Deck the Palace (A Duched Series Holiday Novella), page 6
It may be the bench table attached to the island, which allows us to feel together no matter where someone is in the luxurious space.
It may be the way Megadeth and Finger Eleven and Toni Braxton seem to perfectly reverberate around the room.
Or it may just be the fact we are always guaranteed at least one round of laughs in here due to Mum and Dad’s polar food preferences.
How they survived dating belongs in a Great Unknowns documentary.
Bloodyhell, the way they argue over calling them crisps or chips could, in itself, easily be categorized as a constant reoccurring international incident – since Mum is technically American by blood, Doctenn by marriage.
“Wrap it up quickly – pun intended,” she instructs, prompting me to open the perfect sized container. “We are already off schedule because of one child. Let’s not make it two.”
I carefully place the handcrafted creation inside. “And where is Little Princess?”
“Being her dad’s mini,” Mum gives Goldie a few loving, behind the ear scratches, “upstairs, changing shoes again because the boots I picked out did not go with her dress.”
“Is there something wrong with our daughter having an interest in fashion at such a young age?”
“When it causes us to be late dropping off the others, yes.”
“How about I drop them off with my father,” Dad plops another cube in front of Killian when he spots him leaning towards Chen once more, “and the uni students can simply follow the two of you over to the Rockbridge Center for Ballet and Theatre?”
“You’re driving yourself?” Mum questions on a curious eyebrow lift. “Why?”
“I imagine it is so he can give Kay a ride back to the palace afterward,” Dad boyishly announces on a fist bump with Chen.
“First off, stop trying to relive your frat boy days,” she chastises, mirth swirling through her voice, “and second,” our stares meet, “Kay isn’t coming.”
Every ounce of air vacates my body leaving my retort barely audible, “What?”
“She’s…having…” Mum’s head bounces around to assist in her phrasing, “lady…issues. It’s too painful for her to even get out of bed at the moment.”
Ohno.
I know exactly what is happening.
And I loathe it.
I sooooo bloody loathe the fact she is experiencing pain that cannot be soothed.
Or eased.
Or erased.
“And the girl tried,” she continues, arms finding their way into her dress pockets. “We all know she loves the ballet almost as much as she loves musicals.”
It’s the costumes.
She is obsessed.
Whether it’s period pieces or fantastical creations – like that in The Nutcracker – she lives for their beauty and ingenuity and artistry.
I would know.
I have attended many with her back in Vlasta and listened to the dreadfully long documentaries while studying beside her.
“You know I’ve never seen The Nutcracker,” Chen informs while reaching for the final fig as I begin wrapping the box. “Or…any ballet really.”
“You are not missing out,” Mum mutters with a sneer. “It’s like a sugar rush fever dream of an eight-year-old obsessed with Sleeping Beauty and bright colors.”
“Wow,” Dad loudly laughs, “that is a new one.”
“Sounds like you don’t really like it,” my mate needlessly states.
“I don’t.”
“Then…uh…” he sucks cheese off his thumb before Killian can, “why are we going?”
I was going for Kay.
“It’s tradition.” Mum casually shrugs. “Growing up, every holiday season we went to some sort of Nutcracker performance because it’s my sister’s favorite. Some years it was a little community show. Some years it was the local high school. Every once in a while – when we could afford it – we would go see the Highland Ballet perform. It was and still is very much so her thing.” Her brown eyes mischievously cut over to Dad. “Remember our first Christmas together?”
Groans of unhappiness escape in tandem with him offering Killian a juice cup. “How could I ever forget?”
Curiosity gets the better of me. “What happened?”
“I bought tickets to the Highland performance wanting to win her family over. They were front and center. I wanted to boost their love for me prior to our big day.” Dad delivers a juice cup to Kalum next. “I was punished-”
“Rightfully so,” injects Mum.
“-by being assigned to sit beside your Aunt Candice.”
Additional intrigue has me temporarily pausing my cutting efforts. “Why was that punishment?”
“Because she bloody sobs. The. Entire. Show.”
Spiteful snickers seep freely from Mum. “And?”
“And…” Dad begrudgingly continues, “she does it loudly.”
“So loudly that we were requested to not sit in those seats if we chose to attend again.”
“Yikes,” cringes Chen after wiping away cheese from the corner of his lips.
“Going to a performance honors the tradition of doing it with them each year – back home – even though we won’t be with them this year.” Glumness plops into her gaze sending Dad’s shoulders into the same position mine were just minutes ago. “Most of the family is really excited to be going – boot challenging child included – plus RCFBT agreed to donate all of tonight’s proceeds to MINOH in exchange for a photo op with the cast.”
“There’s that word you hate again,” Chen impishly adds to the convo.
“I do,” Mum mutters, brown eyes shooting to the ceiling. “I really effing do.”
You know what I hate?
The idea of my girl not attending because of the excruciating pain she’s in.
Would it be wrong for me not to join them?
To stay behind with her?
Provide comfort – if possible.
Hell, simply retrieve her blankets or pillows or the special tropical fruit pops I always keep on hand in my dorm apartment for these exact cases.
“Readddyyyyyyyy,” announces Kendall the second she enters the room.
“That you are.” Dad smugly smirks. “Looking exactly like Mum.”
We collectively look over to see my little sister modeling her black Converse that are identical to the ones our mum is indeed sporting.
Redness hits Mum’s cheeks as Dad charmingly states, “Perfect.”
Goldie immediately barks twice in agreement.
“Thanks Goldie!”
Chen lightly laughs, obviously both amused and impressed.
What did he expect?
Our pup is no less opinionated than anyone else in the house.
Especially when it comes to breakfast options.
I prepare to add my own compliment to the mix, only to be cut off by Kendall herself, “You coming too Cliff?!”
“Uh…” my fingers give a nervous pull to my neckline again. “Um…”
Do I disappoint my sister or the girl I cannot live without?
Do I really have to choose?
What sort of Christmas hell is this?
“Actually, Cliff has to go check on Kay ‘cause she’s got girl sickness,” Chen slyly declares at the same time he stands up, “but I’m coming.” He extends his open palm for her. “If that’s still cool.”
“Very cool,” Kendall coos, places her hand in his hand, and begins to lead him out of the room. “You can buy me candy.”
“Or…not…” Mum calls out after them then leans over to press her lips warmly against Dad’s. “See you in a bit.” Meeting my stare occurs swiftly. “Tell Kay she’ll be missed.”
Thankfully, I won’t have to be the one to miss her.
Katherine
This is agony.
Pure.
Uncut.
Agony.
This is not a gift, which is the only thing that should be given during the holiday season!
I would not even box this up – if it were possible – and bestow it upon Juno Verducci, the chem major from Applecourt, Michigan, who drunkenly shoved her tongue down Cliff’s throat during a homecoming party this semester.
He didn’t kiss back.
Not that I would’ve blamed him if he did.
ForCostumersSake, he’s not a bloody saint nor is it expected.
Come on, the boy is bloody beautiful.
Dirty blond, shaggy hair made for your fingers.
Hazel “I’ll worship you until you die” eyes.
That should never be cursed to wear a shirt, let alone pants, body.
Yes, he plays football, but mygod, he is built like David Beckham pre DILF years.
Cliff Danes is the walking, talking daydream come to life for at least half of our campus – gender affiliation irrelevant.
Why?
Why you say?
Because even those that do not want to shag him – though if we are being honest almost everyone who meets him wants to shag him – adore the bloke.
He is kind.
Charming.
Confident, yet not cocky.
Loyal.
King…and…Country…is he loyal.
I cannot tell you the number of times he refused to be anywhere but by my side when I would have a spell like this.
Again, PCOS is not something I would thrust upon anyone if it were an option.
It’s the bloody nightmare that even misery is afraid of having.
Adjusting the sleeves of my red peppermint pajamas is meant to serve as an avoidance technique.
Because it is.
Because talking about my hormonal disorder with my father feels too personal.
We may be closer now than we have ever been; however, there is still a vast amount of territory for us to cross.
Territory that is becoming increasingly easier to bridge thanks to Paislee, the beautiful angel of a human who returned to his life before he accidentally, on purpose had an incident with my fabric scissors.
We may look like father and daughter – blonde hair, blue eyes, similar facial features – and we have similar built frames – me being shorter at 1.78 meters yet am still mostly torso like him – but are polar opposites.
He loves the spotlight and attention.
I love not being seen by anyone.
Except maybe Cliff.
He is what they call a social butterfly.
I am the spotted hermit crab. I require ample space, spare shells, and lots of rock for blending in with.
I swear to the lords of dance, I was born into the wrong family, by the wrong people.
Father is a bloody prince and the woman whose egg I incubated is an actress.
They both scream look at me while I shout look away.
Irony, yes?
“And you are certain we do not need to transfer her to the hospital side of the palace?” Father fearfully ponders from the doorway of the recently re-modernized room I’m occupying for winter holiday. “Or have a medical professional come here?”
“Have you completely forgotten that I am a medical professional?” Paislee retorts, dropping her balled fist onto her dark, winter green, long sleeve dress covered hip – that’s shaping her frame quite well if I might add. “That that is literally what I spend my time not with you doing?”
“Of course, I know that, my everything,” Father rushes to correct. “I just meant…perhaps…she might need someone with….other expertise?”
“You mean a doctor?”
“I mean-”
“You mean a person who you believe went to school for significantly longer than I did to acquire an MD yet spends a mere fraction of the time I spend with patients?”
“I mean-”
“You mean a person who has likely not encountered a young woman with this diagnosis in their entire career but just so happens to have D R in the front of their name therefore being valued more than someone with an R N who indeed has worked with and assisted in multiple young females getting the treatment and care they need for this lifelong health condition?”
Father swiftly clamps his mouth shut.
Have I mentioned I bloody adore when she does that?
It is not often.
He rarely tries to upstage her so to speak.
Yet when he does?
She always puts him rightfully in his place.
Without yelling.
Without name calling.
Without so much as changing a tone.
It’s inspiring.
And invigorating.
And the confidence I hope to gain when fighting for a spot in costumes next semester.
Perhaps I will have her coach me or provide some tips.
Paislee is everything I always wanted in a mum, and interestingly enough, is also sparking everything I hoped I would someday have in a father.
When Father remains silent, she teasingly taunts, “What exactly did you mean, darling?”
“That…I…love you,” he slyly states, voice riddled with uncertainty he has chosen his comeback wisely.
“As you should,” his fiancée states prior to returning her attention to me. “Is the medication still helping to keep your cycle regulated?”
“Yes.”
“Is this that week?”
“No.”
“Alright.” Paislee adjusts the grip on her small handbag. “Is the pain more of a stabbing sensation or burning that could only be matched by that of thousand fire corals?”
There’s no stopping my head from tilting in confusion. “Coral burns?”
“Fire coral is not actually coral,” Father informs, re-entering the conversation. “It is a misleading nomenclature that you would think scientist would have corrected by now.”
“It is almost as if they have bigger issues to face,” sasses the woman he would absolutely walk through fire coral for.
Oh!
I made a funny!
Where is my best mate to give me credit when I need him?!
Right.
Preparing for the family ballet event I am no longer attending.
“They are a marine organism that stings like jellyfish and belong in the same phylum; however, they are not in the same class,” Father casually explains as though I am some sort of science major rather than art.
“That was very sexy,” Paislee coos on a wink, prompting him to blush.
Yes.
Actually.
Blush.
I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen that occur pre-Paislee.
Post?
Probably once a day.
She makes him a different man.
One that’s better.
One I did not mind coming to visit me in the states this year.
One I am learning to loathe less for shipping me away when I was younger rather than raise me himself.
“You two know that I am barely passing biology, yes?”
My step mum – or simply mum – in the making hits me a displeased stare. “We will circle back to that post Christmas, Miss Katherine.” The corner of my lip kicking upward untenses her shoulders. “For now, tell me the type of pain.”
“More stabbing than burning.”
“Given your cycle is regulated, the likely timing of the last one, I would venture an educated,” she throws Father a brief glare over her shoulder prior to preceding, “analysis that you may just be having a very painful ovulation rather than a possible cyst bursting.”
The latter mentioned instantly gets me groaning, “Nooooo…it is not that pain. That pain…” my head rapidly shakes, untamed blonde hair accidently whipping me in the eye, “that pain…” I rub away the new ache I created, “is soooo not this pain.”
“Then likely it is ovulation, something that at times can be extra painful for people with your condition.”
A condition that I was not even aware was a condition until I was sixteen.
I merely assumed everyone had periods that did not make sense.
That everyone’s cramps felt like the Loch Ness Monster was trying to claw its way out of their lower abdomen.
Had stubborn fucking chin hairs that refused to bugger off.
It wasn’t until one of my teachers found me sobbing in the bathroom stall when I should have been in class, in entirely too much pain to walk, that she insisted we contact my father about taking me for more in-depth help than that of the onsite boarding school medical facilities.
Thankfully, he did.
And less thankfully, a long, uncomfortable, at times very frustrating process to get me diagnosed, began.
“It bloody blows,” I grumble, sinking further underneath the heather gray sheet. “I should be headed to the ballet with everyone else not bedridden like the elderly in that movie about candy from a hundred years ago.”
“Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory?” Father cautiously inquires.
Nodding is instant. “Loved the top hat. Hated the tie. The 1900s were filled with so many fashion contradictions it is mindbogglingly fascinating.”
Paislee lifts a finger – clearly prepared to argue something – when my father intervenes, “You will be missed at the event, Bun Bun.”
It’s impossible not to grin at the childhood nickname that was once a reference to the hairstyle I was too fond of.
“However, we will most certainly bring you back presents.” His head lovingly rests against the frame. “We will not even make you wait until Christmas to open them.”
“Thanks,” I halfheartedly retort.
“You should know your mate Cliff is downstairs,” Father casually begins at the same time he shoves one hand into his navy suit pants pocket. “He is helping his brothers get settled.” Our eyes stay locked. “He shall be up to see you shortly.”
“Oh,” comes out less than innocently while my frame slightly scoots closer to my nightstand now in desperate need of my hairbrush.
And mascara.
And lip…anything.
And a bloody mint!
My breath is probably bloody awful!
He cannot see – or smell – me like this!
Ohmybroadwaystars, do I need deodorant?!
“We should be heading out,” announces Paislee during a smooth sliding over of her mascara container. “The traffic is likely to be even more atrocious than normal now that it is snowing.”
