I’m hoping for less. Much less. My cousin Tiffany wears designer clothes. Her house looks like one of those rock-star houses you see on TV. When Mom dragged me to Tiffany’s tenth birthday party, Tiffany talked nonstop about every one of her new outfits and all of her jewelry and her brand-new flat-screen TV and her video games. When one of her friends asked me if I had a PlayStation, Tiffany laughed and said, “No, she just has a lot of books,” before I could even open my mouth. And when she visited our apartment last year, I left the room for a minute and came back to find her sprinkling blue powder onto a crown she was making for her stupid dog.
“That’s the copper sulfate from my chemistry set!” I yelled.
“It’s a pretty color, isn’t it?” she said, holding up the crown to admire it.
That was the last straw. I bet real scientists don’t have to worry about people stealing their chemicals to decorate dog hats.
Mom takes the sandwiches out of the oven, cuts them in half diagonally the way I like, and carries them to the table. I usually love our cozy apartment, but now I can’t help looking at it through Tiffany’s eyes. It wasn’t deco-rated by New York’s top interior designer, the way her house was. There are no expensive glass art pieces on the tables or oil paintings on the walls. I look down at our dishes— they’re all mismatched, because Mom thinks that’s cool. I usually like them, too, but I bet Tiffany will think we can’t afford matching dishes.
I take a bite out of my sandwich, but it doesn’t taste as good as usual. “Does she have to?” I finally say.
Mom looks at me sympathetically. “Look, I know you two don’t have much in common. Her mom and I don’t, either. But maybe you’ll find things to appreciate about each other if you spend more time together.”
I, for one, seriously doubt it.
