Free From Butt to Booty by Amber Kizer

on. Do I really have to eat food while we’re at it? I’m liable to snort it out my nose.
    “I wouldn’t worry, though. Really.” Clarice tries to soothe me.
    The panicked horse-near-a-rattler feeling must actually be an expression on my face, not just a lump in my gut. I have nothing to say. I’m afraid to open my mouth.
    Clarice’s concern bubbles out her mouth. “My sister is a lunatic. I’m sure she’s exaggerated those stories so I won’t date until I’m thirty or something.” Clarice waves her hands around and pushes her hair out of her eyes.
    “Right.” I nod. Here’s what I’ve learned about Clarice’s older sister stories: rarely are they exaggerated. I’m not that lucky.

    I glance down at the skirt my mother made me change into. I will never admit this, but I’m kinda grateful she gets all forceful and tells me what to wear occasionally. A plain pale pink blouseand a black wool skirt that hits my calves. I’m even wearing ballet flats I don’t remember having.
    I brush a hand over the bracelet Mike gave me, which I’m wearing for luck, and lick my pink-glossed lips. I look like a girl. A nice girl. I’d want my son to date me. I don’t have the Eve-the-seducer look about me at all.
    Stephen insists on talking the whole ride over. I think he thinks he’s making things better by giving me the rundown. He’s so not. “Just ignore my grandmother, her glass eye is wonky and she’s nuts.” That’s encouraging. “She lives with us; otherwise, I wouldn’t make you meet her.”
    “She can’t be that bad.” Everyone exaggerates how terribly wacky their relatives are, right? To listen, we’re lucky we evolved past rocks and spears.
    “She gave me a box of Depends for Christmas.” Stephen sets the parking brake and half turns in the seat to look at me.
    “Oh.” How do I react to that?
    He doesn’t find my reticence off-putting. “Wrapped in shelf paper.”
    What the hell is that? I nod, then give in and ask, “What’s shelf paper?”
    “The ugly wallpaper that goes on shelves in the pantry and dresser drawers. She had some extra from my dad’s childhood.”
    “Oh.” That’s what that’s called. Mom has rolls and rolls of it in the basement. I can’t recall ever seeing it on any shelves or in any drawers, though.
Snap out of it, he’s waiting for a response
. “That’s pretty bad.”
    “You’re not kidding. She gave my brother a letter that willed him her dentures. She wants him prepared for the future.” Stephen is playing with my hair. Why is he playing with my hair?
    “Your parents cool?” I’m just plain scared. I try to pass off the shiver of fear as sophistication. That so did not work.
    “They’re okay.” His parents could look like Attila the Hun and his horse named Ray.
    Again with the lack of comfort. This should be a fun evening. Why did I agree to this? Because I want to see his bedroom. Do you know how much a personal space says about a person? More than any book ever could. But now I’m calculating that the odds of seeing his room without an escort are nil to none.
    Not that I really want to be with him in a room that has a bed. I so don’t want him to be thinking I came to dinner so he could jump my bones with Daddy’s approval.
    “Ready?” He’s already shutting his door and moving. My answer obviously isn’t too important here.
    I smile. I should have put gloss on my teeth like Miss America so my lips slide easily. They’re kinda sticking. He doesn’t open my door but walks up the walk without me. I scramble to catch up.
    “Hey!” Stephen calls as he throws open the front door and grabs my hand, dragging me in. Or rather, I follow, because I’m afraid he’s going to dislocate my fingers if I stop the forward momentum.
    “You’re late.”
    “Sorry, Dad, traffic was nuts,” Stephen replies.
    Traffic? What traffic? And hello—not a great start to the evening.
    “We’re at the table. Come in, come in.” His mom is wearing a black