Split Just Right by Adele Griffin Read Free Book Online

Portia about fencing. Mrs. Paulson just takes over a room. She used to be a Laker Girl or Dallas Cowgirl or some kind of professional cheerer, and she still has a lot of spins and kicks left in her, not to mention a peppy voice that’s always on megaphone volume.
    “Dan-dee-lightful! I swear you’ve grown another inch since last time I saw you. Chaz, is that a martini? You know better, what did Dr. Little say?” Mrs. Paulson spins over to her husband and spears an olive from his glass with one perfect blade of nail, then spins over to Mrs. Jackson. “Oh, Sharon, dinner looks great! And Danny’s staying? Great! It’s all low cal, low fat, low cholesterol. Even the salad dressing. Chaz isn’t my young bull anymore.” She winks at me. Considering Portia’s the daughter of Mr. Paulson’s third marriage, I wonder if Mrs. Paulson even knew Mr. Paulson when he was a young bull. He has to be more than fifteen years older than she is.
    “Ew, Mom, that’s so disgusting?” Portia sighs, sitting in her seat and snapping open her napkin. “Young bull? Grotesque. Who are you? Saying that with your own daughter right at the table? I’m just glad Carter’s still at track practice.” Carter is Portia’s younger brother, who’s a twit and luckily is almost always at sports practices. Mrs. Paulson just winks at me again.
    “And Dad, are you possibly thinking about a shower before dinner?” Portia wrinkles her nose.
    “Not even entertaining the concept.” Mr. Paulson smirks. Portia sighs with disgust. I sit and reach for the not very low cal-looking buttered mashed potatoes.
    Mom once told me that she hates the ceremony of dinners, that when she lived with the Massaras, Frannie would spend hours toiling over her cookbooks trying to get her meatloaf perfect, and that the table would have to be set with cloth napkins and Ken would say about forty minutes of grace—all for five minutes’ worth of eating. After dinner, it was Mom’s job to clean up the kitchen, which ate up another half hour since there was no dishwasher. She told me this story the day we bought our own dishwasher, at fifty percent off from Kahani’s. We never have to use that dishwasher more than a dozen times a year, but I guess it makes her feel safe.
    When I listen to the noises of the Paulsons’ dinner, though, there is something about the clink and scrape of forks and knives, the friendly words— will you pass me this or that? mmm, this tastes good, I like this better broiled, fried, with creamed spinach, without butter, yes, it’s healthier that way —that makes me want to bring Mom over to Portia’s house, sit her down at the table with us, and say, “See, Mom, sometimes it’s not so bad to set out utensils, even ones that you might not need, and to use cloth napkins, and to have an extra dish for peas instead of smacking the pot right on the table.” I bet Mom wouldn’t mind a sit-down dinner every once in a while, especially since the Massaras wouldn’t be there praying over their food, and since we have a dishwasher.
    Mrs. Jackson finishes bringing out the rest of the dishes and then she disappears to somewhere else in the house. She and her husband, who takes care of the Paulsons’ lawn and the garden, live in a little house on the Paulson property.
    Portia’s family doesn’t seem to mind, but it would make me feel weird if people lived on my land in a little house while I hogged up the big gorgeous one, like serfs and lords from medieval times. I just always hope that Mrs. Jackson takes comfort in the fact that Mrs. Paulson has filled her home with just about the ugliest furniture I ever saw; she even has zebra wallpaper in her dressing room. Although I know I could live with zebra wallpaper if my living room were as big as the school gym.
    Mr. and Mrs. Paulson are the kind of parents who make their kids tell them every single thing that happened to them from the minute they woke up to the second they sit down to dinner. And even