Creative Writing Piece. Yay!

This is a creative writing piece I did back in my senior year of high school. Enjoy!

 

Installment One: When Somebody Asks You How You’re Doing, You’re Supposed to Say Fine

             You know those movies that make you think to yourself, “Psh, life isn’t like that.” You know those movies. Like the father is cheating on the wife, and in the mean time the daughter takes up a part-time stripper job, while the seven year old son is a child prodigy who has read the dictionary eight times. You know the extremes. The thing is that these movies try to make it as realistic as possible, but funnily enough, the more they try, the less realistic they get. I like to call it the “Only in the Movies” theory because honestly, life is not that dramatic.
            Except mine is. I think it is fair to say my life is more ridiculous than those movies because it is real life. If I were to tell you about my life without notifying you it was a true story, I guarantee you would immediately assume it was some cheesy movie. My life epitomizes the concept of the “Only in the Movies” theory, except it is not in the movies. It is very, very real.

            Exhibit A: My family. Yesterday, for example, dinnertime rolls around. We sit around our rectangular table in our unofficial assigned seats. I guess it was some special occasion because my dad had grilled steak. Medium rare. First off, it was Tuesday. My father never cooks on weekdays, let alone steak. We normally get takeout or cook microwave dinners. You would never know that, however, because it is always very formal looking: The table set, silverware perfectly aligned on the right side of our plate, and a glass of iced water placed on the left side. Our dinner selection, whether it be Chinese takeout or microwave dinners, is placed on a serving platter in the middle of the table. We begin dinner at 6:30, always 6:30, no sooner, no later. If you were to walk into my house come dinnertime, you would assumer it was a formal feast at Buckingham Palace. But seriously.

            This particular night, however, I knew it must have been the equivalent to a formal feast at Buckingham Palace because my dad actually grilled steak. Medium rare. Before I go on, there is something you must understand about my dad. He is a Production developer. And by Production developer, I mean he is a screenplay writer. And when I say he is a screenplay writer, I mean he is a not-very-good screenplay writer. And when I say he is a not-very-good screenplay writer, I mean he does not book jobs. Ever. So I assumed the steak must have something to do with a job he was offered. But then again, the month before we had lobster tails, and the month before that was “Italian Delight,” as my dad called it.
            I remember lobster night quite clearly because my dad and I had an argument. A tiff. “…and he says that if I just give him an initial deposit of five hundred dollars, it will help him get my movie ready to take-off! This is it you guys. This is really it!”
            “Dad!” I interjected. “You’re being scammed!”
            “Are you saying my writing isn’t good enough?”
            “No. I’m saying you’re being scammed.”
            “Rae, I’m sick of your negativity, your cynicism, your skepticism, your pessimism…”
            And he continued on with his list of adjectives to prove his excellence as a writer through his extensive vocabulary. Because that is what a good writer consists of. A large vocabulary, and a large vocabulary only.

            Let’s just say that I ended up being right, but that is a whole other story for another time.

            Anyway, back to steak night. We are all seated in our unofficial assigned seats, my father at the head of the table, and travelling counter clockwise: my mother, younger sister, and my twin brother and I opposite them. As we are seated, I see my dad is about to start his spiel about his movie production offer, when my younger sister, Lyndi, stands on her chair. My mother gasps, horrified, like someone had stripped off their shirt and ran around an ultra conservative Baptist church or something along those lines.

            “Lyndi! Do NOT soil the seat cushion,” she screams. Lyndi ignores her and proceeds to speak as I take a sip of my milk. “Family, I have an announcement to make. I have decided to become a vegan.”
            “What the hell is a vegan?” Jackson, my brother, genuinely asks.

            My brother doesn’t say much at our family dinners but when he does, it is always priceless, and as soon as those words came out of his mouth, I just couldn’t hold it in. Like I literally couldn’t hold in the milk I had just taken a sip of. I spit out all the milk I had just sipped all over my newly proclaimed vegan sister. Lyndi jumps off the chair revolted. My mom gasps again, appalled at the large mess I had just made. I am in hysterics in my chair. I just couldn’t handle the irony of it all: spitting good, wholesome cow milk all over my vegan sister.

            Lyndi yells at us,” I knew you guys wouldn’t understand! You never do!” Overly dramatic, as always. She runs upstairs and slams her door. My dad runs after her. My mom shakes her head, I begin to calm myself down, and my brother shrugs his shoulders. Five minutes pass as we eat in silence, and my brother asks, “But seriously, what is a vegan?”