“
Well, I know you don’t want to talk about it anymore, but I signed you up for that computer match thingy.”
Why is it that so many people over the age of sixty refer to everything on the Internet as some sort of “computer thing”?
Helen was trying to contain her laughter. “Laura, do you mean Match.com?”
My father was groaning audibly now.
“Yes, that’s it. Charles helped me put up her profile.”
“Oh my god, Mother. Are you kidding me?”
Helen jumped out of her seat and started running toward the computer in my dad’s home office, which was right off the dining room.
“Get out of there, Helen,” my dad yelled, but she ignored him.
I chased after her, but she stuck her arm out, blocking me from the monitor. “No, I have to see it!” she shouted.
“Stop it, girls,” my mother chided.
“Move, bitch.” We were very mature for our age.
“This is the best day of my life. Your mommy made a Match profile for you!”
“Actually, Chuck made it,” my mother yelled from across the hall.
Oh shit.
Helen typed my name in quickly. My prom picture from nine years ago popped up on the screen. My brother had cropped Steve Dilbeck out of the photo the best he could, but you could still see Steve’s arms wrapped around my purple chiffon–clad waist. “You’re joking. You’re fucking joking.”
“Language, Charlotte!” my dad yelled.
“Mom,” I cried, “he used my prom photo! What is wrong with him?” I still had braces at eighteen. I had to wear them for seven years because my orthodontist said I had the worst teeth he had ever seen. You know how sharks have rows of teeth? Yeah, that was me. I blame my mother and the extended breastfeeding for that one, too. My brother, Chuck the Fuck, used to tease me, saying it was leftovers of the dead Siamese twin I had absorbed in utero. My brother’s an ass, so it’s pretty awesome that he set up this handy dating profile for me. In case you hadn’t noticed, our names are Charlotte and Charles. Just more parental torture. Would it be dramatic to call that child abuse?
Underneath my prom photo, I read the profile details while Helen laughed so hard she couldn’t breath.
My name is Charlotte and I am an average twenty-seven year-old. If you looked up the word mediocre in the dictionary you would see a picture of me—more recent than this nine-year-old photo, of course, because at least back then I hadn’t inked my face like an imbecile.
Did I forget to mention that I have a tiny star tattooed under my left eye? Yes, I’d been drunk at the time. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. It would actually be cute if it was a little bigger, but it’s so small that most people think it’s a piece of food or a freckle. I cover it up with makeup.
I like junk food and watching reality TV. My best friend and I like to drink Champagne because it makes us feel sophisticated, then we like to have a farting contest afterward. I’ve had twelve boyfriends in the last five years so I’m looking for a lifer. It’s not a coincidence that I used the same term as the one for prisoners ineligible for parole.
“Chuck the Fuck,” Helen squeaked through giggles.
I turned and glared at her. “He still doesn’t know that you watched him jerk off like a pedophile when he was fourteen.”
“He’s only three years younger than us.”
“Four. And I will tell him. I’ll unleash Chuck the Fuck on you if you don’t quit.”
My breasts are small and my butt is big and I have a moderately hairy upper lip. I also don’t floss, clean my retainer, or use mouthwash with any regularity.
“God, my brother is so obsessed with oral hygiene!”
“That’s what stood out to you? He said you have a mustache.” Helen grinned.
“Girls, get out of there and come clear the table,” my dad yelled.
“What do you think the password is?”
“Try ‘Fatbutt,’ ” I said.
“Yep, that worked. Okay, I’ll change your profile while you clear the table.
”
”