Friday, November 1st, 2013
** Gallos used with Guine's permission! <3


Word Count: 3393

Paris was having a good day before Momma Gallo dropped the bombshell.

What with having control over her own class schedule and those pesky general education credits mostly behind her, Paris no longer had classes on Fridays, which, after much persuasion from Chris, Mom, and Momma, she had blocked off as her weekly “Me Time,” seeing as she took so little of it over the rest of the week. Typically this meant little more than a long soak in the tub rather than her usual morning shower, and dining out at her favorite restaurants rather than preparing her meals herself, but Paris also used it as an opportunity to wear something other than tights and a leotard, which became even more of the norm during the school year when she had classes and rehearsals on top of the practice and exercises she scheduled herself, but which, though comfortable, were certainly not always fashionable.

Sometimes “Me Time” meant a day out with Momma, though Paris liked to think of these occasions as “Girl Time” instead. They were pleasing experiences, as Paris had never had much Girl Time with her own mother and wouldn't know how to start now, and Momma had rarely had many girls to share Girl Time with; rather, she tended to drag one of her sons around with her (mostly Peter, these days), whether or not they were always appropriate company (or had any such interest in a relaxing mani-pedi, as the case may be). Paris, of course, had no such reservations, and over the last year or more had taken to tagging along with Momma during her many appointments.

Today started in much the same fashion. Paris awoke to let the dog out and prepare breakfast (omelets with a side of turkey bacon and toast, and Chris's usual cup of coffee and Paris's morning tea), which she brought upstairs to share with Chris in bed. Then Chris showered while Paris had her Me Time soak in the tub (and rather enjoyed the view through the large glass shower but, seriously, who could blame her?), and after one brief “distraction” before Chris could make much headway in toweling off (it happened less often these days and was worth note because of it), they set about clothing themselves and seeing to their respective morning hygiene regimens, shaving (in Chris's case) and applying make-up (in Paris's). After that, it was time for Chris to head out for his volunteer work with a pit-stop to drop Paris off at Chris's parents' house on the way.

All in all, an excellent start to a Friday morning.

It continued on that same vein with Momma. Today it was indeed the hair and nail salon for their monthly hair maintenance and one of their biweekly manicures, which started out normally enough until Mandy, Paris's stylist, finally managed to talk her into coloring her hair. Paris had been avoiding this every month since she'd begun to accompany Momma on these appointments by stubbornly clinging to her love for her pale, near-platinum hair. But in the end Mandy was right, and Paris ultimately had no choice but to accept her wisdom: Pale hair plus pale skin might be striking with the bright blue-green of Paris's eyes, but it had the downside of making her look washed out and ghostly when she wore certain colors (her fuku came to mind), and though that couldn't always be avoided unless Paris chose to fake a tan (which was something she most certainly would not ever do), a slightly darker color to her hair, she was told, would not only highlight the clear fairness of her skin and bring the subtle pinks and creams out from beneath all that lily white, it would allow her a broader range in color palettes when it came to her clothing.

So it was that when Momma and Paris left the salon to have lunch at a new Mediterranean place that had opened just last week, Paris's nails had been done in their usual pale, pearly pink, and her hair, so cherished, so well looked after, now shone—still blonde, but more golden in color, rich and vibrant, and with a hint of honey. Paris couldn't deny how it brightened her face and, indeed, changed her whole outlook on coloring one's hair. She walked with a new bounce in her step (along with the bounce in her lovingly tamed and carefully styled curls), and felt a small boost in her slowly climbing confidence.

After lunch, Paris spent an hour talking with her therapist while Momma sat and flipped through magazines in the reception area. Paris was in a good mood and still riding on her high from the salon and a good meal, so the session went well and they spent much of it talking about Paris's progress (and here Paris wished she'd actually been wearing a leotard, which certainly left nothing to the imagination and would have made obvious the still very small but slowly developing growth to her chest) and her plans for the near future.

Then it was back to Paris's and Chris's house with Momma to oversee the autumn decorating.

Which was when it happened, and a day that had been going so well since dawn suddenly turned dark and dismal.

Chris was still out, and so they didn't have to worry about him getting in the way while the tasks were being agreed upon and the decorations were being arranged, and the decorating crew (because Momma insisted the house was simply much too large for her and Paris to do the decorating on their own, and of course she was right) had just packed up their things and were on their way out, leaving Momma and Paris to marvel over the completed project when Momma said, “It'll look lovely for Thanksgiving.”

Paris was busy soaking in all the beautiful garlands and wreaths in orange and yellow and red leaves, and the gold trimmings and brown accents, and the pumpkins and scarecrows and acorns and pine-cones and owls and the smell of harvest and apples and spice and clear, crisp fall air, and didn't quite process what Momma had said until five minutes later when they were packing up the last of the storage boxes to return to the attic.

“No one's going to see it on Thanksgiving,” she said.

“Why wouldn't they?” Momma asked.

“Well, why would they?” Paris countered. “Won't we be in Boston?”

First, Momma stared at her and blinked a few times in confusion. Then her eyes widened slightly as if she'd just realized something, and her mouth formed into a tiny 'o' of surprise. Finally Momma brought one of her hands to her face, and it was impossible to determine if this was done in shock and potential embarrassment, or if Momma meant to conceal her amusement.

It could just as easily be either, Paris knew.

“You mean no one told you?” Momma said.

“Told me what?” Paris asked with increasing anxiety. She had a feeling she was missing something very important.

She wasn't wrong.

“You're hosting Thanksgiving this year,” Momma said.

“For who?” Paris responded.

“For the family.”

“For you and Beau and Michael and Peter?”

“Oh, no, Precious,” Momma said sweetly. “For everyone.”

Paris's memories of last year's Thanksgiving in Boston provided her with images of thirty or more people—all of them Gallos, all of them wealthy, and all of them gathered in one place: her home.

Her good mood vanished, and Paris suddenly found herself in an all out panic.

“For everyone?!” she screeched. “Since when?!”

“Well, it's tradition,” Momma explained, still with her hand to her face, still stuck somewhere between shocked pity and amusement. “The newly married couple always hosts their first Thanksgiving for the family.”

“That's not a tradition, Momma! That's a test! It's a death sentence!”

They were going to come here and parade around her home (which wasn't even finished with the remodel, for Pete's sake) and silently (or vocally) judge everything from the furniture to the curtains to the light fixtures, to the ballroom she and Chris had converted into a ballet studio and the unfinished basement they hadn't quite figured out what to do with yet. They were going to come in droves; there'd be dozens of them, all dressed up for the occasion in their designer suits and dresses, talking about business and politics and all those other things Paris didn't really understand and couldn't feign an interest in if she tried, and they'd all stare at her, just a young girl from a strange city trying to adapt to her change in circumstances, and they'd judge her performance as the gracious hostess and determine once and for all whether or not she belonged among them.

It was a complete nightmare.

“There's no way...” Paris began. “Momma, I can't... you just... you can't expect me to...”

Momma's warm golden eyes remained innocently wide. “Oh, but Nana's already sent out the invitations!” she said.

Paris felt her face—her pale, pale face—drain of the color her new hair was supposed to have brought out in it, as shock and anger warred against one another. She could feel herself trembling, gearing up either for an outpouring of terrified sobbing, or a spectacular tantrum the likes of which she'd not performed since the age of two.

Finally, Paris exploded.

“She WHAT?!”

Paris had her phone out in a matter of seconds. Her fingers flew over the touchscreen as she furiously scrolled through her contracts for Nana's number (she called it only occasionally but had it programmed into her phone anyway in case Nana decided to call out of the blue, which happened a bit more often than Paris's nerves could handle). She pressed it to call before she could think better of it, and began to pace around the foyer as she brought her phone to her ear. Momma continued to stare, curious.

“Hello, Dearest,” Nana answered after the third ring, and spoke as if she'd been expecting the call. She did not sound surprised in the slightest, but acted in a way that made it seem as if they often conversed on the phone at random like this.

“Why didn't you ask me if I wanted to host Thanksgiving?!” Paris nearly shouted. She only held herself back a few decibels because she was terrified of actually shouting at Nana.

“Ask you?” Nana wondered. “And why should I need to ask you?”

“Because it's polite, Nana! Because you can't just send out invitations for everyone to come to my house on Thanksgiving without telling me!”

For the time being Paris ignored the fact that it technically wasn't her house and that she and Chris were currently living more on the Gallo money than they were their own. It made her a little queasy to think about, and she couldn't afford to be queasy right now. She needed to seem appropriately horrified by Nana's lack of common courtesy or she'd very likely burst into tears on the spot.

Luckily, Nana decided not to make the correction.

“It's tradition, Dearest,” Nana said. “I thought Christopher would have told you sooner.”

“You think Chris realizes it's almost Thanksgiving?!”

“Well, I'm afraid it's too late now. The invitations were sent out weeks ago and most of the family has already accepted. I can't very well tell them there's going to be a change in plans. You understand, of course. It would be terribly impolite.”

Paris paused in the middle of the foyer, utterly aghast that Nana had apparently requested that they R.S.V.P to her rather than to Paris and Chris, but considering Nana hadn't thought it was appropriate to inform them of this “tradition” ahead of time Paris supposed she shouldn't be too surprised. Of course Nana would have done something like that. No doubt she found the entire thing endlessly amusing.

And Paris knew that was all this was. Nana liked being amusing. She'd done this on purpose, but then Nana very rarely did anything by accident (and when she did she never let you know). Everything she did was carefully planned, and every occasion an opportunity for her to test the members of her family. Nana had already used Paris's and Chris's wedding to strike a few more people off of her will. It was a game she played, the method by which she brought all things under her control. This “tradition” was just another part of it. Paris knew she and Chris were being used for the amusement of an arrogant old woman as well as to facilitate her little money games.

The question was simply whether this test was meant for Paris and Chris, or for the rest of the family.

A part of Paris could guess at the truth—that it was unlikely that Nana meant this as a challenge for she and Chris when Chris had long been her favorite. Rather, she had doubts about the remainder of the family, and she used large get-togethers like this as a means of passing judgment. Paris and Chris were simply the unfortunate ones to be pulled along for the ride this time around.

But Paris still feared the task. She wanted to prove herself deserving; she wanted to prove herself capable. Even if Nana might already approve of her (Paris doubted Nana would have helped Chris purchase the engagement ring or put so much interest in the wedding planning if she didn't), and even if Chris's immediate family, his parents and brothers, supported the relationship and looked upon it favorably, Paris often felt as if she still had something to prove to all the rest of the Gallos.

After all, she was the outsider—the newest Gallo.

“How do you expect me to feed over thirty people?!” Paris asked. She held onto her anger. Without it she'd be little more than a panicking, sobbing mess.

“Can't you have it catered?”

“Catered? What? No, Nana, I'm not going to have Thanksgiving catered! That's just... no! Absolutely not! I'm not making other people work on Thanksgiving so we can eat some fancy twelve course dinner!”

“They wouldn't be working on Thanksgiving, Dearest. The food would be prepared ahead of time.”

“I am not having Thanksgiving catered!” Paris said firmly.

Her origins were much more simple than that of the Gallos. She remembered the quaint Thanksgivings of her youth, and would therefore always be a proponent of a good home-cooked meal, particularly on holidays.

“I expect you'll have quite a bit of cooking to do, then,” Nana said.

Without thinking (indeed, she found herself unable to think of much beyond the dread and anxiety coiling within her), Paris ended the call on that note and nearly threw her phone against the wall in her building frustration. She stopped herself only because she didn't enjoy the idea of requiring a new phone. Instead she gripped it tightly in her hand and stood there fuming, glaring at the dark wooden floors as if imagining Nana's face there.

Momma attempted to console her, but none of her comfort broke through the dark cloud that had suddenly descended upon Paris. She pulled herself together enough to reassure Momma that she had a plan (she didn't, but she would soon enough, as soon as she had time to think alone) and insisted that Momma should not feel obligated to stay. Momma argued some but, seeming to sense Paris's need for solitude, eventually relented. She climbed into her car after hugs and kisses and much heartfelt, loving support, and then drove off to return home.

Paris thought she wanted solitude, and for a few moments after Momma's car had faded into the distance she felt slightly better, but that did not last long before her panicking thoughts consumed her and she feared she might faint beneath the pressure.

She was out on the front steps when Chris returned home. She'd hoped the cool autumn air would clear her head, and she'd felt too confined inside the house despite how large it was. She still had her phone clutched tightly in her hand, but Nana had not tried returning her call. Drowning in misery, Paris leaned forward over her raised knees in an attempt to block out the rest of the world.

But though she could not see, she heard Chris's car pulled up, heard the door open and shut, heard the jingle of Chris's keys as he shoved them into his pocket, and then heard his footsteps drawing closer.

“Hey,” said Chris's voice, not yet beside her but rather standing before her. “Your hair...”

“What?” Paris said. Her head jerked up and she looked at him tiredly.

He seemed confused, immediately noting the look on her face. “Your hair looks different,” he said lamely.

“Oh... yeah... I had it dyed a little...”

“Oh...” Chris said, then, “It looks nice.”

“Thanks...”

When she'd gotten it done she'd been hoping for a better reaction than that—perhaps for Chris to gush almost as his mother had, carry on about how beautiful Paris looked, hold her close, pet her hair, stroke her face, kiss her and say all those sweet loving things that turned Paris too mush. Instead there was worry and confusion, directed less toward her hair and more toward her general mood, which Paris knew Chris could easily pick up on. They'd been together too long for Chris to do otherwise.

“Why didn't you tell me we were hosting Thanksgiving this year?” Paris asked, but it was not accusatory or irate. Instead, she sounded lost and weary. Anger had already given way to emotional exhaustion.

“What?” Chris asked. He looked adorably bewildered.

Of course Chris hadn't known. She hadn't expected he would.

Paris sighed heavily. “We're hosting Thanksgiving this year. For your family. Apparently it's some Gallo tradition. The newly married couple hosts their first Thanksgiving. Your mom told me, then I talked to Nana.”

Chris stared at her and blinked in confusion. For a second it looked like his face might crease with the effort of understanding the situation, but then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open and rounded out into an 'o.' Normally Chris took after his father—in temperament, in most of his general appearance—but in that moment Paris saw quite a bit of Momma in him.

“Oh...” he said. “Oh... That makes... so much sense now...”

“Nana's already sent out the invitations,” Paris said.

Then Chris was back to being Beau's son. The change was almost immediate. His face paled, then reddened, and his normally bright eyes grew dark and stormy.

“She WHAT?!” he exploded.

Paris expected him to react as she did, and reach for his phone to call Nana. Indeed, Chris's hand reached back as if to remove his phone from the back pocket of his khakis, but Paris rose to her feet on the front steps and forestalled him.

With fatigue and the absence of anger came resignation.

“I'm going to do it,” Paris said.

“What? Why? Paris, don't! This is stupid! She can't do this! I'll call her and tell her she can take her invitations and shove them up her—”

“Chris, don't, it's fine.”

Though she felt cheered that Chris—the “good son,” the favorite—would take on his austere grandmother for her sake, Paris felt no desire to let him. Surely it wouldn't offend his grandmother, who would likely find some amusement in the ineffectual attempt of her perfect Christopher shouting at her. In the end, it wouldn't do either of them any good. The Gallos would descend upon their home on Thanksgiving Day regardless.

“Paris...” Chris tried.

She cut him off.

“I'm going to do it,” she said.

“But—”

“It's fine. I can do this.”

She thought she could. She hoped she could.

Chris looked ready to argue, but he made no further attempts to reach for his phone. Paris gave him a vague smile and approached for a brief kiss, before she turned back around to ascend the front steps and march through the house toward the kitchen.

Her brain jogged back into motion, and the plans started swirling.