Lies of the Forefather

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  John Hughes had lied to Celeste. Him and the rest of the eighties. Francis was going to prom with Penny Chambers tonight and she would be left at home, the wallflower in her dress like some long-jilted Dickensian bride, never to come down the stairs in slow motion and show him that it was her – the tomboy best friend dolled up to the lashes – that he’d loved all along.

  Her younger sister had spent a couple of hours on her make up – just in case, she had said. Throughout the ordeal Celeste had tried her best not to get excited. Her best didn’t feel like it was enough right now though, as the undeniable optimism mixed uncomfortably in her stomach with the reality that was now descending on her. She jumped at every noise as if they were the doorbell or a small stone against her window.

  No. Right now he’d be in his stupid Dodge that he was so proud of and looked so good in with that shallow mess of hair and cleavage, riding his way to teen sex city. Celeste’s end game would no doubt be a consolatory Burgertown meal deal bought by her father, who would feel sorry for her. He would say something like “The kid doesn’t know what he’s missing” or “I think you’re beautiful, kiddo.”. The pity party would be followed by an evening spent studying the incredibly distracting intricacies of complicated carpentry.

  She took a baby wipe from the pouch on her sisters desk – the desk she’d been sitting at for what seemed like an eternity, staring into her reflection, both condemning the other – and made to wipe all the plastercast muck she had on her face when suddenly, unexpectedly, totally eighties, the doorbell rang. She hung there for a minute, the wipe frozen next to her cheek, as she listened and waited until, finally, her father’s voice – with a definite grin in it – called up the stairs.

  “Celeste, honey, it’s for you!”

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~ by Joseph Blame on December 17, 2010.

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