The Romeo Club

My nose wrinkled as the stench of meatloaf casserole and lima beans swirled in the air. “Oh God, she’s trying to kill us.”

“Maybe we should tell her we already ate.” Drake covered his face with his hand. “Or better yet, tell her I’m sick and went right to bed.”

“No way in hell. If I have to eat this crap, then so do you.”

I partially blamed my dad for all this. Mom was a fab accountant, but couldn’t cook to save her life. But there Dad sat, every night, praising her culinary skills when she made up dishes like meatloaf casserole. Which consisted of meatloaf tossed into a pot of macaroni noodles and covered with ketchup. I mean, who in their right mind thought this even sounded good? I considered maybe Dad was really a robot and couldn’t taste the stuff she put in front of us. Either that or she’d destroyed his taste buds years ago and now he was immune.

With a sigh, I watched as my parents pushed into the room. Dad sat across from me in his high-backed chair and tucked a beige napkin into the collar of his shirt. Beside him, he already had his newspaper out. The man spent most of our meals absorbed in some local or national paper.

“Wow, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.” Dad swatted Mom on the butt. “You added cheese to the casserole. Smells delicious.”

Drake coughed, hiding a smirk as he scooted his chair closer to mine.

I grabbed a glass of ice water and slurped it down, hoping it’d make my throat more slick so the nasty food would slide down easier.

“You two haven’t seen my black, lacy bra, have you?” Mom scooped a too large helping of barf-loaf casserole onto my plate. “If you borrowed it that’s okay, but could you return it?” She stared at me expectantly.

My gaze fell on her watermelon sized hooters. In what lifetime did she even think I’d be able to fit into it? Well, unless I stuffed it with my soccer balls. “No—I have my own undergarments.”

“And no chest,” Drake whispered.

I kicked him under the table.

“Bruce, you didn’t shove it under the bed after the other night did you?”

“Some of us are trying to eat here.” Geez, did they think I wanted to hear about their mid-life romps in the bedroom. Can you say NO. Totally sick.

Dad grinned. “Hey, just because we’re old and have kids doesn’t mean … ”

I covered my ears. “I’m not listening. La-la-la-la.”

Mom shook her head. “Well, I’m just trying to figure out where it went. Seems like a lot of our undergarments have gone missing lately.”

“You should ask the neighbors,” I said.

Mom’s eyes widened. “Trey took it?”

With a snort, I spewed water down the front of my shirt at the thought of him sneaking into our yard. “No. I meant the other neighbors—you know Jimbo, the dog with underwear fetishes?”

“Delyla!” Dad said.

“What? He steals our stuff all the time. I mean, most people actually use a dryer now days and don’t hang their unmentionables out for everyone to see.”

“Yes, and dryers run up electricity bills,” Dad, codenamed: Frugal Father, said. “Besides, we have no proof that Jimbo is the one taking things. Maybe there’s some weird kid running around the neighborhood stealing clothes.”

Right. Because every teenager I know wants to take my parents’ undergarments. Woot-woot, bring on the tighty-whiteys and bras the size of parachutes.

After being subjected to unwanted parental talks for a half an hour, I finally managed to escape the dinner table. When I got to my room, I flicked on my light, grabbed the lists the Nerd Herd made, and plopped on my bed to read through them. My gaze darted over my dark blue walls to the poster of Javier Decorum—only the hottest professional soccer play ever. His dark eyes seemed to stare at me from the picture. Sigh. What I wouldn’t give to meet him. Sometimes, when I got bored, I pretended he was smiling at me. And the finger he pointed toward the net, was really pointing at me.

Hey, a girl can dream. I blew my poster a kiss then turned back to the papers I held.