Where. The hell. Am I going to put a crystal ball?

CHALLENGE ONE


Adventure – Yacht/Boat – Family Drama

Bacon, the color red, crystal ball


They named her Bacon.

Who the hell names a boat “Bacon”?

“Darling!” The Steps call to me in unison.

Apparently, unnaturally blonde twins do.

Step #1 continues, “Could you help us with opening the ice chest?”

“Yes,” Step #2 adds. “You know we just went to Ella Nails and we can’t risk another hangnail.”

I peel my eyes away from the awe-inspiring world of water before me and attach it to the new picture: Two bimbo blondes struggling to open an EZPeezy © Ice Chest. I have a feeling that somewhere, my father’s rolling around in his grave right now.

Well, not somewhere. I know exactly where he’s buried—Kensington Cemetery in the dingy abandoned town that I, too, abandoned two months after William Fitzgerald died of a heart attack. He would be buried in San Francisco, in a special place in a special cemetery reserved just for special ol’ him, but Kendra thought he’d like to stay in Novi, Michigan.

“’Ling!” my mom calls out to me from the cabin down below. I hear the clackity-clack of her brand new Prada heels as she makes her way up the steps.

“Speak of the devil,” I mutter to myself, ignoring The Steps’ frantic waves of help.

“What?” Kendra asks, approaching me with a paper in her hand. “What’d you say?”

I slump onto the plastic red chair next to me. “Nothing. What’s that?”

Kendra raises her right hand, the one with the paper. “This? Just tickets.” She breaks into a wide smile, one that’s practically screaming, “ASK ME WHAT THE TICKETS ARE FOR!”

I, being a good (albeit lazy) daughter, obey. “What are the tickets for.” I drawl it out so much that it doesn’t even sound like a question.

“Rome!” Kendra squeals. Kendra Hoffen-Fitzgerald-Meyer, who didn’t even giggle hysterically when she met her favorite celebrity at a restaurant in New York, just squealed.

Who is this woman? And where can I find directions to get my mother back?

“Can you believe it, Darling? Ed bought us plane tickets to go see Rome! My dream vacation! This is everything I’ve always wanted and more, you know? Of course you know, I’ve been rambling on about it for ages now.” She looks at me expectantly. Like she’s waiting for me to squeal and giggle with her as well.

God no.

“Kendra, don’t you think you’re being a little…I dunno, childish?” I ask. “You’ve got work to think about, and didn’t you say that your boss is mad at you for writing those op-eds on makeup at the last minute?” I can see why, too; I read them and they were C-R-A-P.

She puts her hand on her hip and gives me a look. “Honestly, Darling, don’t be going on about that ‘Kendra’ stuff now. I’m your mother, and you should respect that.”

“I’ll respect it when you stop screwing random guys and then having their babies,” I snap.

“Darling Charlotte Fitzgerald,” Kendra warns in her Don’t Mess With Me voice. It doesn’t really work to its fullest, though, when you have a name like “Darling”. Kind of ruins the moment of “Darling, you get your butt downstairs!” (a constant Kendra threat) and “I hate you, Darling, I really do!” (a constant 8-year-old cousin threat).

“Ladies!” Ed approaches us, sensing the tension, and hands Kendra a glass of white wine. “Ladies, this is a family vacation, and I want you two to behave. Alright?”

My response is a glare at Kendra, and a brisk march out of the tense arena. Red plastic chair and all.

As I’m heading towards the back of the boat, I smell something strange—and it’s not Step #1’s new perfume or the smell of Step #2’s burning hair as she crimps it.