Meeting Your Makers: Ace of Spades

I wouldn’t usually complain about being pinned to a wall by a cute girl, but-

“How the hell are we going to get a week’s worth of cleaning done in a single afternoon?!”

Her gaze is as furious as it is hopeful for a genuine answer.

I raise my hands in a mixed plea of self-defense. “Before you panic and rip my head off like a praying mantis, let me ask you just one question-”

She scowls. “No, you’re not getting a pity-lay before I kill you.”

“Hey, your loss. But as I was going to say-” I add, smirking, “I might know someone that’s really good at organizing loud, idiotic children.”

“But my mom’s going to be too busy throwing a potluck, and your mom’s going to be too busy suing the shit out of your dad.”

“Har-har,” I reply, before pausing at the realization that I’m about to undertake the most awkward interaction of my young life.

“Yes?”

But my lily-liver pulls me away from the high road and veers me off onto a diversion.

“I’ll tell you about them later. But first, what’s the deal with you and your mom?’

“You’re really asking me that?”

“Idunno,” I reply, “Compared to ‘Barbs’, your mom seems pretty nice and normal to me. Or normal enough, rather.”

“That’s because you didn’t grow up with her. Or rather, under her.”

“Oh come on, she’s all smiles and laughs. It couldn’t have been that bad.”

Anne-Marie sighs, then frowns. “Clearly, you don’t know how much harder it is to say no to a smile.”

“Meaning?”

“Tyranny is still tyranny, no matter how much molasses you pour over the throne.”

“Oh, so she’s like Big Mom?”

“Who?”

I wince, suddenly remembering that my entire cultural vocabulary is about as applicable to normal people as deodorant and going outside is to my ilk. Then again, there’s a good chance Momma Bear would’ve caught that unflattering reference, so I’d do best to keep my voice down.

I whisper, “Basically, you pay a spiritual price by association.”

“Sounds about right,” Anne-Marie replies, at full volume, “I really wouldn’t look forward to all the fundraisers and 6 o’clock sermons I’d be forced into if I didn’t do this.”

I tap her on the shoulder. “Hey, look on the bright side. There’s always the chance you can defer your sentence if you manage to snag a dorm for college.”

“Yeah, but then I won’t be able to see you, wise guy.”

“All the more reason for us to move on to the next step of our plan.”

“Right, so follow me,” she says, pulling me up the stairs, “And try not to hit on my sister.”

“What-now?”

But we’re already standing before the door, and Anne-Marie is already working the guttural groans out of her system as she knocks and mouths:

“Three…two…one…”

The door opens the tiniest crack, and boom. With the grace of a flashbang and the brutal efficiency of a SWAT raid, my first time inside a girl’s room isn’t in my girlfriend’s, but rather her sister’s. To make matters weirder, Anne-Marie had arrived in the chamber so violently that her sister was sent scrambling back onto her bed in a flutter of knee-length dress fabric.

“You’re dressed pretty warm for 60 degrees, Stella.”

“It’s polite to knock,” Stella replies, fluffing down her frills to angle a better judgemental glare at the two of us.

“I did knock.”

The same way the IDF knocks on the door of an Argentinian with a German surname, yeah.

“It’s polite to wait,” her sister replies.

“I don’t have time for this,” Anne-Marie says, stepping forward. “Can I borrow your car this week?”

Stella finishes brushing herself off and scoffs. “Daddy said not to let you touch it till you become a woman.”

“Oh please. I’ve been a woman since I was fifteen, and I’ve been able to vote since January.”

“Wait,” I mutter, “You’re older than me?”

“Yes,” Anne-Marie sighs, “Now don’t interrupt mommy when she’s speaking.”

“Yes mommy,” I fire back.

The immediacy of my submission throws her off for a satisfyingly long and awkward second of silence, before Stella speaks:

“I meant a proper woman. One that acts upon her word and does not simply barge into her dear sister’s room uninvited.”

Only once the pain subsides—from what I swear to god must be a torn rotator cuff—do I notice the particular state of dress that Anne-Marie and I had caught her sister in. That is to say nothing but a dress. One that she doesn’t have on as much as she has on her, which hides things about as convincingly as a kid playing hide and seek in curtains. A closer look at Stella’s flustered face reminds me of just how uncomfortably attractive she is for sharing all the same DNA as my girlfriend.

Struck by the sudden fear of my first conscious memory of seeing a girl naked being anyone but Anne-Marie, I sputter:

“I’ll just- uh, step out-”

Only for Anne-Marie to jerk my back into the room by my pained shoulder. I squeal, and stand at-attention beside her.

“I’d really appreciate the favor.”

Stella smiles all-too pleasantly. “You have the quaintest manner of showing it, you know that?”

Eager to look anywhere but at the obviously-infuriated, half-naked woman filling the other half of the room with an evil aura, my gaze wanders gladly to the decorations—which seem to be a beguiling mix of corny posters with awful engineering puns and equally awful stock nature photographs with default-font bible quotes. Apparently, according to an image of two shirtless surfers on sunset and the infinite wisdom of Psalm 34:8, one must, ‘taste and see that the Lord is good,’ and naturally, ‘blessed is the man who takes refuge in him.’ Inevitably, though, fragments of sisterly scuffling interrupt my concentration in trying not to snicker at the imagery of two shirtless men tasting and seeking refuge inside of the big man in the sky.

“My final answer is no,” Stella hisses. “And you’re not going to change my mind, dear sister.”

“Oh please,” Anne-Marie says through a snort, “Drop the ‘dear sister’ bullshit. You’re clearly just trying to screw me over to get back at me and you know it.”

Stella bares her teeth to respond, only to be overridden by a kitschy pop-music ringtone. Ignoring the fact that Stella’s phone was placed in filming position in the middle of an activated ring light, and for the second time in ten minutes, I find myself jumping in to avoid a clash of estrogen-fueled titans.

“I didn’t know you liked Brittney,” I say.

Stella snatches her phone, clutching it to her chest. Then, her eyes flick to me, wide open.

“Why yes, I find her to be quite the inspiration.”

Anne-Marie hmphs. “Yeah, her music or her life story?”

I nod eagerly and override my girlfriend with, “Wow. I, like, totally grew up on early-aughts girliepop! It’s my dad’s most favorite genre next to stoner rock.”

“That’s remarkable,” Stella says, her face warming instantly. “Why, I grew up on it too!”

A bland response, seeing as how presumably she actually was born during that era. But it gives me enough to work with, and buys me more than enough time. Amid the engineering and bible quotes dotting these turquoise walls, I finally find my mark—nestled between a boxed set of drab, classy blush and foundation and a purse full of neon lipstick and mascara lays a tube stuffed with rolled-up music festival posters. And among Texas raves and New York EDM concerts, I spot the local state concert for nostalgic heartthrob bands.

“Awesome,” I reply, pointing my nose to my find, “So does that mean you’ve actually been to Thousands’ Night?”

Stella gives me an enthusiastic nod, “Why, every year since I learned to drive.”

“What she means,” Anne-Marie adds, “Is every year since she started to sneak out to drink and party.”

I shoot Anne-Marie a foul expression as if to growl, ‘You’re not helping,’ before turning back to Stella.

“Wow, that’s so cool.” I offer a sincere, momma’s boy smile. “Are you planning to go this year?”

“Unfortunately,” Stella replies, evidently just as eager to ignore her sister’s snide comments as I am, “All of my girlfriends had filled up their vacation plans ahead of schedule. And it would be improper for me to go out to a venue like that alone.”

I’m getting some real mixed vibes from this woman.

On the one hand, she has all the mannerisms of a propriety-inclined New England housewife that recently joined a cult. And on the other hand, even an idiot could reasonably infer that she was shooting some sort of professional grade nude photography in the immediate moment before Anne-Marie and I barged in. But I’ve found my throughline to solve all our problems, and I’ve sworn to give Mornin’ the vacation of a lifetime—Man’s promise.

“Aww,” I reply, “But it’s just up in Madison, right? That’s really not that far away.”

Anne-Marie’s face lights up so intensely that you could probably use her to guide ships to harbor.

“I suppose you’re not wrong,” Stella says, sighing, “But I promised ‘ma I wouldn’t travel alone.”

“Really beating the momma’s girl allegations there,” Anne-Marie comments.

Between the pole of staticky tension in the air and the counter-pole of tingling clues lining up on my mental tackboard, I feel a spark:

“Wait-”

Anne-Marie stares at me gawk-eyed, as if realizing what I’m about to say ahead of time.

“What if my dad chaperones you to Thousands' Night?”