Rules of a Rebel

Chapter 25: Don't Lose Your Temper

Rule #33: Don't Lose Your Temper

It's the worst thing a rebel can do.

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"Peyton, hand me that tray."

"Peyton, peel the potatoes."

"Peyton, go and ask if the boys want anything."

By the time it's noon, my ears are buzzing with instructions. Since I'm the only teenage girl in the kitchen, all the labor has been bestowed onto me. Unfortunately, Bettie's with Archer and his friends at the moment, playing volleyball, so she can't help with Thanksgiving dinner. I try not scowl as I chop the carrots.

The bruise I got from building the treehouse a couple of days ago stings every time I bring the knife down. Just when I finish my last chore, my grandmother enters the kitchen.

I manage to stifle my groan just in time. Grandmother enjoys making me do tasks, particularly the ones that involve meat.

"Hannah, darling, you don't need to season the pork right now. You've been working so hard all morning," My grandmother coos, her eyes glittering. "Peyton, why don't you do something productive for once, instead of moping around on your phone all day?"

"Like what?"

"Like - hmm, I'm not sure - why don't you try seasoning the pork? Seasoning is a valuable tool that every lady should have."

My left eye twitches. But it's Thanksgiving, so I shuffle over to where Hannah is standing and let her give me the herbs. She looks relived as she saunters out of the kitchen to join the rest of the lazy men outside, watching football.

I look down at the dead pig, silent.

"What's taking so long?"

"I don't support the consumption and murder of animals for human pleasure."

Grandmother snorts. "Oh, so you're still going on about that trash! Stop that liberal nonsense and get to work like the rest of these ladies."

I glance at mom from the corner of my eye. She's too busy gossiping with Aunt Sue to pay me any attention. 

With a heavy sigh, I turn the pork over. Its pale skin feels slimy and gross in my hands. Maybe I should add some extra spice to poison Cousin Bettie or Aunt Sue, I think, wistfully as I take each of the ingredients out one by one.

First, I silently apologize to the pig.

I'm sorry, pig who I will never have the pleasure of knowing, that you and your thousand other friends have been forced to eat and breed in animal concentration camps so that us  Americans can shove our mouths full of more fat -

"Peyton!"

"Yes, grandmother?"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Mourning, grandmother."

"Excuse me?"

"Peyton," Mom finally interrupts. "Could you get Bettie please? It's almost time for dinner."

"Actually, I think Bettie's a little busy with Archer right now. Those two seem to be getting along just fine lately," Aunt Sue, aka Bettie's mother, says. "Why don't we just leave the lovebirds alone for some time?"

They've been alone for two hours is what I want to scream. Instead, I sprinkle a spice, that look deliciously red and hot, to the top of the pork. It gives me a tiny bit of satisfaction.

"Bettie can go see Archer tomorrow," Mom rubs her weary eyes. "I'm sure he's busy with his own family."

"Maybe Bettie can eat dinner with his family then."