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    Runt of the Litter – (Chapter: 8. Actor's Mask)

    I tap my fingers on the wall as the two women rail on about my inadequacies. Most people don’t think I’m a popular person. I disagree. I’m very popular. Everyone loves to talk about what’s wrong with me and what a screw-up I am.

    "Look, everybody!" Everybody turns to see my mother coming in. My mother, however, only has eyes for Talise. That’s not— oh god, it is. This is hilarious.

    "It’s the Plums!"

    My eyes dart over to where Talise’s are just returning from their trip to the ceiling. Even as David is pulled over to her, the mask of indifference settles onto her face.

    "Hello, Tali!"

    It’s great not being the most miserable person in the room.

    Dinner takes place in the great dining room which is twice as large as our normal dining room. And, our normal dining room could hold all of us and the Carlins—twelve people—with plenty of room to spare. Having spent the last few frantic moments before the guests arrived setting the table, I know that there are exactly 37 people here today. And 6 turkeys.

    As luck would have it, I’m jostled in between Bianca and Betty on one side and Billy (an old family friend) on the other. Across from me, my grandmother sits stiffly on the wooden seat. Talise is on the other table, trapped next to David.

    We don’t use the great dining room often. When I was younger, I was terrified of its high ceiling and huge emptiness. It still unnerves me. Between the unrelenting disapproval that streams from my grandmother and aunt, the intermittent shrieks from Bianca, and the indifference of a man I barely know, I’m too wound up to eat much. The turkey tastes like sand anyways.

    "Is something wrong with your food?" comes the sudden sharp question from my grandmother.

    "No," I reply, startled. My hand releases its hold on the table cloth.

    "Then, why aren’t you eating anything?" she shoves a plate of squash, which I hate even more than the turkey, towards me. "Stop being rude and eat. Don’t look at me so ungratefully. As though you owe nothing to your mother who worked so hard to raise you and cook this meal." For an instant, my hackles rise, but I master myself while trying not to suffocate on squash.

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