appearance always raises my hackles.
And yes, I probably have lost weight. I’m starving, and there is nothing to eat but protein shakes.
"I think I'm the same weight." I shrug, unsure how to navigate her scrutiny. I've maintained it rigorously since I left for Juilliard, heeding Karen’s warnings about avoiding the dreaded 'Freshman fifteen.'
My attempt to clarify earns me a pointed look from Dad, one I’ve seen a hundred times before when it comes to his Stepford wife. Her words aren’t a compliment at all, but I politely comply. "Thank you, Karen," I respond with a forced smile.
Dad announces brunch at the Morelli mansion this Saturday, subjecting me to another opportunity for Karen to cut down the little bit of self-esteem I have left.
"I bought you a dress. It’ll be sent to your room this afternoon," she says, drumming her hot pink nails against the counter. I struggle to keep my face neutral as I internally roll my eyes at the mere thought of what monstrosity she could’ve possibly picked out.
Our tastes have always clashed. Where I prefer soft, neutral hues, Karen gravitates toward vibrant, figure-squeezing ensembles. The thought of the dress she made me wear on my sixteenth birthday still haunts me, a clear reminder of our different styles.
As I contemplate brunch, I know I won’t be able to get out of it, and the insufferable structure at home, I brace myself for yet another clash of opinions––a mere preview of the conflicts awaiting me within their never-ending expectations.
With my snack finally prepared, I slip away from the lively kitchen scene of Karen’s nonstop chatter of this brunch on Saturday and head upstairs. My room, tucked at the end of the hallway, awaits me. It's the smallest of the seven in our house, deliberately chosen because it’s farthest from Dad and Karen’s room. Karen insisted I take this space when she moved in, wanting to keep some distance between us to avoid any potential disruptions to their peace.
I am eager to retreat to the sanctuary of my room. The day has already been taxing, and the last thing I need is another complication. Yet, my momentum falters as I spy a large silhouette of a garment bag dangling from my door handle. The black bag stands out against the familiar cream backdrop of the hallway, an unexpected intrusion into my private space. My mind wanders with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
With a begrudging sigh, I snatch the offending bag from the door and toss it over my shoulder. The door closes behind me with a soft click. I turn my attention to the mysterious bag that I tossed on the bed.
My fingers fumble impatiently with the zipper, the sound grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. My annoyance spikes into outright exasperation the second I see the dress in the bag.
"What is this?" I mutter. The absurdity of this situation is almost too much. Who in their right mind would expect me to wear something so utterly ridiculous?
A red dress spills out onto the bed, though "dress" feels like an overstatement, considering its size. It's not the color that annoys me; it's the sheer audacity of its size. This thing wouldn't even fit a child, let alone me. I can't fathom showing up to brunch with my father dressed like Vivian before she met Edward in Pretty Woman. What was Karen thinking when she chose this? It's moments like these that make me question her judgment regarding appropriate attire and who gave her the authority to dictate my appearance.
With a sharp exhale, I toss the dress aside, the action more forceful than intended. It lands in a heap on the floor, a tangible representation of my frustration. There’s no point in dwelling on Karen's questionable taste in clothing. I'll deal with it, as I always do. But for now, I allow myself a moment to revel in my annoyance.
What would Dad think if he saw me in this? Although I didn't pick it out, Karen would likely lie and say that I gained weight or was wearing it wrong. She's diabolical like that, constantly shifting blame and somehow making everything my fault.
Despite the dress being a complete disaster, I find myself drawn to the idea of trying it on, if only to indulge in a bit of self-pity. After a few minutes of wallowing, I muster up the courage to slip into the offending garment. As I check out my reflection in the mirror, the amusement of it all hits me like a wave, and I can't help but dissolve into giggles. I look like a working girl and not the nine-to-five type, either.
Unable to contain my amusement, I reach for my phone and snap a quick selfie, the laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. It's too funny not to share, so I send it off to my best friend, Cameron.
Me: Can you believe the monstrosity Karen picked out? Call me Vivian!
Cameron’s no stranger to Karen's eccentricities, and I know he'll appreciate the humor in her latest fashion choice. Sure enough, his response comes almost instantly, filled with laughter and light-hearted jest. It's a relief to have someone who can find humor in even the most ridiculous situations and who never fails to lift my spirits.
Cameron: Oh my god, I can't stop laughing! It's like she's trying to bring back fashion crimes from the past.
Me: Right?! I swear, I'm half expecting Richard Gere to come sweeping in any minute now.
Cameron: Or Joey Tribbiani to come sauntering in, asking, "How you doin'?"
Me: But seriously, what am I supposed to do with this thing? I can't wear it to brunch with Dad!
Cameron: No way, you'd steal the show! Although, your ass does look good in that dress.
Me: Thanks, but I need something that covers my whole butt.
