The brother, Paleo, and I are doing inventory when it begins raining. Acid. It’s Acid Rain. The one that strictly arrives on the first Saturday of every month, to burn away the soil nutrients and kill the grass that has grown since the last acid washing. It’s a very dry planet. Our houses are known to crumble.
“Keto, come help me with the beans,” Paleo says. The toddler sister, Atkins, naps in the room next door.
“Stop telling me what to do,” I tell him. “I’m older than you. I could kill you in your sleep.” But I bend down to help him anyway, holding the doll’s mouth open as he tips kidney beans down her rubbery gullet. Inventory is not the worst chore in the world. The sex dolls are propped in a line against the kitchen wall, labeled RICE, FLOUR, and, of course, BEANS. Apparently, large Tupperware is too much for our parents to handle. The father is a part-time businessman whose side hustle is being a sex fiend. The mother is a hardcore elliptical coach at a private gym who tans her hide orange on weekends.
When she comes home, golden and sweaty, Atkins wakes up and begins crying.
“Those aren’t pinto, are they?” The mother asks, pointing at the BEANS doll.
“Kidney,” Paleo says.
“Good, good. A study just came out saying they have less fiber and can raise your blood sugar by point-five-one percent. Unbelievable.”
The shower turns on, and Atty keeps crying. We move on to NUT BUTTERS.
Depending on which diet the mother’s on, our dinners are blended into shakes, frozen into cubes, or wobbling in blocks of lime Jell-O. Tonight, it’s cubed fajitas with Heinz mayonnaise and cactus pear aioli. The tortillas are blended with whey and textured pea protein concentrate into nutritional smoothies.
“So I’m having lunch with Charles—Murdock, not Murphy, and he’s telling me he’s being sent off to Widower, to work for the eastern branch,” the father says. Paleo has already finished his cubes, and I’m cutting mine into an infinite number of tiny little chunks. Atty stuffs her face.
“This is the guy with the bitchy wife, by the way. The one who came into the office with the grocery store vegan cupcakes? So I’m like, ‘Widower’? Sounds like a good omen to me.’”
He laughs, then rapidly looks at us to gauge our reactions. We’re not laughing, so he stops. His right leg spastically bounces under the table.
“I want pasta juiceee,” Atty whines, thumping little fists against her tray table. “Juiceeeeee.”
“Hon, that’s tomorrow’s dinner,” the mother says.
“Oh, is it? I won’t be there for it, then. Leaving for going, ah, Wichita tomorrow morning. Business meeting,” the father says.
“You just came back today.”
“They need me up there. The northern branch is, ah, really struggling in the financial department right now.” He puts a hand on his leg to stop the bouncing, then the other leg starts up.
Paleo has already snuck away from the table, but no one notices or cares.
And now Atty has turned very still, her head making small jerks forward, her hands clenched in fists. Her lips are turning dusky blue.
“Keto,” the mother says as Atty continues to choke, “Why haven’t you been watching her? And can someone please pass the tortilla pitcher?”