Stephanie laughed, and immediately felt exactly as she would have if she’d punctured the lid on a can of fish that had spoiled inside the tin. She wished she hadn’t done it. Her mother’s eyes lanced her.
“It isn’t funny.” Her voice was quiet and taut.
“I know, I just…” Steph had time to finish, but she didn’t have the words for it.
“You just nothing. Have some respect.”
Stephanie looked at her feet, studied the grout in the tiles of the kitchen floor. She wasn’t sure why she had laughed. Nothing seemed funny; she wasn’t sure how else to react. Her mother turned back to the telephone. As Stephanie walked to her room, she heard her mother’s voice spilling into the hallway, offering cooing susurrus of consolation not meant for her.
“I think it was, like, this mental image of one of those horse-drawn carts from the olden days, you know? And it, like, losing a wheel or going off the road or whatever.” Stephanie took a sip of grape Fanta, trying not to slurp from the can in case her friend could hear. She took in the other half of the conversation through the plastic pink cellphone and emphatically, though her friend could not see the gesture, rolled her eyes like a pair of volume knobs being twisted to maximum. “I know! My mom just doesn’t understand at all. Like, what’s so great about being what's probably the most crappiest, y'know, way to be, anyways? They’d be so mad if I got that way, but for my sister it’s all, like, good job. If it was me, they’d kill me for sure.” She sat down and looked in the mirror. She looked at the things on her desk, reached for something and stopped, bit her lip. “Yeah no, well, that’s okay because he pulled out.” She sipped at the Fanta again and, finding it empty, threw the can in the garbage.
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