I already pictured her house, a lopsided, barren home with parents who were bikers, or older Goths themselves. Maybe her father had been locked up, and was recently freed, or still in jail. Her mom would be a waitress at a diner, a chain-smoker who works too hard, and who’s too tired to care about anything else than paying the bills. She would probably be as old as time.
A mother who’d cook instant soup with knotted hands—soup that was laden with sodium and spices void of love. Someone whose face had deep wrinkles etched by cigarette smoke and fake smiles. Maybe her parents would be hippies —a family who did not believe in taking showers everyday and used incense to cover up the smell. Her father would have a beard and believe only in goat milk soap. He would grow aromatic herbs in the backyard. He would also want to show me his compost heap in his backyard that smelled like shit, but I would be too nice to say so. Her dad would smoke weed right in front of me. He would invite me to smoke a blunt. He’d say, “Come on, live a little.†I pictured things so foreign to me, things that would have molded something as unique as Siobhán. She would have kept anyone guessing, right?
My childhood was riddled with fond memories of picnicking, hiking, and board games. My childhood was filled with the smell of chocolate chip cookies, and fudge brownies, and crisp pages of books. The house we lived in was a dream. My parents had it built for them specifically before I was born. The house was two stories with cool colors. The living room had light blue walls with big, soft, white couches, and a bookshelf with what my mother considered the classics. There was a reading lamp on the edge of the couch for my mother. When we watched television, she would read whatever tickled her fancy.
The house was always filled with the smell of my mother’s dishes. Every dish she made was filled with love and you could taste it. She cooked savory dishes like quinoa and chicken with Indian spices, and deserts with French chocolate and Belgium vanilla. My mother worked as a librarian. She had curly hair that she kept in a ponytail whenever she went to work. Her glasses were black and made her look younger than she was. Her voice was warm and she was incredibly smart. She always spoke to others with a smile on her face. When she brought home a book she wanted me to read she could hardly control her excitement. She’d call me immediately upon entering the house and tell me, “I have a surprise for you.†Then she take out a book with expert hands, a tell tale sign of a librarian.
Once my father bought a 1940 antique typewriter for my mother. He placed it under a box on her birthday. He’d cut the bottom of the box out and set it up so that she could just pick it up off the typewriter. It was not only romantic but also practical, because that thing weighed a ton. It smelled like old grease. He’d left a page in the carriage that read ‘for your dreams, sweetheart.’ She loved it, and sometimes even let me use it. I spent hours on that old typewriter.
Every night at dinner we talked about our days—about our daily struggles, our daily triumphs. We watched movies while we snacked on popcorn, jujubees, and potato chips. All of us would sit on the couch under the warmth of a fleece blanket. It was my job to hold the popcorn, seeing how I would sit in the middle, and, when the movie lost my interest, or it had to be paused because my dad needed to go to the bathroom, I grabbed a popcorn kernel and rolled it in between my fingers. The grease would rub off on my digits, and I’d slyly run my fingers across my mom’s face. I’d laugh and sniff her cheek. Then, as if unbothered she’d lick her thumb. She’d move her hand to her own face and act like she was going to remove the popcorn grease. It was a trick because in a split second she’d run it across my face. Then we’d just laugh.
On Sunday nights my mother would hand me books to read. Books she’d think I’d like, books that were banned, books that made you think. My mother always wanted me to be the best I could be. She wanted me to think critically of the world around me.
Siobhán was on another planet. She was an immigrant from some distant galaxy who had not yet learned the proper way of doing things. For example, she joined the literary club, like me, but never shared her poems. Once when her friend—the one that dressed from the Victorian age— prodded her to read one out loud, she yelled out “NO!” and crumpled up the paper and plopped it in her mouth. She chewed the wad of paper until it was a slobbery, un-readable, crumpled mess. Her cheek ballooned up, and she looked like a blowfish. I saw the jaw move side to side in wide motions. It sounded crunchy at first like potato chips. She looked around, and Laura laughed softly beside her. I could smell her sweet scent from where I was standing. I felt my brow furrow, and I rubbed my fingers together in disbelief. I have never seen anyone eat paper. I could picture the taste—the dryness of the crisp page and the salty ink dissolving and running down the side of her tongue. She spit the saliva-covered mass in the palm of her hand and played with it for the rest of the club meeting.
She always spoke too loud, about hit points, attacks, planes walkers, and life points. I dreaded the day I’d have to go to her house. I was positive I would become an outcast. People would think I was like her, or worse, that we were friends.
