My Monster

Chapter Three: I Hate Dinners

Chapter 3: I Hate Dinners

I pick at the salad on my plate and try my best to pretend I'm somewhere else. The four adults talk and talk as I deliver piece after piece of lettuce into my mouth and crunch it slowly.

Shawn gazes at me from across the table, but I don't make eye contact. I eat my food with deliberate nonchalance.

Dinner conversations have predictable patterns. First come comments about the food, and then gossip, and then worldly topics that make each of the sides feel more intelligent than they actually are, and finally, like a vengeful tide, the conversation turns to the people who hadn't been participating thus far. Namely, Shawn and myself.

"So, Sophie," Bob begins as he wipes his mouth with the satin napkin. It always either starts with a "so, Sophie" or a "so, Shawn." "Have you gotten your college applications all lined up?"

"I think so," I reply. So far, so good. Bob is the Henderson I hate the least. He is what he is—a rich, pompous snob.

"What's your first choice, then?"

"I'm hoping to get into NYU."

"NYU? So, you'll be living at home?" It's a reasonable question to ask. Most kids my age can't wait to get away from the nest. And commuting every day to college isn't any fun, either.

I'd rather have that, though. College is going to be antisocial paradise for me. I'd be able to go to classes and go home straight after. I'd be free of unnecessary mingling with other human beings and can save up on living expenses at the same time.

I shrug and put on my faux smile. "I like living at home."

"Still have your mind set on becoming a doctor?" Bob asks, and I nod in reply.

"What kind of doctor did you say you want to be?" Cintia asks as she struggles to recall my answers to these same exact questions last time they were asked. "Was it a proctologist?"

I cringe and have to take a moment to prevent myself from making a joke about the kind of people who want to look at assholes all day. "No, not a proctologist. A pathologist . . ."

Cintia nods, looking confused, but of course, she wouldn't admit to her own ignorance. "Oh yes, how interesting . . ."

"Mom, pathologists work in the morgue and operate on dead bodies," Shawn says, sending a sly smirk my way.

Cintia's eyes widen, and in her disgust, she stretches her lip to reveal her bottom teeth. "Oh, dear. Why would you want to—"

"Most of pathology is actually analyzing body tissues and fluids, like a biopsy taken for discovering cancer. It's an important profession." The word "cancer" always manages to win people over. I feel a headache forming. I hate having to explain myself, and I wouldn't have if my parents weren't sitting right there—the things I put up with for them.

"That's lovely, dear." Cintia places her hand on her heart. "You know what you want to do at such a young age."

I wouldn't say that being a pathologist is my dream. It just seems less boring to me than any and all of the jobs in the world. Plus, I would get to be a doctor but wouldn't have to deal with any patients.

At least, not living ones.

The conversation moves on to Shawn and his college plans. Next to me, he sounds vague and indecisive. He's aiming for Harvard—I hope he goes there and I'll never see him.

When Bob pulls out the grappa, I'm assured that very soon, this evening is going to end, giving me a whole month before I have to go through with this again.