temperature of the hot water she was in.
“Speak up, don’t play your shy game with me, I know better.” Aunt Marge leaned against the counter, which was cluttered with days worth of shriveled up French fries, piles of dishes with dried ketchup and stacks of junk mail, sales flyers and unpaid bils.
“I’m sorry.”
What more could she say? If she had money, she wouldn’t need to steal. Her parents would have given her an alowance, or at least let her get a job and earn her own money.
“Sorry? Do you realy think you can make this go away with a simple sorry? Hah!” she spat. “That arrogant principal dared pul me away from my work to preach about the value of integrity and discipline. He seems to think I haven’t been firm enough with you.” She glared resentfuly at Libby.
Libby stood silent, waiting for the storm to hit ful force.
“So what are we gonna do about this?” Aunt Marge took a drag of her beer; the smel of hops hung in the air. “Your stealing shows your need for attention. What was so important you needed seventeen bucks?”
Her aunt eyed her like a cat about to pounce on a tiny mouse.
Libby couldn’t tel her about the Jamieson CD, she’d take it away or ruin it. No way, the CD belonged to her, regardless of how she got it. What could she say? Her mind darted for something, anything to explain it.
“I bought perfume,” she blurted. “From the drugstore.” Hopefuly that would appease her.
Aunt Marge’s eyes narrowed. “Perfume, what for?”
“I just wanted to smel good. I always smel like smoke.” Oops.
“Is that so?” Aunt Marge’s lip curled in distaste. “You saying it stinks in here?” Libby watched her aunt peer around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. Piles of dirty clothes stunk in a corner, bags overflowing with beer cans spiled onto the floor and the kitchen table strained under the weight of more junk and clutter.
“Wel, we can’t have your royal highness unhappy. Tel you what. Since you’re so upset about the way you smel, this is the perfect time for you to clean up this place.” A cruel smile appeared on her face.
“But I have homework.” It would take hours, maybe days to clean this disaster. Plus she wanted to get back to Peter.
“You can start with the kitchen today and we’l have you work your way through the house, a new room every day. You’l smel fresh and clean like lemon pledge when you’re done.”
“But . . .” Libby interrupted.
“Uh, uh, uh.” Her aunt pointed a tobacco stained finger at her. Her voice crooned innocence, but darkness threatened below the surface. “You are not in a position to argue. I do not ever want to hear the voice of your principal again. You have a lot of work to do here.” She tilted her beer can and poured it onto the kitchen floor. “It’s a real mess in here,” Aunt Marge sneered as she trailed out of the kitchen letting the remainder of her beer trickle throughout the house as she went.
# # #
Hours later, Libby was plotting the fifty ways she’d torture her aunt. One way was to wring the wicked woman’s neck, but she could never stand getting that close to her. Rat poison in her beer would be nice, or maybe hit her on the head with a Bourbon bottle.
Despite her anger, Libby dove into her punishment with fervor, beginning with the mountain of dirty dishes and utensils. It took forever, since dried food cemented itself to the surface of every item. While dishes soaked, she tossed out half-empty bags of stale doughnuts, fast food bags and dozens of other partialy remaining food items. She wiped up the stained countertops and returned kitchen items to their rightful place. Libby looked at the pile of dirty clothes. What did her aunt do? Strip in the kitchen? She took them to the laundry room, then hauled several loads of trash out to the burner behind the house.
The room began to resemble a normal kitchen, except the table stil overflowed with god knew what. It surprised Libby the pride she felt cleaning up the pig sty. She dragged the trash bin to the table and took a seat. Libby began to sort through the piles. She tossed newspapers and junk mail, discovered more dirty dishes and coffee cups as wel as a long forgotten loaf of bread growing penicilin for anyone brave enough to touch