'Slathering on Chapstick a Gazillion Times a Day' by Sally Reiser Simon

Ten bucks says you can’t go a week. That’s what Dad announces at the breakfast table, between shoving a mouthful of Frosted Flakes into his trap and slugging the last of his coffee. I try to call his bluff. Twenty. He stands and digs into his back pocket to produce his wallet. The leather, worn to gray, bears track lines made by some sharp object. God knows what. He folds a wilted bill in half and places it under the sugar bowl in the middle of the table. Deal.

Ever since Dad went clean, he’s been on this kick to rid me of bad habits. It’s his new addiction. At first I thought it was caring, cute even. In the last six months, I’ve stopped chewing my nails, tapping my fingers on the table, saying um when trying to find the right word, and waiting until morning to do my math homework. What do I have to show for it? Longer nails, an eight point improvement in my math grade and thirty dollars in my piggy bank.

The latest offense: slathering on chapstick a gazillion times a day. I try arguing my lips are dry, but Dad says no normal person goes through a chapstick a week and do I know how much those things cost? I do know since I work at Duane Reade after school, but I know better than to argue. Mom never won a word fight with Dad. I want to ask, what’s the harm in having soft lips? But just then I see the look he had right before Mom left, the one he used to have before drinking half a bottle of Jack, and I wonder what habit I can dream up next.

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Sally Simon (ze/hir) lives in the Catskills of New York State. Hir writing has appeared in Citron Review, Emerge Lit, Raw Lit, and elsewhere. Hir debut novel, Before We Move On, debuted in June. When not writing, ze’s either traveling the world or stabbing people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.