Tea For Two: a novel by S.W. Stromberg

Author:S.W. Stromberg [Stromberg, S.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

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Like most, tonight’s meal begins with a question.

“So, what was it you said you were doing earlier?”

I’m in my usual spot across from my dad at our small kitchen table, wishing I could hide in the tablecloth. Sadly, I am no longer five, and am a bit too big for that.

“I went running with the team, Mom.”

“What team? You joined a team?” She leans forward to stare

me down.

“The baseball team, Mom.” I stifle a sigh. “I didn’t join. Emily wanted me to run with them. So, I did.”

She starts to respond, but Dad beats her to it.

“Woah, wait — you went running, Augie?”

He looks so hopeful. I love it. When he noticed my general distaste for dresses, bows, and anything pink when I was little, he assumed that it was because I was an athletic tomboy. He was wrong, and sadly so.

“Yup. I went running. It was pretty bad, and if it wouldn’t have pissed Emily off for me not to, I wouldn’t have done it.”

My mother winces when I say pissed. My table manners are terrible, and I worked hard for them.

“Oh,” he says, looking back at his plate, disappointed.

I want to tell him the running part wasn’t actually all that awful, to my great surprise. Everything else more than made up for it, though.

There’s hardly a pause before my mother picks the conversation back up as if she was never interrupted to begin with.

“Emily wanted you to?”

“Yes, ma’am. Everyone brought someone to run with them. I was Emily's someone.”

As I talk, I reach up and pull the ponytail holder out of my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders. Usually, my mother can’t stand when I touch my hair at the table, and as she purses her lips, I can tell this is no exception. But then she sighs and reaches across the corner of the table to push the front bit behind my ear.

She loves my hair. She had hair just like it before she started going gray as a 23-year-old former debutante in Houston — something she tells me every time I get a pair of scissors out of the drawer in the kitchen to trim the ends.

“August, honey, I’ve been thinking,” she begins. I’m pretty sure what she’s about to say is going to be a well-meant insult. “Maybe if we get your hair highlighted, with some bangs, maybe, some of the boys will, well. Finally notice how cute you are.”

Yup.

“Mom, if any of the boys at school were worth anything, I wouldn’t need highlights and bangs to get their attention.”

Dad chimes in. “August’s right. She’s got better things to focus on than boys.”

I stand up, picking up my plate.

“I’m done. Do either of y’all want more, or can I take

your plates?”

“Oh, no, dear. Thank you,” my mother answers for both of them, handing me the plates. “So, do you have an idea of when we should make an appointment at the salon for? Or should I just use my own judgement?”

Sweet Jesus. Is she going to let this go?

“Never.

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