“Hi,” I said, forcing my lips into something that resembled a smile but probably looked more like I wanted to puke.
“Oh, good. Lesbian is hereditary. Not cool, Mom,” Quinn snapped before tromping back to the car, her familiar yapping all the way. She slammed the door and pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen. She was talking about me already—to people I didn’t know. And she thought I was...
“I’m not a lesbian,” I said to the Mercedes. I turned around to blink at Karen and Mom. “I’m not a lesbian,” I repeated stupidly. It wasn’t that I minded the misperception, but I felt a need to clarify for Karen’s sake. Or maybe I wanted to say something that wasn’t, “Wow, Karen. Your daughter sucks.”
Karen groaned and ran a hand down her face, her gaze swinging up to the summer sky. “I am so sorry. She’s taking this poorly.”
From that point on, so was I.
Karen and Quinn moved in just before my junior year started. Quinn sulked, brooded, complained and was an all-around Misery Princess for the first week. Day eight was when my raging hate-on for her was born. She’d started the day with, “Girls are supposed to have two boobs, not one. Get a bra that fits,” over breakfast, and that was annoying, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. The conversation I overheard with her father later in the day, however, was another story.
My mother had worked hard to make Quinn feel welcome. The month before Quinn and Karen’s arrival, Mom painted Quinn’s new bedroom Quinn’s favorite color, refinished her floor to beautiful hardwood and bought her a new, expensive bedroom set. She’d stocked the house with Quinn’s favorite foods, and cleared space for her in the upstairs bathroom. She bought her a desktop computer so Quinn could do her homework with relative ease, and even added Quinn to the car insurance so Quinn could take advantage of her driver’s permit.
Mom cared. She showed it by asking Karen every day, multiple times a day, how she could help make Quinn’s transition easier. She treated Quinn like a VIP, buying her iced coffees and ice cream sundaes that Quinn would reject on account of calories. Whenever Quinn emerged from her Quinn hole, Mom was at her beck and call.
Through all of it, Quinn remained...aloof was probably the nice way of putting it, but she was cold, and sharp, and dismissive. She never showed any signs of appreciation. She took and took and took and offered nothing in return, which was why when I heard her slamming my mother when she was on the phone, I wanted to put her head through the wall.
“I hate it here,” she said. “It’s awful.”
I was passing by her room when she said that, the thin door not enough to keep her voice contained. I paused even though I knew I’d regret it, and she continued. “Emma, Dana’s daughter, is boring and fat. This house is ghetto, this town is gross. Dana got her lesbian all over Mom and I want to puke whenever they touch each other. Like, keep your gay to yourself, please.”
It was stupid, awful and bigoted. It was also crap; neither of our mothers was demonstrative, probably because they wanted us to be comfortable and their relationship was still new to us. Quinn was making stuff up to her father. I shook my head and rolled my eyes, about to head back to my room, when she said, “I don’t even dare wear shorts around here. Dana’s constantly checking me out.”
Oh, no. Nope, not today, Satan.
“My mother’s not a pedo,” I snapped, slapping hard on Quinn’s closed door. “And she’s been nothing but nice to you. If you’re going to lie, at least do it where someone can’t call you on your crap.”
“I gotta go, Dad.” Something smacked against the wall and I heard her stomping my way. I stepped back right as she pulled open her door, her eyes narrowed to slits, her hair tied up on top of her head in a sloppy bun. She wore one of those tank tops that showed off a belly button ring and a pair of pink and blue checkered pajama pants.
“Don’t listen to my phone conversations!” she screamed in my face, a spray of spittle striking my cheeks.
I winced and wiped my face, my jaw grinding. “The walls are thin. And don’t pretend me overhearing you calling my mother a pedophile is somehow worse than you saying it in the first place.”
“You’re standing outside of my door, you fat bitch. Don’t even!” Behind her, Versace snarled like he was Cerberus guarding the gates of Hell. I eyed him, he eyed me back and then he charged. Quinn could have stopped him, easily in fact, but she moved aside to let him come at me, the little turd of a dog darting in to attack. Razor-sharp teeth tore into my skin, Versace’s head worrying back and forth when he got a good grip on me. I yelped and punted the little jerk to get him off me.
He hit the wall with a thud and a whine.
Quinn flew out of her room to scoop up her teeth-gnashing baby, checking him for lingering injury. She assessed him for damage, bending all of his limbs to ensure I hadn’t snapped them in half like an ogress.
“Oh my God. Stay the hell away from my dog! Ugh, you are such a bitch!” I stared at her in horror, rivulets of blood streaking down my bare foot to stain the rug below. I was so mad I thought I’d rip her hair out, but hearing the kerfuffle, both of our moms crested the stairs to intervene, Karen stepping between us. She herded Quinn back into her bedroom while my mom took me to the bathroom to bandage my foot.
Mom shut the door to tune out the screeching harpy next door.
“Are you okay?” She sat on the edge of the tub, pulling my foot into her lap. It wasn’t so awful—a few puncture wounds, a scratch. Thankfully Versace wasn’t a German shepherd, though my ankle throbbed something fierce. Chihuahua teeth are no joke.
“Would you be? Her dog bites me and I’m the asshole.”
“Language,” Mom chastised. Right, language. Because that was the important part. But being snide wasn’t going to help my cause, and so I sat on the toilet, looking at the countertop. Quinn had commandeered it from day one, multiple baskets holding her lotions and potions and skin care. There were trays for her makeup, bins for her feminine products and EpiPens, and a cup holding combs and hairbrushes. The upstairs bathroom used to be mine, but her stuff was a flag staked into the ground, claiming that six-by-eleven space for the nation of Quinn.
Can I secede? Please?
Mom dabbed at my cuts with hydrogen peroxide. “She’ll calm down. Karen says Quinn’s struggled with the separation.” Mom glanced up from her doctoring, strain lines framing her eyes and mouth. “I know she’s being difficult, but we can give her a chance to settle in before we call it a wash, right?”
“She just told her father on the phone you were checking her out,” I said. “I’m not sure she deserves a chance.”
That stopped her cold, and she peered up at me from behind her dark brows. Her mouth did a pucker thing, her shoulders tensed and she sighed. “I’ll talk to Karen, but the point remains. She’s having a hard time. Let’s be the bigger people.”
Whatever.
“If the dog bites me again I want it gone,” I added as an afterthought. “I don’t need to be mauled in my own home.”
Mom nodded and reached for the Band-Aids. “That’s fair. Maybe we’ll get him a muzzle.”
Can we get one for Quinn, too?
Nah, I’m not that lucky.
* * *
The damage went deeper than the bite marks. Quinn was such a problem child, I secretly hoped Mom and Karen would break up. I knew it wouldn’t happen—they were far too happy—but my peaceful home was in tatters as a result of their relationship.