Page 71 of Embody

“You better lock that shit down, J. She’sfucking hot. Someone’s gonna snatch her up right underneath your nose. Surprised she’s not taken already.”

“Presley Alexandra,” Aunt Em groans, “language, please.”

“Mother, am I wrong?”

“No, but youarea foul mouth. And don’t call memother.”

While they bicker back and forth, a horrifying idea creeps in my mind and I’m speaking before I can stop myself. “Hand me a goddamn scrapbook. You hens wanna cackle, at least make it worth my time.”

Next thing I know, I’m gluing pictures of me at three, naked as a jaybird and taking a piss in the front yard, to a blue piece of paper…while getting advice from a shitload of women. All talking at the same time.

Except Aunt Em. She’s staying quiet, closely monitoring my sticker and glitter distribution on my pages. I meanseriously monitoring…are we going to be judged on this crap later?

“Okay, I have a question,” I raise my voice above all theirs.

“Yes, you now have a vagina!” my dad, equipped with the hearing of a hybrid bat-dolphin, yells from his office.

“Ignore him,” my mom flits a hand in the air. “He’s just grumpy I cancelled our dinner. What’s your question?”

“Being agirlfriend, like ‘don’t go near another guy’ official…is that an understood these days, or do you actually have to ask them to be your girlfriend, verbatim?” I ask, becausehow the hell would I know? I haven’t had one since what, ninth fucking grade?

“No talking old people. I’ve got this,” Presley, of course, pipes up.

“Hey,” Skylar whines.

“Sorry. No talking old,married and or boringpeople, I’ve got this,” P amends. “Better?”

“Not at all, bitch,” Sky reaches across the table to slap her on the arm, knocking over a bottle of glitter…apparently a “scrapbooking travesty” if judging by the round of gasps. “But take it away, NickiMénage.”

“Presley, you didn’t!” Emmett stops her frantic scramble of trying to salvage the spilled glitter and starts wheezing. “It was that Blaze character’s idea, wasn’t it? I knew he looked like trouble. Oh, God,” she drops her face in her hands, shaking all over.

“Mom,” P dashes around the table to her side. “Nicki Minaj, m-i-n-a-j, is a famous singer. Skylar,” Presley glares at the culprit, “was just making a play,joke, on the word. I’ve never, ever done that, I swear. And who the hell is Blaze?”

“I know,” Whitley,no shit, raises her hand.

Fuck it…I call on her. “Yes, Aunt Whitley?”

“Thank you.”Yep, she thanks me for calling on her. Can’t make this shit up.“Presley sweetie, Blaze is the ruffian looking fellow you snuck in at the last minute as your date to Skylar’s wedding.”

“Oh yeah!” P laughs, her eyes drifting off…because she still has no idea and is trying like hell to remember him. “Whatever,” she shrugs, obviously giving up any recall. “Mama, It. Was. A. Joke. Sky, tell her!”

“It was. I swear, Aunt Em,” Skylar’s eyes water with guilt.

“And I thoughtI’dbe the first to cry! You know, from being forced to scrapbook! Suck it up, ladies. Here, everyone drink more wine.” Bennett passes one bottle left and another right…‘cause alcohol always helps them reel in their emotions. Except for never.

“Not to be callous, but are we past the ménage mix-up yet? I’m dying to hear what advice Princess P has for my son,” Mom oh-so-tactfully tries to get the subject back on whatshewants to talk about.

“Yes, sorry,” Em wipes her cheeks and squares her shoulders. “I apologize baby, for doubting you.” She hugs Presley, who then returns to her seat across from me.

“Now that my mom’s blood pressure is back to normal and my family is clear on the fact that I’m not the DP Princess, we’ll take another caller. Hello,” she holds her pinky and thumb up to her ear like a fake phone, “thanks for calling in, ‘Horny and Helpless in Georgia.’ How can I help you?”

“Thanks for taking my call, ‘Amnesia and Asshole in my kitchen,’” I fire back and flip her off. “I already asked my question, that you insisted on being the one to answer. So, let’s hear it.”

When everyone’s laughter dies down—yeah, our parents probably take a little too much pleasure in our “friendly, verbal spars”—Presley clears her throat, resting both elbows on the table and leaning forward.

“I have a series of questions, all meant to best help you. Because, believe it or not, at the end of your douchey day, I love you dearly and want you to be happy. Will you answer honestly, in front of everyone?”

“Sure, why not?” I have nothing to hide. And even if I did, privacy is non-existent in this family.

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