“Oh, bugger!” The car speeds off while laughter spills from the open windows.

“You little… tramps!” I holler, which only makes them laugh harder. I’m only twenty-eight, but to them I’m a dripping wet, middle-aged hag, and my use of the word ‘tramps’ only confirms it for them. But I will not swear. There are children standing nearby. Oh, I did say bugger, didn’t I? Shit.

My new white jeans and favourite suede boots are now soaked and covered in mud. This is literally the third time in two years that I have been the victim of the ‘bowling for losers’ game that has been held at this spot for, oh, I don’t know, forever. There’s a dip in the pavement all the way along the front of the bus transfer station, and because the station is backed by an eight-foot brick wall, there’s nowhere to hide. After any big rain, teenagers appear out of nowhere to play.

To be honest, it is kind of fun if you’re one of the teenagers crammed into the car with your friends. I’m ashamed to say I did it once and it was a bit of a thrill, in a scary, exciting, let’s-do-something-really-naughty-that-will-bond-us-forever sort of way. Oh, my God! What if we get caught?

But then, as soon as it was over, I looked back at our victim. She was dressed for a party and even the wrapping paper on the fancy silver box she was holding was dripping wet. We totally killed her day for a few seconds of entertainment. I begged my friends to turn back so we could give her a ride, but, as it turns out, teenagers don’t like to have their fun spoiled, and after that, I had a few less friends. But it didn’t really matter. I had already grown accustomed to being an outcast long before puberty hit.

I’m currently on the way to my childhood home for yet another dreaded family dinner. Being the only girl of five children, I’ve always had plenty of reasons that I didn’t fit in—lack of penis, lack of testicles, lack of interest in football. Things have only gotten worse over the years instead of better, with my brilliant brothers moving up in the world, while I have recently dropped down a few rungs on the job ladder. These days, my brothers tease me relentlessly about being ‘the dullest sharp in the Sharpe family.’ Ha. Ha. Ha.

As the bus barrels toward Abbott Lane, I shrink from a relatively confident, reasonably intelligent woman to an awkward, horribly insecure fourteen-year-old. I’ll spend the next twenty-three minutes hoping the bus breaks down or is hijacked by terrorists (but only if Keanu Reeves gets on first), then the next several hours wishing I had managed to dream up the perfect excuse to skip this evening’s dinner.

In the past two years, I’ve already used horrible cramps (tried and true, especially if my dad answers the phone), raging fever, raging diarrhea—anything raging is quite effective, really—tight deadline at work (which they don’t believe), bus broke down, and bronchitis (which is harder than you think to pull off when you’re perfectly healthy). But today I can’t bring myself to lie. Today we celebrate what would have been my grandfather’s eighty-fifth birthday, and since he was the only person in my family to believe I had any potential at all, I owe it to him to be here.

* * *

I stand on the wet sidewalk staring at my parent’s house with the mishmash of dark green-panelled additions jutting out on top of what was once a one-storey brick home. Even though my legs are damp and freezing, I take a moment to drink in the silence before I am bombarded by the chaos and cooking smells that wait for me. A light rain starts, urging me to go in and get it over with already. There are much worse fates than a family dinner. I can’t think of what they are at the moment, but I know they exist.

Hoping not to be noticed when I walk through the door, I keep my voice whisper-quiet as I say, “Hi, everyone!”

My mother’s head whips out of the kitchen down the narrow hall. Mum has highly-attuned ears. She can manage two conversations at the same time, all while listening for a sleeping baby and making sure the potatoes don’t boil over.

“Tessa! There you are! I thought you’d never get here.” She dodges my nieces, who are too busy chasing the cat around with a tiara to notice me.

“Poor Mr. Whiskers. Mum, you’re not letting them dress him up again.” I hand her the wine I brought for ‘everyone’ (and by everyone, I mean me) and give her a kiss on the cheek.

“He’ll let them know if he doesn’t want to play dress up.” She pulls me in for a hug and the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 wafts into my nostrils.

A hiss and a yowl says Mum was right about Mr. Whiskers. All three of the girls come screaming back down the hall, then make a right and thunder up the stairs.

Mum looks me up and down. “Splashed at the transfer station again?”

“Yup.”

“You should really think about getting a car. They have those electric ones now, so you won’t be ruining the earth like the rest of us.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that before.”

As much as I’d love to cruise around in my own car, I can’t exactly afford one, which is a bit of stomach-tightening information that I keep to myself. So instead, I use public transit under the pretense that I have turned into a real environmentalist. While I definitely care about the earth, I also fantasize about one day pulling up in a shiny, sporty little car so that I can roar off when I have had enough ‘family time.’

What I’d really like to do is to find some nice, stable, eco-conscious man who will drive me to my parents’ house in a hybrid with heated leather seats. I’m sure if I found him, my ‘worthiness of respect’ rating would triple. But since finding a single, dependable, decent man is as likely as finding a payphone these days, I will forever remain a very single entrepreneur who gets to buy expensive footwear (on sale) without hearing complaints from someone who will later leave up the toilet seat.

Oh, that sounded horribly negative. I know there are good men out there, but they are for other women. Not for me. If there is a lying, cheating sack of crap within a ten-mile radius, I’ll find him and fall for him.

My niece, Poppy, is the first of the children to notice me. Her eyes light up and she screams, “Auntie Tessa is here!”

And so begins the onslaught of kids rushing for the packages of Jelly Babies they know I’ve brought. Poppy runs down the stairs and straight into my arms for a big hug. I squeeze her tightly and give her a sloppy kiss on the cheek, just so I can watch her wipe it off. That always cracks me up. I’m the old spinster aunt, except without the hairs growing out of a mole on my chin—yet. “Oh, I’ve missed my silly beans niece.”

I crouch down and dig around in my coat pocket. “Let’s see if I’ve got anything for you.”

She grins expectantly.

“Oh, here it is. One package of Jelly Babies, world’s finest candy.” I hand her the package.

“Thank you, Auntie!” She gives me another hug, while the lineup of children forms not so neatly behind her.

“You’re welcome, peanut,” I whisper in her ear. “Don’t forget, you’re my favourite Poppy in the whole world.”

Poppy beams as her little brother, Clarke, cuts in between us.

I go through this routine another six times, then tell the brood of them what I always do. “Save them for after dinner or your mums will be very cross with me.”

By the time the words are out of my mouth, they’re already gone, presumably to hide and eat the candies. I toss my wool coat onto the teetering pile of jackets on the old wooden bench and head toward the TV room to say hello to my dad and brothers.

When I poke my head into the room, my eyes are immediately assaulted by the pink flashing ‘Sheepshagger Beer’ sign, which clashes horribly with the red and green plaid couch and love seat. My dad is standing behind the ‘bar,’ which is really just a TV tray with a twelve pack of beers on it. His gaze is glued to the giant television screen.

“Hi, guys.” My voice is drowned out by their cheers.

Football is pretty much their only shared passion. Well, that and beer. Oh, and making fun of me. So, I guess they have a lot in common when I think about it.

Dad notices me out of the corner of his eye and gives me a quick wave and half a grin. “Hey there, Tess… AAAHHHH!!!”

His head swivels to the screen again, and he looks like he’s about to have a stroke because someone almost scored a goal. The football match is a bit of a God-send actually. It means a delay of game in the next round of ‘let’s pick on Tessa for not having a man, or a real job, or a man with a real job.’ Now, where did my mum go with that wine?

I find her in the kitchen with my two sisters-in-law, Isa and Nina. They’re too engrossed in a heated discussion about the new school uniform policy to bother with me.

“I know!” Nina, who is starting her second trimester, pops an olive in her mouth, then keeps right on talking. “I was told they weren’t going to do this again this year, but you know you can’t ever trust them. It’s a money grab.”

“A total money grab.” Isa’s head is bobbing so fast I’m afraid it might fall right off. Wouldn’t be too much of a loss for her. She tends to use it mainly for displaying her hair and makeup skills anyway. Oh, that was bitchy, wasn’t it? I wonder if I’m getting PMS?

My mum takes her position in front of the stove, her hands a blur of activity and she stirs, spices, and sautés dinner for sixteen. “So, Tessa, how’s the blogging going?” She emphasizes the word blogging so as to prove she’s finally remembered the name of my current profession.

“Really well, thanks. Steady increase in subscribers, so, that’s always good.”

Her face pinches in confusion, and I know what’s coming. “I still don’t understand how you make money.”

“It’s, um, ads, mostly. Some of the companies that I review for also pay me a fee for testing their products.” I wash my hands and start to slice some pickles that will be served with the stew.

Mum nods. “Right. Companies pay you to advertise on your sites.”

We go over this every time, but I don’t mind. It means she cares. “Yes, sort of. I get paid for the ads indirectly. They pay Google. Google pays me.”

“And you really get enough people reading your blog to pay your bills?”

She must know that I’m exaggerating about how well I’m doing, but in my defense, I only do it because I don’t want them to worry. Okay, also because I would die if my brothers found out.

“I do.” I make just enough to get by. Real money. Not Bitcoins, which will be her next question.

“Real money or those Bitcoins I keep hearing about?”

“Real money, Mum. It goes in my bank account and everything.”

“Good, because Grace next door told me that those Bitcoin people are going bankrupt.”

“Oh, really? Well, then, I’m glad I opted for being paid in real money.”

The doorbell rings, indicating that Bram has arrived. Unlike me, Bram likes to have everyone’s full attention at all times. Something about being born in the middle of a pack of boys that is apparently still affecting him.

“Hello? Where is everybody?” he bellows. “I want you to meet my new girlfriend.”

“Another one?” Nina purses her lips at Isa, setting off a wave of head-shaking and eye-rolling as they go in search of Bram’s catch of the day.

My mum wipes her hands on a tea towel and bustles in the direction of the front door. I take the opportunity to gulp back the rest of my wine and top up my glass before going to greet his latest squeeze.

* * *

We sit down to eat at exactly six o’clock. The adults squish in at the dining room table, while the kids are at a precariously tippy card table filling the entrance between the TV room and dining room. The television blares in the background so my father won’t miss an all-important goal. My mum cracks the window, as within a few minutes, it will be stifling hot in here. She shimmies past the buffet, which proudly displays her Royal Family commemorative plate and mug collection, then is just about to sit down at the head of the table, when she pops back up. “Nearly forgot the fancy napkins!”

“Now, don’t fuss, Mum. It’s not like we’re hosting the King.” My dad, who likes to get through dinners almost as fast as I do, says this every time.

Mum waves off his comment as she hurries back into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a pile of thick paper napkins with a spring motif. She’s big on theme napkins.

Everyone marvels at how my mother has managed to once again pull together such a fine feast. She pretends she doesn’t need the praise, and then the mayhem of dishing up begins. Noah, Isa, and Nina carry plates around the table, loading up food for their children. My brother, Lars, sits on his skinny arse and loads up his own plate before his pregnant wife barks at him to get up and help her. He jumps up as though shocked to find out that four of the children at the kiddie table belong to him.

I’m positioned across from the new girlfriend, Irene, who is exactly what I expected. Young, pretty, big hair and even bigger breasts. Finn, who was hasty to grab the empty chair next to our brother’s new girl, glances down her deep V every time he hands her a dish, while Bram, who is on her other side, does the same thing when she hands each dish to him.

My dad stands, clears his throat, and holds up his glass of beer. “We’re here together today to celebrate the life of a very special man who would have turned eighty-five today. He was a hell of a gardener, a kind soul, and the best father-in-law a man could ask for. To Grandpa Seth.”

We all raise our glasses and toast. Tears fill my eyes. After fifteen years, I still miss Grandpa Seth so much it hurts sometimes. He moved in with us when I was six, right after our grandmum passed on. He and I used to sneak out to the yard every chance we got. We’d talk while he worked in the garden. Well, actually, I would do all the talking, and he would do the listening. He was the only person in my family who treated me like a grownup, even when I was a little girl. He understood me like no one has since, and there’s been a hollow spot in my soul ever since we lost him.

My brothers, who believed Grandpa Seth favoured me—which he totally did—didn’t have much use for him. They’ve all started eating while I fiddle with my tulip-stamped napkin and wait for the lump in my throat to clear.

“So, Tess, how’s the blogging going?” Noah asks, now that he is finally seated and is piling his own plate with food. Let the games begin.

“Tessa’s a blogger,” Bram tells Irene. “She used to be a real reporter until she got fired for shagging her boss.”

“Bram Devon Sharpe!” my mum spits out. “We agreed not to bring that up anymore.”

My face flames with humiliation. “It wasn’t just shagging. We were together for almost a year.”

“What’s shagging, Mummy?” Poppy pipes up from the card table. “And why was Auntie doing it to her boss?”

Isa’s shoulders drop, and she gives Noah a glare that tells him to handle this if he ever wants to get any you-know-what again. (I’m not guessing about that. She once told me she controls him by doling out sex on a reward-system basis. He doesn’t know this, of course, and I wish to hell that I didn’t, either.) Noah snaps into action.

“Thanks a lot, Bram,” Noah mutters. “Nothing, luv, it’s just a made-up thing that Uncle Bram is talking about. From the movies.”

Irene smiles at me. “So, you blog?”

My mum answers for me. “Tessa’s quite the entrepreneur. She’s getting new subscribers every month.” Her expression says, ‘Isn’t that surprisingly good for our little Tessa from whom we expected so little.’ To be fair, though, I am the least impressive one of the family. Noah is a structural engineer. Lars is a professor of astrophysics, so in our house, instead of saying someone is ‘not exactly a rocket scientist,’ we say, they’re ‘not exactly a Lars.’ Finn is finishing architecture school, and Bram is a dentist. And I blog.

“What type of blog do you have?” Irene asks.

“I run a few different sites. Photography, running, a site about the Royals…”

My mum stiffens at the mention of my royal blog. As a huge royal watcher, it’s been a bitter disappointment to have her daughter become openly anti-royal. She’s such a fan, I actually think she would have preferred that I was an open polygamist.

Irene’s eyes light up. “I just love the Royal Family! Especially Prince Arthur—yum!” She giggles, then stares at me, clearly expecting me to agree with her on the yumminess of our nation’s crown prince.

“Yes, he’s very popular.” I smile politely.

She gasps. “I wonder if I follow your blog.”

“Not if you love the Royal Family,” Lars quips.

Her face falls. Mine turns red. “It’s less of a fan site and more of a critical look at the necessity of having a monarchy in this day and age.”

“Tessa wants to oust the whole bunch,” Finn says to Irene’s breasts.

“Off with their heads!” the voice of my nephew, Josh, rings out. Or is that one Geoffrey? I can’t tell them apart, but it’s really not my fault. They’re twins, and they never stop moving long enough to get a good look at them.

“I don’t want anyone to be beheaded—”

Irene is glaring at me now as though I just told her she has an ugly baby. Bram cuts me off and tells Irene’s boobs that I want to see the Royal Family turn everything over to the people and get honest jobs for once instead of stealing from the commoners of Avonia like they’ve been doing for centuries.

While her breasts seem neutral on the top, their owner—and I say owner because I’m fairly sure she paid a lot for them—clearly is not. But this is to be expected—her anger, not the fake boobs. It’s a polarizing topic, and if I couldn’t handle people’s negative reactions, I would have no business blogging about it. If there’s one thing that I learned growing up with four brothers, it’s how to fight, and how to let criticism bounce off me. Oh, I guess that was two things. Good thing I don’t run a site about math.

I reach for the wine bottle, but when I lift it, my heart sinks to discover it’s already empty. “I have nothing against the Royal Family personally. It’s more of a political and philosophical question.”

“If it’s not personal, why did you call them ‘a pack of dishonest, inbred leeches’ last week?” Nina purses her lips and folds her arms over her belly.

“Oh, so you’ve been reading my work.” I can’t help but be flattered even though I know after she read it, she probably called Lars at work and bitched at him for ten minutes about what an awful human being his sister is.

“It would be hard to miss,” Finn says, his mouth full of carrots. “That line was retweeted over fifty-thousand times.”

Noah almost chokes on his beer. “Fifty-thousand retweets? Not bad, Tess.”

“What the hell’s a retweet?” my dad asks.

“Do you actually believe all those terrible things about our Royal Family? Or are you just saying that to get attention?” Isa asks.

“What—”

“Not attention, Isa. Subscribers,” Noah says. The guilty expression on his face tells me that they have clearly said this behind my back, probably on many an occasion.

“Auntie Tessa,” my niece, Tabitha, is standing right behind me, her hot breath going directly into my ear, “my mum and dad said it’s not nice to say mean things about other people, so why is it okay when you do it?”

“Uh, well, it’s just that, the people I’m writing about aren’t gong to read it, so it’s not really the same thing…” My entire head is hot with shame. I glance over at Isa, who gives me a smug eyebrow raise.

“So, it’s okay to say bad things if the people you’re talking about won’t find out?” Tabitha asks.

“No, not really…” Oh, nuts, the look she’s giving me makes me want to slide down off my chair and hide under the table, but somehow, I think the guilt would find me there. “It’s very complicated, Tabby. The people I’m writing about make choices that affect our entire country, and I believe very strongly that they’re doing the wrong thing. If someone doesn’t speak out, nothing will change.”

She tilts her head like a confused dog. God, she’s cute. “But, if they’ll never read what you say about them, how will they know they have to change?”

And smart. She’s really fucking smart. I’ve been outwitted by a girl in a Hello Kitty jumper. “The thing is… well, sometimes, in politics… you need a lot of people to apply pressure to our law makers in order for… for…”

“Ha-ha! She’s got you there, Tess!” Bram laughs.

In order for what? I suddenly realize that, other than the sound from the TV, the entire room has gone silent, and everyone is waiting for an explanation that I’m not prepared to give. “You’re a very wise young lady. I’m going to have to think long and hard about your questions. For now, let me say your parents are right. We shouldn’t say bad things about others.”

“Mum, Josh spilled his milk all over the carpet!” Oh, thank God!

“Shit.” My dad, who couldn’t care less about the carpet, is referring to the opposing team having just scored.

“Watch your language in front of the children!” My mother hurries to the kitchen for the necessary supplies.

“Grandpa just said shit!”

“Geoffrey, enough!”

“I’ve got it, Mum. Let me clean that up.”

“That’s okay, dear. You eat while it’s hot.”

“Muuummmm, Poppy’s smiling at me again!”

“Poppy, what did we say about smiling at Knox?”

“He said my bum smells like farts!”

“Well, it does smell like farts!”

“Do you have to go poop, sweetie?”

“No!”

“No talking about farts or poop at the table!”

“Hang on, what’s a retweet, Finn?” My dad points a forkful of beef at me. “And, more importantly, does she make any money off them?”

“You don’t, but—” I start but my dad interrupts me.

“You’re not lettin’ them pay you in Bitcoins, are you?”