Page 91 of Flirtasaurus
“Did he just quote a Fatboy Slim song?” Ralph whispers in my ear.
“I believe he did, yes.”
Dad wraps things up with his classic “God’s neat, let’s eat! Amen.”
“Amen,” we all respond.
Everybody starts digging into the food.
“So. I have a question for you, Lopey,” Dad starts.
“I’m sorry to cut you off,” Ralph boldly says, “but why the nickname Lopey?”
I decide to take this one before anyone else can.
“Calliope got turned into Liope, which somehow got shortened to Lopey. Also, I’m just lucky, I guess,” I say with a bit of bite in my tone.
“Well, that and she’s always been so mopey. The rhyme scheme worked out nicely, so it stuck,” my older brother, Scott, offers.
“Did you ever think that maybe I wasn’t mopey? Maybe I was misunderstood?”
“Yeah. Okay.” My younger brother, Mark, scoffs.
“Oh, like you’ve always been such a peach!” I retort.
“Peachier than you, lady!”
“I dunno,” Ralph says. “I don’t see Callie as mopey at all. I just see her as a passionate person who isn’t afraid to go after what she wants.”
There’s silence for a moment, then a resounding familial chorus of “Oooooh Callie.”
“No one calls her Callie.” My mom seems confused by this turn of events.
“Oh, well, she said it was okay, so…” Ralph responds matter-of-factly.
“We actually named her Calliope to honor the muse of all muses,” Mom says. “Calliope, the muse of epic poetry.”
Ralph smiles knowingly. “I thought so! Beautiful name.”
“We’re a family of writers,” Scott says proudly.
“Yeah, who no longer write…” I mumble under my breath just loudly enough for Ralph to hear. At least I think so. Did my mom hear me? She’s giving me a look. I choose to ignore it for now.
“I’m Mark, as in Twain.”
“I’m Scott, as in F. Scott FitzGerald.”
“And I’m named after a muse,” I say. “You know, so I can inspire themento write while not doing anything of value myself.”
“Calliope, that is ridiculous!” Mom scolds. “Why do you choose to see the negative in things? We named you Calliope so you would always—”
“You know, sometimes I can’t believe I actually got away with it,” Dad interjects with what seems like a non sequitur.
“Got away with what?” I ask.
“Naming your brother Scott FitzGerald.”
“What was wrong with naming me Scott FitzGerald?” Scott looks nervous, and knowing my father? He should be.
