B Negative by Vicki Grant

Chapter One
    Everything’s fine.
    There’s a big slab of barbecued steak in front of me. The sun is shining. My girlfriend’s here. The little kids are happy.
    So why am I so pissed off then?
    I don’t know.
    No. I do know. It’s Anthony. (Like that’s a surprise. When is it not Anthony?)
    Can’t he shut up?
    Does he honestly believe I’m interested in his advice?
    Mom married him—what? Thirteen years ago? That means he’s known me since I was five. You’d think he’d have a clue by now.
    But no. Having a clue would require him to actually listen to someone other than himself, and that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.
    â€œIf I were you,” he’s saying, “I’d forget about doing something practical for the moment. I’d pursue my music. I see real promise in you.” He turns down his chin and looks me right in the eye.
    Another person might mistake that for sincerity, but I’m not that easy to fool. I know what he’s doing. He’s checking his reflection in my pupils. The guy’s so full of himself I’m surprised he has room for the steak.
    And that reminds me. Isn’t he supposed to be a vegan? I distinctly remember him ruining another family dinner over his new diet. He kept nagging us about all the toxins we were shoveling into our mouths. Meanwhile, he was “honoring” his body with raw bean sprouts.
    He has a hunk of meat on the end of his fork and is pointing it at me. Blood is dripping onto the table.
    â€œI could have gone into law. That’s what my parents wanted me to do, of course. Follow the family tradition. But that just wasn’t my thing. Instead I decided to follow”—big pause here— “my heart. I chose the theater. I’ve never regretted it.”
    He tosses back his hair. He loves his hair. Tara says there’s no way those blond streaks up front are natural. That used to embarrass me. Now it just makes me laugh. I love picturing him in the black cape with the little pieces of tinfoil all over his head, looking like the total conceited jackass that he is.
    Anthony takes a bite and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Follow your heart,” he says again, only this time he’s chewing right in my ear.
    Nice.
    My mother looks up from her salad and her eyes go watery. This touching little moment has obviously moved her.
    I don’t get it. She’s a smart woman. How can she still believe his crap?
    I keep eating away as if there’s no problem, but the truth is I’m dangerously close to exploding. Would he just get his frigging hand off me? I’m one second away from telling him to shut his face. I wouldn’t mind blowing a few giant holes in his story while I’m at it too.
    For instance: He chose “the theater”? Please.
    Playing “satisfied homeowner” in a thirty-second tv commercial for a miracle toilet plunger is not the theater. You don’t have to be Brad Pitt to say, “Yours for just three payments of $19.95!”
    And as for not regretting his decision— why would he? Life’s good for Anthony Paul Wishart. He sits around the house all day doing nothing.
    No, I’m sorry. That’s wrong. He doesn’t do nothing. He does yoga. He does some serious time in front of the television. And, of course, he does his hair. That’s very important. He has to look his best for his “career.”
    Just thinking that makes me want to kill him. How can a grown man with two little kids, a wife and a stepson live like that?
    Why do I even ask? I know the answer.

Chapter Two
    My father. That’s the answer.
    Like, I mean, John Armstrong. My real father. He works hard because he actually feels responsible for someone other than himself. He lives in some crappy little apartment and never goes out or buys himself anything new. All his money goes to child support payments.
    Which just happen to be enough to cover