Seats and Seeds

approx. 2,300 words

           We were all crowded around my cousin's computer playing Monkey Island. We'd been thoroughly addicted for hours, reluctant to move. Our mothers kept trying to entice us away from the computer with promises of Dairy Delite chicken strips and card games. We were not so easily bought, and they eventually retreated into the living room. I'd just secured the second best chair in the room, almost as close to the screen as my cousin, Ryan. He, of course, sat directly in front of the desk in the rolly leather chair that we always ran to and fought over. Reminding us that it was his house, his computer, and his new game, we all fell into place behind him.
         
        "Lorraine, don't take my chair." I said with a stern look. I half-ran out of the room and into the kitchen so that I wouldn't miss Guybrush Threepwood's duel. I poured myself a Pepsi, and the fizz spilled over like it always does onto my aunt's pearl white counter top. I figured I could blame the mess on one of my sisters, so I left the ring of brown liquid there. We're not supposed to have drinks in the computer room, so I looked around the corner so I could sneak my drink in. They sat facing each other in the living room apparently discussing someone that got arrested last week. My ears perked up when they said jail time; I sipped my Pepsi as I listened.

"Why a school bus of all things?" my mother asked.

"I have no idea. His mom probably wouldn't give him any more money," my Aunt Terry

said as she shook her head.

"But did he really think the cops wouldn't catch him? It was parked in his front yard for

Pete‘s sake."

"He's just not that bright. He is your husband's brother after all."

"Ex-husband,” she says dismissively, “I can’t imagine how much he’d get for parts had

he been able to sell it."

"There‘s no telling. And to think he did this right under the bus driver's nose."

         Apparently, my Uncle Kenny saw the school bus parked outside of the Oil and Brine Museum where a fifth grade class was having a fieldtrip. The driver sat doing a crossword puzzle in the stuffy bus as he waited on the children. He was a rotund man of nearly seventy and was sweating profusely. Seeing this easy mark, Uncle Kenny tapped on the door and told the man that he had a flat tire and would be glad to help him with the spare. The driver, looking very grateful but concerned about the tire, hobbled out of the bus to check. Then, Kenny strode onto the bus, sat down as calm as can be, and drove away before the driver could even walk to the back wheels.

"My lans," my mom said with disbelief.

         My mouth was slack-jawed by the end of it, and I couldn't wait to tell my sisters and cousin what I'd learned. I dumped the remaining ice of my drink into the sink and rushed back to the computer room. I wondered where Uncle Kenny had really gone, because when we asked about him, my family would shoo us away or say he was on vacation. Apparently, by vacation they meant prison time for stealing a bus. The story was about to pour out of my mouth.

"Guess what I just found out," I said excitedly upon entering.

         They were still playing the computer game, and the duel was long over but I hardly cared. They barely noticed my entrance and didn't move their eyes from the screen, so I repeated, "Guess what I found out."

"What?" Sarah asked annoyed.

         I gave them a smug smile and then retold the whole account for them, and it was their turns to be slack-jawed. I smiled victoriously and relished in their questions. We sat in silence for a while, each of us replaying how Kenny had thrown the bus driver onto the asphalt and wrestled the keys away from him, leaving the man with a bloody nose and broken teeth as he peeled out of the parking lot in the bus full of terrified school children. I embellished a smidge for creative purposes and did it ever pay off. The excitement had me exhausted and ready to return to Monkey Island.

"All right Lorraine. I'm done with the story. Get up," I said when I noticed she'd taken my

chair.

"Get up what? You took too long."

         I could tell she had zero intention of giving me my chair back. Growing up together, we all had unspoken rules that everyone simply learned to follow, because it's just what you do. Like, the last one to eat out of a bag of chips had to put said bag up. Even if you only wanted one little bite but the original owner stopped eating them, then you had to get up out of your warm cocoon of blankets on the couch and trudge miles to the kitchen to put them away. It was such a pain, but you just did it. Everyone did, even Sarah, the oldest, but apparently Lorraine didn't get the memo about unspoken rules, one of them being you don't take someone else's chair when they're coming right back. For some reason, this really rubbed me the wrong way, and I just wasn't having it.

"Lorraine Emiko, get out of my chair," I said as threateningly as I could.

"Rachel Kay, no," she said, mocking me.

         I looked at Sarah to see if she, my one good sister, would back me up, but all I got in return was a blank stare telling me she was staying out of it. My cousin's eyes stayed glued to the screen, but it was obvious he'd lost interest in the game. I stood behind Lorraine and pulled her chair away from the desk, because she wasn't looking at me. I could tell she thought I was making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe I was, but at this point, I didn't care how I was acting. I wanted her out of my chair, and I wanted her to stop pulling that seniority crap all the time. The realization suddenly hit me that all I wanted to do was beat her up, and I pushed her. Granted, she was already seated, so my grand and revolutionary defiance against my infuriating sister turned into more of a nudge in the shoulder. Nonetheless, she didn't appreciate it and hopped up ready to retaliate. Sarah gave us room by backing into the corner to watch.

         We stared each other down for several seconds, long enough to assess one another. Lorraine was fifteen; I was eleven. She had a slight weight advantage, but my anger fueled my confidence. She tackled me to the floor with a thud, and I had time to silently thank my aunt for having the computer room both carpeted and full of rugs. She was getting ready to jump on me, and I promptly stuck my leg up so my foot caught her in the torso as she doubled over next to me. Then, the slapping and pulling ensued. We were both scrambling around on the ground hitting each other sideways, and Sarah and Ryan exchanged worried looks and one of them managed to get out a weak, "Uh, guys?" We both had each other by the hair pulling as hard as we could in a fierce grip that made our eyes bulge.

"Let go," I half yelled at her. We didn't want to get caught after all.

"You let go," she half yelled back.

She yanked; I yanked. I clawed; she clawed. All we were getting out of this was bruises

and a rug burn.

"All right. Okay. Let go on the count of three."

"Fine."

"One. Two. Three," we said together.

         We both held on. It figured that we didn’t trust each other. She pinched the back of my neck like my mother does when we act up and laugh in church. A cheap shot. I dug my nails into her forearm, because it breaks the skin and I know how she hates blood.

"We're going to try this again," I said.

"All right," she managed to groan since my knee was pressing hard into her ribs.

"One. Two. Three."

         We shoved away from each other and lay staring at the ceiling; our breath came out in exhaustive heaves. We were laying close enough to touch, one throw rug apart. She managed to slap the back of my hand; I slapped hers. We felt the stinging, red welts rise to form the perfect outlines of our hands. They seemed imprinted forever, and still, we lay there as the music from Monkey Island consumed the background.
                                                       
                                                          ***

         Little sunflower seeds cover our apartment, and I’ve had it. They’re in the couch cushions, under the bath mat, on top of the stove, under my bed, on the windowpane, in the hamper, anywhere but in the trashcan.

“Lorraine, pick up your damn seeds,” I yell at her from the kitchen.

“All right,” she says apathetically.

         She’s been saying ‘all right’ for weeks, and still, I find shells everywhere. I watch her as she opens a jumbo package of them and scoops a handful into her mouth, barely making a dent in the mounds of seeds still remaining. I hate my mom for joining Sam’s Club. I watch Lorraine as she sucks the salt from the shells, splits the seeds open with her teeth, and flicks the inedible part across the room. It lands on my backpack. I look at her exasperated. “What,” she says innocently, “I’m addicted.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you are. Pick up your damn seeds.”

         We moved in together less than a month ago, and already I want to kill her. Our Uncle Kenny is supposed to come over today to help us decorate our apartment, and I want the place looking half way decent when he gets here. A good dose of Trading Spaces became his savior during his house arrest, and now, he has given up his petty crimes and is completely devoted to the art of home décor. When he shows up, he has a whole binder full of his sketches and notes all inspired from the show. He even brings a color palette for the wall paint, fabric samples for the curtains, and a catalogue full of furniture. I think he missed the part about us being poor when I talked to him on the phone.

“Did you watch the Miss America pageant last week,” he asks while we rearranged

furniture.

“Nope. Must have missed it,” Lorraine says.

“I figured, so I taped it for ya’ll,” he smiles as if no thank you is necessary.

         I look at Lorraine meaningfully. We both hate pageants and never watch the tapes he brings us. They’ll go in the box full of the other pageant tapes along with the Nancy Drew books that he gives us every Christmas and birthday. After we set up the tables and chairs in a “feng shui’’ manner, as Kenny calls it, he shoos us out of the room, so he can surprise us with the decorations.

“Oh God, I’m worried. Did you see the zebra print fabric he had in his bag?” Lorraine

asks me. I shake my head empathetically.

         We don’t have beds yet, so we lay on the pallets we’ve made on the floor. After a while of staring at the brass doorknob, I hold out my fist expectantly. Knowingly, she sits up to play.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot,” we say. She places her paper over my rock victoriously.

“Two out of three,” I say. She hesitates, unwilling to risk her win.

“We always do two out of three. You’re playing,” I command.

         She concedes, and we play again. The game has intensified, so I pull back my hair and do the next round without sound. Her rock crushes my scissors, and I groan. These games are very serious, and she’s earned bragging rights for several minutes until I punch her in the kidney. She stops immediately; we both feel like winners now. “I’m done,” Uncle Kenny yells. We exchange worried glances and head down stairs.

         Walking into the living room is like walking into the lamp from I Dream of Jeannie. Buttery yellow, rosy pink, and ginger orange scarves cascade from the ceiling in low-hanging waves. The room seems to glow in a dramatic pink hue, so much so, that I wonder if he put in pink frosted light bulbs. He stashed the TV in the closet saying it wasn’t aesthetically pleasing, and put up Arabian inspired paintings on every inch of the far wall. “Well? What do you think?” he asks. “It’s great,” I reply in a falsetto voice. We continue to shower him with compliments that are equal to those we give him every time we get yet another Nancy Drew book. He takes every one of our ooh’s and aah’s seriously and practically dances out the apartment door when leaving.

“Well, there’s definitely no zebra print,” I tell Lorraine encouragingly.

“Right,” she says.

         We spend the next two hours taking everything down and setting our TV back up. The Uncle Kenny box is bulging, and I make a mental note to get a bigger one next time. We fall back on the couch, letting the freefalling wind cool us down, and a sunflower seed bounces up into the air next to my face.

“Lorraine,” I start.

“All right. I’ll pick up my damn seeds,” she says getting up. I sit contently watching her

crawl on the floor, her hands full of old shells.