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Confessions
of Three Teenage Drama
This bunch of craziness is posted in honor of my first
Jixaversary! Thank you, Cathy, for allowing me to be part of such a talented
bunch of authors. This story has no redeeming social value whatsoever. No
lessons will be learned, no issues will be discussed, and there will be no
moral at the end of the story. This submission is solely dedicated to FUN!!! I spent a lot of time
this past summer with teenagers and was reminded of those days… those
drama-filled days. Remember how it felt being a teenager? When one minute you loved someone, the next
you absolutely hated them, and then five minutes later you loved them again?
When a zit signaled the end of the world? When the alignment of the planets
depended on that special someone asking you to “the most important dance of
the ENTIRE year”? When you could run the entire gamut of emotions
in fifteen minutes or less? Well, here’s your chance to relive those days… if you dare!
Please join us at The Cameo for “Confessions of Three Teenage Drama Friday evening, Helen Belden carried a wicker
laundry basket full of clean towels to the upstairs bathroom. She had just
pulled them off the clothesline in the backyard where they had dried in the
sun all day. As a result, they were springtime-fresh. Brian and Mart were on a
camping trip with Jim and Dan, and Bobby was spending the night with Larry
and Terry Lynch. Though none of the boys would be at home this evening, Honey
and Di were spending the night with Trixie at
Crabapple Farm. She knew from experience that
it was best to have a fully-stocked linen closet during their sleepovers. The
girls usually washed their hair at least once during the slumber party,
possibly more depending on how many makeovers were performed. Additional
towels would be needed in the morning when they took their showers. And, of
course, there was always the possibility that a towel or two would be needed
sometime during the night to mop up any liquids that were spilled during a
moment of silliness. Helen stacked the
freshly-washed towels on the correct shelf of the linen closet in the
bathroom. Once she had accomplished her task, she walked across the hallway
to go downstairs. As she neared the door to Trixie’s bedroom, she smiled as
she remembered slumber parties with her own friends years ago. She halted briefly outside her
daughter’s closed door as an odd sound came from the room containing three
excitable teenaged girls. Silence. That’s
strange, Helen thought to herself. They’re
awfully quiet in there. Unable to suppress her
curiosity, she leaned her ear against the door and listened closely. Why, I don’t hear a peep out of them! I
wonder why. Helen furrowed her brow in deep
thought as countless possibilities danced through her mind. Are they hurt? She sighed deeply, exasperated
with herself for being such a worrywart. Of
course they’re not hurt; they’d be crying or screaming. She turned to leave, but
another possibility forced her to stand still and contemplate. Maybe
they’re listening to music, she mused. After a moment of
thought, however, she shook her head. No, I’d at least hear singing. She worried her lower lip,
determined to figure out the mysterious silence. Could they be taking a nap? Helen peeked at her watch, and
then scratched her head as she pondered the strange situation. They wouldn’t be asleep. It’s only In spite of her constant
frustration with her daughter’s curiosity, she knew that Trixie came by that
trait honestly. For as much as she hated to admit it, Helen was just as
inquisitive as her fair-haired children. Knowing it would be impossible to
forget about the mysterious silence, Helen decided to investigate. She knocked softly on her daughter’s
bedroom door. Upon hearing the muffled, “Come in,” she turned the knob and
stuck her head in the doorway. “Do you girls
need anything?” she asked, studying Trixie and her two best friends. To her
amazement, the normally exuberant teenagers were unusually subdued; somber
even. “We’re okay,
Moms,” Trixie replied glumly. She was lying on her back across her full-sized
bed, allowing her head to hang upside-down over the edge. “Dear, you
shouldn’t lay like that,” Helen gently chided. “It’s making all the blood
rush to your head.” “I don’t mind,”
Trixie said without much enthusiasm. “I think better this way.” “What are you
thinking about, sweetheart?” Helen prodded, although she thought she already
knew the answer. “Nothing,” her
daughter answered in a sad voice, her sandy curls swinging as she shook her
head slightly. Helen stifled a
smile and shifted her gaze to Honey and Di, who didn’t appear to be any more
cheerful than Trixie. Honey was lying on her stomach across the foot of the
bed, her head resting on her folded arms. Di resembled a contortionist; she
lay on her back on the floor, but had her legs up on the bed, absentmindedly
wiggling her feet. “Honey, Di, are you girls sick?” Honey briefly
lifted her head and smiled weakly at her friend’s mother. “We’re fine, Mrs.
Belden. Just a little tired.” “Yeah,” Di
agreed, looking up at her from the floor. “It’s been a long week at school.” Helen’s gaze grew
sympathetic as she took in the dark circles under Honey’s eyes and the tear
streaks down Diana’s cheeks. Trixie was not
the only Belden adept at finding clues and solving mysteries. Her mother was
quite proficient at gleaning bits and pieces of information and putting them
together, much like someone would work a puzzle. And this puzzle was one with which Helen was familiar. After all, it
had not been so long ago that she was fifteen. Helen smiled to herself as she
recalled the various clues: a circle drawn around today’s date on the
calendar with the word “dance” written inside of it; the boys going on the
first camping trip of the season; the girls boycotting the aforementioned
dance; an impromptu slumber party, and a trio of normally giddy girls who
currently resembled mourners at a funeral. She easily recognized the
symptoms, and luckily for the girls, she had the perfect cure. “I’m in the mood to cook,” Helen commented
nonchalantly. “I thought I’d make some brownies, if the three of you would
help Mr. Belden and me eat them.” “The iced ones?”
Trixie asked as she hung upside-down. “If you’d like,”
her mother answered. “And maybe some chocolate chip cookies…” “The homemade
kind?” Honey questioned hopefully, her hazel eyes brightening slightly. “Of course,”
Helen said with a consoling smile. “And I made some fudge earlier today…” Di’s feet quit wiggling. “Peanut butter fudge?” Helen laughed
softly. “As a matter of fact, it is. That’s your favorite kind, isn’t it,
Di?” “Yes, ma’am,” Di
agreed, a faint smile parting her lips. “Well, if you girls wouldn’t mind helping
Peter and me eat these goodies, then I’ll go down to the kitchen and start
making them.” “Thanks, Moms,”
Trixie told her, trying her best to muster a bright smile. “Yeah, thanks
Mrs. Belden,” Honey and Di chorused, without much enthusiasm. After giving the
girls a final smile, Helen exited the room, the only sound being the soft
click when the door closed.
Friday night, Peter Belden
quirked a dark eyebrow at his wife. “So why are we taking three huge plates
of sugar-laden junk food up to Trixie’s room?” he questioned incredulously.
“Those girls will be bouncing off the walls.” Helen glanced at
her husband, her smile quite secretive. “Sometimes a girl needs chocolate.” Peter gasped in
horror. “All of them? At the same time? Good grief, I’ll be lucky to live
through this, being trapped in one small house with three young women all
having th---“ “It’s not that!”
she corrected with a laugh, playfully swatting his shoulder. “There are other times that a girl needs to
overdose on chocolate.” He merely
shrugged his shoulders to show his ignorance on the subject. “Are they going
to binge and purge?” Helen cast him a
reproachful look. “That’s not funny.” “I wasn’t trying
to be funny,” Peter explained earnestly. “I’m just trying to figure this out.
I’ve never been a teenage girl before, so I don’t have any past experiences
to go by. You’re going to have to give me a hint.” Relenting at his
sincere expression, Helen softened and affectionately wiped away a smudge of
flour from his jaw. “You want a hint, huh?” “Please?” he
begged, his dark eyes twinkling. “I grew up with two brothers. I have no girl
cousins. And I don’t have a
feminine side. So even the playing field a bit, sweetie.” Helen giggled as
she straightened the apron he was wearing. “Don’t have a feminine side, ay?” He grasped her
hands and pulled her close to him. After gazing at her a moment with his
soulful brown eyes, he whispered in a husky tone, “Please?” “Okay,” she
agreed with a breathy sigh. It was impossible to withhold anything from her
husband when he looked at her like that. “I’ll give you some hints. A circled
date on our calendar marked ‘Spring Dance’. Below ‘Spring Dance’ someone with
messy penmanship scrawled ‘Camping Trip’.” Helen looked at
him pointedly, waiting for him to digest those facts and reach a reasonable
conclusion. However, Peter’s
face remained clueless. “The girls are mad because they couldn’t go with the
boys on their camping trip?” Helen exhaled
loudly, shaking her head. “No, dear. I’ll give you another hint. Impromptu slumber party?” “It’s a good time
to have a sleepover because the boys aren’t here to change their channels?”
Peter was obviously grasping at straws. The wrong straws. “I haven’t heard one single peep out of the girls the
entire evening,” she informed him, her brow creased in worry. “You mean they
aren’t squealing and giggling and shrieking and singing?” he clarified. “Not a bit.” Peter raised his
eyes to the heavens. “Thank you, Lord!” he exclaimed joyfully, waving his
hands in adoration. Helen didn’t know
whether to laugh at his antics or to be annoyed by them. Thankfully for her
husband, she chose to laugh. “Oh, stop!” she commanded with a chuckle. “Now
Peter, you have to admit it’s strange that they’re being so quiet.” “Why, yes,” he
conceded, “that is strange. I’d
even go so far as to quote Trixie: It’s downright… mysterious.” “So have you
figured it out yet?” Helen asked with a saucy grin, obviously enjoying the
fact that she had the upper hand with her husband. For a moment,
Peter tried to imply that indeed he had solved this mystery. He sputtered
some unintelligible phrases and did a lot of hand gesturing, but in the end,
he threw his hands up in total surrender and admitted, “I have no idea.” “You still
haven’t figured it out?” she exclaimed in disbelief. “The dance, the camping
trip, the sleepover, the pouting?” She tapped her foot and looked at her
watch. “No, I still don’t get it.” “Of course you
don’t,” Helen told him curtly. “You’re a man. You fail to pick up the clues
we women so carefully leave for you.” Peter scratched
his chin thoughtfully. “So this is my
fault…?” Helen looked at
her husband in amusement. She grasped his hands and brought them to her lips.
After kissing them, she shook her head disparagingly at him. “No, sweetheart.
It’s not your failing per se that I’m ranting about; it’s
the failing of men in general. More specifically, it’s the failing of three
certain teenage boys…” “Bobby’s not a
teenager,” Peter corrected, still not getting the point. “I’m not talking
about Bobby.” “So this isn’t
Bobby’s fault?” “No, dear,” Helen
said with a patient smile. “Thank God,”
Peter muttered under his breath. “Finally something’s
not his fault.” He paused for a moment, then inquired curiously, “Well, then
who’s the third one?” “Jim.” “Jim’s not ours.”
Confused as he was, of that fact, Peter was certain. “I know that,
dear,” Helen stated, her tone patronizing. “But
Trixie is.” “But Trixie’s not
a teenage boy.” “But she is a teenage girl, dear.” Peter’s shoulders
slumped as he rubbed his throbbing temples. “My head hurts,” he mumbled. “I’m
totally confused now. All day long I deal with percentages, spreadsheets,
interest rates, mortgages, taxable income, nontaxable income… That
I can understand. But the ramblings of an emotional woman?” He snorted and
raised his hands in despair. “I’ll never
understand those as long as I live.” “Can you give it
to me straight, Helen?” he asked with a pleading smile. “Just pretend I’m
Bobby, since I feel about six-years-old right now.” Helen laughed and
threw her arms around her husband’s neck. After placing a kiss of promise
upon his lips, she answered his question. “There was a dance at school this
evening. The girls wanted to go.” “So why didn’t they?” he asked with an unconcerned shrug. “Because the boys
didn’t invite them.” “And they had to be invited to the dance by the
boys to be able to go?” Helen wanted to
ask her husband if he had consumed a lot of paint chips as a small child, but
she bit her tongue. “No, they didn’t need
an invitation, but they wanted
one.” “Why? What’s the
difference?” Helen sighed
wearily. “The difference is that
Trixie, Honey and Di wanted the boys to escort them to the dance. Sort of
like a group date. But the boys never asked them to go; they went camping
instead.” “Maybe the guys
didn’t know about the dance,” Peter suggested in defense of his fellow men.
“After all, Brian and Jim are in
college now. They can’t keep up with all the Sleepyside Junior-Senior High
news.” “Oh, they knew,”
Helen informed him. “Trixie made sure that Brian knew and Honey made sure
that Jim knew. Besides, Mart’s the one who wrote the article in the school
paper about the upcoming dance, so he definitely
knew. And I’m sure the girls hinted around for the boys to ask them.” “So Brian, Mart,
and Jim didn’t take the girls to the dance,” Peter stated with another shrug.
“Big deal.” “Peter, it is a big deal to the girls,” Helen
informed him, her tone gentle, yet reproving. “According to Trixie, it’s the
last big dance of the school year, aside from prom.” “They could’ve
gone anyway,” Peter brought up. “They’re pretty girls; I’m sure some other
teenage punks invited them.” Helen snorted at
her husband’s terminology. “They didn’t want to go with some other punks; they wanted to be
escorted by our punks.” “But our punks
decided to go camping instead?” Peter summed up with a smirk. “Exactly.” “And that’s why,
at this very moment, my daughter and two young ladies whom I consider
daughters are moping upstairs?” As hard as he tried, Peter could not contain
the glee he felt. “Peter!” Helen’s
blue eyes blazed as she scolded her husband. “You’re not supposed to be
happy.” “I can’t help
it,” he admitted, unable to suppress the grin upon his face. “You expect me
to be upset that my fifteen-year-old daughter is NOT in a dark
gymnasium, slow dancing with Jim, who until now could do no wrong in her
eyes?” “There are chaperones at the dance, dear.” Peter’s response
to that statement was a defiant snort. “Yeah… five chaperones for 200 kids.
Each chaperone only has to keep an eagle-eye on 40 kids. That makes me feel a lot better.” Helen placed her
hands on her shapely hips and glared up at him. “We’re not talking about some
average teenage boy, Peter. We’re discussing Jim.” “I know we’re
discussing Jim,” Peter argued. “And
forgive me if I’m downright giddy that his freckled hands are nowhere near my
baby girl’s backside.” “Jim respects you
too much to act like that,” Helen disagreed, shaking her head in
exasperation. “He’s far too honorable.” “Honorable boys
have hormones, too, Helen,” Peter insisted. “I was honorable myself once, a---” His wife
interrupted him with a snort of disbelief. “You were never as honorable as Jim.” Peter squared his
shoulders indignantly. “I was, too.” “You were not,”
Helen quarreled. “Andy was the
honorable one. Hal was the ambitious one. You were…” A secret smile played on
her lips as she finished, “…the charming one.” “The charming
one, huh?” Peter wrapped his strong arms around his wife’s waist and lowered
his head to nuzzle her neck. “You know, I can still be charming…” “You certainly
can,” Helen murmured huskily, running her hands along her husband’s muscular
back. “And after we take this chocolate up to the girls, maybe you can give
me a private demonstration of your charm.” “That would be my
pleasure,” he told her as he placed light kisses along the sensitive part of
Helen’s neck. “Good thing Jim’s
more honorable than charming,” Helen commented with a giggle. “You’d have to
get your shotgun.” “And thankfully
Brian has a responsible head on his shoulders,” Peter chuckled. “He reminds
me of Hal at his age.” “And Mart…” Helen
abruptly stood upright, leaving her sentence unfinished. “What about Mart?” Peter merely
winked at his wife, his dark brown eyes twinkling with mirth. “Why, he’s got
his father’s charm, of course,” he informed her with a mischievous, and very
appealing, grin. A grim expression
passed over Helen’s face as she realized how true that statement was. Mart
may have inherited the Johnson’s fair coloring, but personality-wise, he was
a carbon copy of his father. His utterly charming
father… “Well, maybe it is a good thing that the boys went
camping,” Helen gulped nervously. “It’s much healthier for them to camp in
the fresh air, miles away from Sleepyside… instead of slow dancing in that dark, crowded gymnasium.” Peter’s gaze
narrowed as he read his wife’s obvious thoughts. “So why did the boys go camping instead of taking the girls to the
dance?” “I have no idea,”
Helen admitted, “but right now, I’m just glad they did.” With a deep
chuckle, Peter removed the apron he had worn while helping his wife in the
kitchen. “Come on, woman. Let’s deliver this to the girls, and then I have
something I need to show you in the barn.” Helen’s sandy
brows rose slightly. “Oh, really? And just what do you need to show me?” “Somethin’,” Peter answered airily. “I promise that you’ll
like it.” “Word of honor?”
she asked tartly. “Word of honor,”
he repeated, an impish sparkle in his eyes. “It’s
guaranteed to charm the pants right off of you.” Helen giggled at
her husband’s innuendo. “Peter…” “What?” he asked
innocently. “I’m allowed to charm
you now. I have a license. I got it about twenty years ago, and I’ve been
putting it to good use ever since.” Several minutes
later, Helen stood outside her daughter’s closed bedroom door. “Knock,
knock!” she called, her hands laden with goodies. “You may enter,”
Trixie called from inside. “If you want your
chocolate, open the door!” Helen commanded with a roll of her eyes. “My hands
are full.” Helen heard the
faint squeak of bed springs followed by clomping. A minute later, an obviously
unhappy Trixie opened the door, and then immediately trudged back to her bed. “Are you girls hungry?” Helen asked brightly, setting down two
large platters of baked goods. The tantalizing
aroma of freshly-baked brownies and chocolate chip cookies wafted through the
room, eliciting smiles from the gloomy girls. “Yummy-yum-yum!” Trixie
exclaimed as she gazed longingly at the plate of iced brownies. “Those cookies
sure smell good, Mrs. Belden,” Honey replied politely, sniffing the air. “Where’s the fudge?”
Di, already on the brink of tears, looked totally crestfallen at the lack of
peanut butter fudge. “I’ve got it
right here,” Peter called, as he entered the room carrying not only the fudge
but also a two-liter of cold cola, complete with plastic cups perched on the
top of the bottle. “Dad!” Trixie
exploded, tears pooling in her china blue eyes. Peter jumped
stiff-legged at the sudden screeching of the familiar term to which he was
referred. “What?” he asked, terrified by the horror-stricken expression on
his daughter’s face. “No boys
allowed!” Trixie cried as she jumped up from her bed in protest. Peter chuckled,
not realizing the danger he was in. “Why not?” “Boys are mean!”
Trixie informed him angrily. “Boys are gross!”
Honey exclaimed, her chin quivering. “Boys have
cooties!” Di shrieked, her voice slightly teary. “But I’m not a
boy,” Peter told them gently. “I’m a man.” “You used to be a boy,” Trixie argued. “And once a boy, always a boy,” Honey pointed out with a pout. “So there’s no hope
for you,” Di summed up, crossing her arms in finality. “Can’t I come in
for just a little bit?” he pleaded. “Nope,” Trixie
said with a toss of her sandy curls. “Forget it,”
Honey declared, with a shake of her head. “No way,” Di
refused firmly. “But I have
caffeine and fudge.” He hopefully held up the aforementioned objects as a
peace offering. “Well, maybe you
can come in for a little bit…” Di began as her violet eyes focused on the
fudge. “DI!!!” Trixie and Honey chorused
amiably. “You can’t back down!” “But he has my
fudge,” she whined pitifully. “You get your brownies and your cookies…” Trixie expressed
her frustration with a loud huff. “Fine,” she snapped. “Dad, slowly put down
the fudge and back awaaaay
from the room, and nobody’ll get hurt.” Peter shook his
head in bemusement, a confused smile on his face. “Trixie, you’re being
silly. I’m your father; why aren’t I allowed in your room?” “Because, as a
man,” Trixie began, “you possess that nasty, vile, loathsome…” “Stupid, gross,
inconsiderate…” Honey added. “Idiotic,
uncaring, insensitive…” Di supplied. “Y-chromosome,”
Trixie concluded. “Therefore, you are hereby sentenced to eternal banishment
from the “But my paycheck
provides the roof over the “Typical man
response,” Trixie sniffed indignantly. “Exactly what I
was thinking,” Honey pouted. “You took the
words right out of my mouth,” Di muttered. Peter, bemused by
the girls’ actions, just laughed and threw his hands up in exasperation. “You
ladies just need to pick your lips off of the floor and straighten up. There
are more fish in the s---” His insensitive
comment was left hanging as he intercepted the warning glare his loving wife
was shooting at him. “Didn’t you need my help,
dear?” she commented casually, with a quirk of one sculpted brow. “In the
barn?” “The barn?” Peter repeated, not
picking up on Helen’s subtle rescue attempt. “Ye-es,”
Helen drawled out slowly. “Remember in the kitchen, you said you needed my
assistance in the barn…?” Peter coughed as
he choked on the image that flitted through his mind. “O-oh, yes,
sweetheart,” he stammered in between coughs. “That barn! I-I-I needed you to get your hairpin and take a look
at that… that thing we talked about… the lawnmower… err, the motor… uhh… and the milk pail…” After clearing
his throat, he replied in a deep voice, “I’ll be in the barn.” He set the
soda and the platter of fudge on the dresser beside the rest of the goodies,
and quickly made his getaway. “Do you girls need anything
else?” Helen asked cheerily, a blush on her cheeks. “We’re fine,”
Trixie answered with a grimace. “You may proceed with your repair of the milk
pail.” After a final
giggle of embarrassment followed by a wink, Helen turned on her heel and
trotted out of the room and down the staircase.
The girls’
spirits were buoyed slightly by the intake of the extremely fattening, yet
highly delicious, sweets that Helen had provided. As they munched on
brownies, cookies, and fudge and slurped their cola, Trixie, Honey, and Di
mustered the will to chat a bit. “Gleeps!” Trixie exclaimed, with a roll of her eyes. “Moms
and Dad are sure embarrassing. They can act so stupid sometimes.” “What do you
mean?” Honey asked as she licked a drop of chocolate off her fingers. “That ‘going to
the barn’ bit was really lame,” Trixie snorted. “I think they’re
kind of cute,” Di admitted with a giggle. “You would,” Trixie
muttered with an indignant sniff. “Well, I think
they’re cute, too,” Honey declared, picking another cookie off of the
platter. “Cute?” Trixie
gasped and clutched her chest, feigning a heart attack. “You’ve all gone
stark raving mad!” “I think it’s
sweet how affectionate they are,” Honey commented between nibbles of her
cookie. “Yes, it’s
wonderful that they still love each other so much after all these years,” Di
agreed with a dreamy sigh. “It’s very romantic.” Trixie’s lip
curled in disgust as she leaned over her bed and pretended to throw up. “C’mon, Trixie,”
Honey giggled, “don’t you think they’re cute?” “Just a teeny
tiny little bit?” Di prodded. “No! I think
they’re gross.” Trixie shivered to illustrate her point. “You know, I used to
think my mother was a wise woman. However, after watching her fawn over Dad
like that…” She shivered again. “What’s not smart
about that?” Honey queried. “Duh!” Trixie
exclaimed. “Dad is a guy. We don’t
like them anymore, remember?” Honey smiled
sheepishly. “Oh, I forgot. I was too busy thinking about how cute your dad
is.” “Honey!” Trixie
exploded, clutching her short sandy curls in her fists. “What’s wrong with
you?” “We’ve been over
this before, Trix,” Di told her. “Whether you like it or not, your dad is hot. And more power to Moms if she
wants to exercise her marital benefits.” Honey hooted with
laughter. Trixie closed her eyes tightly, clutched her curls, and shook her
head vigorously. “EWWW! Now you have all these yucky thoughts stuck in my
head!” Di shrugged, and
then asked matter-of-factly, “What? Like them doing it?” Honey collapsed
in a fit of laughter, while Trixie collapsed in a mass of hysterical shrieks.
In order to shield herself from hearing any more offending comments, Trixie
buried her head under her pillow. Di giggled as she listened to her
sandy-haired friend’s pleas for mercy. Once Honey had calmed down, her hazel
eyes met Diana’s violet ones, and they both looked at Trixie. Soon both of
them were dying laughing again, and it wasn’t long until they had fallen off
the bed, landing in giggling heaps on the floor. From under
Trixie’s pillow, a Fran Dresher-like voice whined, “Fee-ling nawww-shus. Getting diiiiizzy.” This only served
to create more giggling hysteria on Di and Honey’s parts, who were laughing
so hard that they forgot all about the pain in their backsides resulting from
falling on the floor. Once Honey and Di
had calmed down and reclaimed their positions on the bed, Trixie peeked out
from under her protective shield. She assumed a stern look and pointed her
stubby index finger at Di. “Don’t ever, EVER
bring that up again,” Trixie lectured. “Good grief! I came close to spewing
mushy brownie-vomit over both of you.” Honey wiped a few
tears caused by her laughter. “I don’t see what the big deal is, Trix. You know they’ve done it before.” “Realistically,
yes, they may have done it once or
twice,” Trixie admitted reluctantly. “Well, not that
I’m some big mathematician or anything, but odds are that they’ve done it at
least…” Di paused dramatically to tick off Belden children on her fingers, “four times.” Trixie shot her a
threatening look. “I have chosen to believe that after once or twice, they
decided they didn’t like it anymore, and elected to conceive me and Bobby by
artificial insemination.” Honey and Di both
wheezed with laughter, desperately trying to catch their breaths. “Surely you don’t
really believe that,” Honey gasped. Trixie defiantly
crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air. “That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.” Several cookies,
brownies, and pieces of fudge later, Trixie, Honey, and Di’s
mood had lightened considerably. After every single crumb had been devoured,
the three depressed teenagers decided to go downstairs to scavenge for more
sustenance. “Let’s see,”
Trixie murmured as she pilfered through the refrigerator. “What do we have to
eat in here?” “A more
appropriate question would be: What don’t
we have to eat in here?” Honey corrected. “There are enough leftovers in here
to feed an army.” “What’s this?”
Trixie carefully opened a large Tupperware bowl. “Hmmm… Anyone interested in
cold mashed potatoes?” Honey wrinkled
her nose. “Gross. How can something so yummy when it’s warm look so yucky
when it’s cold?” “Ix-nay the ashed-may o-pay-atay-oestay,”
Di stated, her thumb and index finger firmly
clamping her nostrils shut as she looked in the big container filled with the
leftover potatoes. Trixie snickered.
“I didn’t know Di was bilingual.” Honey scrunched
up her pert nose. “What does ‘ix-nay the ashtray oil of olay’
mean anyway?” “She said ‘nix
the mashed potatoes’ in pig Latin,” Trixie explained with a giggle.” “Well, I think
‘ix-naying’ them would be the best for everyone,”
Honey said with a snort. “I think they’ve been in the fridge for a while. We
could destroy a small country with them.” “I think you’re
right,” Trixie agreed as she gingerly placed the lid back on the bowl and
hurriedly put the bowl back in the refrigerator. “I wish we didn’t
live so far out in the boonies,” Di complained. “I’d give anything for a
pizza right now.” Trixie placed her
hands on her hips and turned to her ebony-haired friend. “We have all this
food in here and you want takeout?” “Mmmm,” Honey murmured, licking her lips. “Chinese would
be good.” “Unbelievable,”
Trixie snorted with a roll of her eyes. “I guarantee that the food in this
refrigerator is better than you’ll find in any fancy restaurant.” “But what about
the service?” Di asked with a grin. “Ah, we guarantee
the finest service here at Réfrigérateur Belden,” Trixie assured in a thick French accent. “Even our
wealthiest patrons declare our cuisine the fairest in the land. Absolument délicieux!” “Absolument délicieux, huh?”
Honey questioned incredulously. “Well, I suppose we’ll grace Réfrigérateur Belden with our presence.” “Merveilleux
news, my little chickadees,” Trixie encouraged. “And will you be having an
appetizer?” “Ooh!” Di squealed as she
pulled out a long stick of pepperoni. “This looks yummy.” “But of course,
Mademoiselle,” Trixie agreed enthusiastically. “The spicy pepperoni will make
a lovely appetizer. And for your main entrée?” “Leftover fried
chicken!” Honey squealed in delight. “Yummy-yum-yum!” “Ah, so you’ve
chosen the poultry for the pièce de résistance,” Trixie said, continuing to
imitate a French waiter. “Tres bien.
And what shall you choose as your vegetable?” “Pickles,” Di
insisted. “The sweet or the
dill?” Trixie inquired, holding up both jars. “The dill!” Honey
and Di chorused. “Magnifique!” Trixie held her fingers to her mouth and
kissed them. “The kosher dill pickles are how we say… par excellence.” The giggling
girls carried the food to the large kitchen table. “What about
dessert?” Honey asked. “We just ate iced
brownies, chocolate chip cookies, and fudge,” Di informed her. “And your point
is?” Honey queried with a snort. With a flourish,
Trixie yanked open the freezer. “Mademoiselles, may I recommend the Moose
Tracks ice cream? It is the crème de la crème of all desserts, n’est-ce pas?” “Since when do
you know French?” Honey asked with a giggle. “Since I started
watching the Travel Channel,” Trixie informed her tartly. “Mar---” Tears pooled in Di’s eyes at the mention of that particular name, so
Trixie wisely rephrased her statement. “A-certain-person-who-shall-remain-nameless
was watching a show about restaurants in “Really?” A
mischievous smile tugged at the corners of Honey’s lips. “Well, in that case,
I have a question for you. Qu'y a-t-il pour boire?” “Huh?”
A look of total confusion distorted Trixie’s features. “Qu'y a-t-il pour boire?” Honey repeated. After giggling at Trixie’s obvious
bewilderment, she translated, “What do you have to drink?” Trixie
immediately assumed her French waiter persona. “Ah, mademoiselle wishes to
have a beverage. May I recommend a fine strawberry-flavored carbonated soda?
Pink, bubbly, and aged to perfection.” She opened the refrigerator door and
pulled out a two-liter of Strawberry Blast. Honey
studied the bottle carefully, and with a perfect French accent, responded, “Très bien.” Trixie
quirked a sandy brow at her. “Is that a yes or a no?” “That’s
a yes,” Honey replied, getting three glasses out of the cupboard and filling
them with ice. “Are
you sure we want Trixie to have strawberry pop this late?” Di asked
incredulously as she watched Honey pour the soda into the glasses. “You know
how hyper it makes her.” “Good
point, Di,” Honey said, handing Diana a glass of pop. After pouring some in
her own, she replaced the lid on the two-liter bottle. “Hey!”
Trixie yanked the soda out of Honey’s hands and reopened it. “As owner of
this bottle of Strawberry Blast, I’m allowed to consume as much as I want, no
matter how hyper it makes me.” “Now,
do you own that pop, or does your dad?” Di questioned, trying to keep a
straight face. Trixie
merely stuck her tongue out at her. After taking a long swig of soda, she
sighed in contentment. “Ahhh. Nothing like
Strawberry Blast. When I’m a grown up, I’m going to drink all the strawberry pop
I want, whenever I want,” she
declared defiantly. Saturday
morning, “Ugh,”
Honey moaned, tossing her spoon in the now-empty box of ice cream. “I feel
sick.” “Me
too,” Trixie agreed mournfully, rubbing her swollen stomach. “I
think it was the pickles that did it,” Di groaned. A very un-Diana-like belch
erupted from the violet-eyed beauty. “Well,
you’re the one who dared us to
drink the pickle juice,” Trixie told her crossly. “It
seemed like a good idea at the time,” she replied with a shrug. “What
do we do now?” Honey asked. “I’m bored.” “Wanna watch movies?” Trixie suggested. “What’s
on?” Honey slowly rose from the table. “I
dunno,” Trixie answered. “We can go in and see.” “Do
we have to?” Di inquired, a pitiful expression on
her face. “Can’t we just veg out here?” “Nope,”
Trixie informed her as she pulled on Diana’s arm to force her to stand. The
girls wobbled into the living room and crashed onto the couch. Trixie picked
up the remote, turned on the television and went to the channel that showed
the current program listings. |
