Page 18 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“What’d you rent?” she asks, holding them up.

“Saving Private RyanandA Night at the Roxbury. Your dad’s been wanting to see that first one, and I figured you kids would like that Roxbury one. It’s a comedy,” I say.

She nods and places them back on the table, and then fills a cup with water at the sink.

“I wish you would have rentedPsycho,” Nicole groans.

I pan the camcorder back to her. “They didn’t have any more VHS rentals, only DVDs.”

“Why don’t we just get a DVD player then?”

“Because they’re hundreds of dollars, and your father’s convinced they’re just a fad,” I say.

“Yeah, but he also thought CDs were a fad, and he was wrong about that.” Nicole gestures to her Sony Discman.

“Regardless, we can’t afford it.”

Beth carries in a half-full glass of water and plops down in the floral-patterned chair across from the couch, swinging her legs over the arm.

“Where have you been?” Nicole squints at her sister.

“On a run with Lucas.”

“Why does Beth get to have a boyfriend and I don’t?” Nicole asks.

Before I can answer, Beth quips, “Because you can’t get one, loser.” She laughs and gulps her water.

“How rude.” Nicole shoots a glare at her sister.

I take a couple of steps back, so I can fit them both in the frame. “Beth, be nice. Nicole, you know the rules. No dating until you’re sixteen.”

Nicole crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Seems pretty arbitrary to me.”

I’ve had this same conversation with her a dozen times, but she’s too keen on growing up. I wish she’d learn to slow down. Because one day, she’ll be my age, wishing for it back.

“You have your whole life to date, Nicole. Don’t rush growing up because you can’t go backward, only forward,” I say.

“Yeah, and it’s not like anyone is even interested in you,” Beth teases.

“I said be nice,” I warn, pursing my lips together.

“I can’t be both nice and honest, Mom.” My oldest rolls her eyes. “Would you rather me lie to her?”

I give Beth a stern look, and she straightens up in her seat. Nicole sticks her tongue out and immediately retracts it into her mouth when my eyes land on her. She acts nonchalant by fiddling with the black rubber band bracelets on her wrist.

There’s a knock at the front door, interrupting their spat. Neither of my girls jump up to answer it, so I round the corner from the living room into the kitchen. Christie Roberts stands on the porch, hands cupped around her big brown eyes, peering in through the screen. She’s around Beth’s age and lives a couple streets over.

“Hey, Christie,” I say, pushing open the door. “Smile for the camera.”

She takes several steps back, delivers a crooked smile, and waves at the camcorder. “Hi, Mrs. Thomas.” Her dark hair is greasy and uncombed, stopping right at her chin.

I return her smile and ask, “Whatcha up to?”

Christie rocks back on her heels, and I notice she’s not wearing any shoes. She never does in the spring or summer. “I just wanted to see if Beth could come out and play?” Her smile doesn’t falter. A camera hangs from a strap around her neck and a book bag is slung over her shoulders.

“Ummm, let me see what she’s up to. I’ll be right back.”

She nods. The screen door closes behind me as I reenter the house, walking back into the living room.

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