Pencils & Polaroids

25: thanks-spilling

Thanksgiving is only fun when you're in a place around people that you're actually thankful for. Pacing around the front yard of my father's new house with a Banoffee Tart is bad enough, add on the dark sea green-colored dress that my mother forced me to wear. Despite the stockings, I don't like how the dress only reaches the middle of my thigh. The added hairstyle where half of my blonde hair is pulled back and secured with a clutch and the other half is freely flowing down is starting to show the nervous goosebumps arising on the back of my neck. My outfit sure isn't handing out the "I'm grateful to have you in my life" vibes.

If I had my car and the heart to bail, I'd have left this tart in front of their door, rung the bell, and made headway for Malibu.

Probably the reason why my mother decided to give me a ride. She all but said that she wanted an outside glimpse of her ex-husband's house but knowing her, I know she's scared of my capability of running away when things get tough.

After wasting nearly ten minutes in my father's massive yard, I muster up the courage to climb the white minimalistic porch. The black door pinned with a wreath might look absolutely normal and welcoming to the people in Rumford, but to me, it's like Elijah Mikealson's infamous red door.

On the other side of this door, I can confirm the presence of a college-going boy who might gaslight me into murdering him, a middle-aged man who resembles my personality and hence will definitely make it so awkward that I would rather kill myself than spare another pity talk and then, there's the Bridgerton-groomed lady who for all I know can turn out to be my evil step-mother. Except, she's not evil, but that would've been so much cooler for a backstory. Snow White-Cinderella inspired and all.

I manipulate my feet to take another step with a rehearsed flow of schedule. Things to do once I get inside: (a) Greet Annabeth, and ignore the other two creatures. (b) Hand over the tart without needing any reminding again. (c) Zip your mouth shut until dinner is served. (d) Eat quickly for god's sake (but do not messily hog). (e) Say goodbye before walking (running) out of the house. (f) Call mom (or run to mom, whichever's sooner).

I nod to myself, assuring my creatively crafted mind for making such practical to-do lists for all situations in my life. I can do this, (I hope) but I say it as if I've already achieved it. I'm starting to feel a little proud of myself already.

But I should at least get inside now. Okay, I can do this. This is all pretty easy. Six easy steps. I will be in and out before anyone can make out.

I ring the bell and the thought of keeping the tart on the doormat and disappearing doesn't seem like such a bad idea either. My legs begin to move backwards as if independently urging me to make decisions that are against the rules of my mind.

I hear the locks turning and I know it's too late to do anything my instinct is hinting at. Annabeth's soft black eyes crinkle at the way she smiles at me. Her poised demeanor doesn't skip a beat or a posture when she takes a step back with hands laced in front of her lap followed by a kind, practiced nod that makes me feel all the more welcome and awkward to enter her house.

"Park, hi," her eyes widen. "Happy thanksgiving--oh, you look beautiful."

My lips fold inwards to hold back the emerging laugh. What can I say? She called me beautiful within five seconds of seeing me. Just when I thought I couldn't get any more awkward, I'm called beautiful by my father's new wife.

I glance at my shining pair of black boots. "Umm, thanks. Anna." When have I ever called her Anna? "Annabeth." I immediately correct it. Suddenly, I debate inside my head if her name is Annabelle or Annabeth. (My mother has successfully made me crazy) "You look too beautiful. No, beautiful too. Like the end of that sentence. Reversing the last two words, my grammar is normally very good. I topped the school--okay, you get it." Does she? "Right?"