Lituo Huang lives and writes in Los Angeles. Her poetry and fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in JMWW, Bosie Magazine, the Recenter Press Poetry Journal, the Grief Dialogues, Malarkey Books' Dear Writer: Stories That Just Aren't the Right Fit at This Time, and elsewhere. www.lituohuang.com Twitter: @LituoH
Lemonade
By Lituo Huang
Issue 57, Summer 2019
In the backyard, Lanie hummed while setting the table her father had built. Its splintered wood snagged the pink tablecloth. Kitten claws. She set down the princess-themed paper plates. On top of each she placed a plastic fork.“But I wanted an ice cream cake,” Cherie screamed as she ran into the backyard, followed by their mother. Lanie looked over the table at her little sister. Cherie was having a fit, ripping her pink sundress, stomping her bare feet on the grass, pulling her frizzy braid. “I hate chocolate cake!” Cherie opened her mouth to the sky and made a noise like the brakes of her school bus, only her noise was louder and went on and on. Their mother shushed, “Baby, shh.” She placed a hand over Cherie’s mouth. Cherie wriggled. Her face grew pink. She got free and bit their mother’s hand, then started screaming again. Lanie snapped. “Shut up!” That interrupted Cherie’s scream. Their mother, rubbing her bitten hand, frowned and said, “Lanie, be nice to your sister.” Lanie returned to the table. On every plate, a fork. Cherie recovered. “She’s not my real sister!” Lanie found it interesting how Cherie could pitch her voice just so, to grate the most. Their mother made soft sounds with her mouth as Cherie continued, “Cuz my daddy ain’t her daddy, which means she’s not really my sister!” “Baby, please.” Their mother smoothed Cherie’s braid, then turned to Lanie. “When you’re done with the table, can you start the lemonade?” Lanie stared. “Mom.” “Please, Lanie, she’s just a child.” “I’m just a child,” shrieked Cherie. # In the kitchen, Lanie cut the lemons in half and squeezed their juice into a plastic pitcher. She added sugar, water, stirred. She took the last and perfect lemon and began cutting it into thin slices to make twists for garnish. She had learned this trick from Country Living, back when she and her mother used to read each new issue at the kitchen table and dogear pages with recipes they wanted to try. Then, it had been just the two of them. This was before him—before Cherie. Lanie was cutting the last of the slices when Cherie ran into the kitchen, yelling. Lanie started. The knife slipped and cut the tip of her middle finger. “I’m thirsty,” announced Cherie. Lanie slipped her finger into her mouth and sucked. She tasted blood. “Lemonade,” said Cherie. Lanie mumbled around her finger. “S’not ready yet.” “I’m thirsty now,” said Cherie, her tone more piercing, “I want some now.” Lanie poured out a glass and gave it to Cherie, who sipped the lemonade, made an ugly face. “Way too sour,” she said, licking her lips. “Put more sugar in it.” “I think it’s fine,” said Lanie. Her jaw clenched, making her temples ripple. “No! It needs more sugar.” Cherie thrust the cup at Lanie. Lemonade sloshed over the side onto the linoleum. Lanie heard their mother’s voice from the backyard. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah,” she said. She took Cherie’s glass. Her finger throbbed. She turned her back and put the glass on the counter. She dumped one, two, three teaspoons of sugar into the glass and stirred. She tasted it. It was too sweet. Behind her, Cherie shuffled her feet and made huffing noises. “Hurry up.” Lanie put another spoonful in. As she stirred, she pressed her thumb against the tip of her middle finger. Blood welled into the cut. She pressed. The blood formed into a globule. She positioned her fingertip, white from pressure, over the glass. She stirred and pressed, pressed and stirred. The globule of blood grew fatter and fatter before breaking free from the furrow of her cut and dropping into the glass. It appeared for an instant as a red swirl, then disappeared. “Here you go,” Lanie said as she handed the glass back to Cherie, “Sis.” Cherie tasted, approved, gulped with the greed of a baby sucking on a swollen breast. Drops of lemonade coursed over the rim and down her face. Her eyes closed. She swallowed the last mouthful. After Cherie had run back out of the kitchen, wiping her face with one chubby forearm, Lanie washed the glass and placed it in the drying rack. She scooped up the juiced lemon halves and threw them away. She finished slicing the perfect lemon, then began twisting the slices for garnish. The juice ran into her cut. It burned.