Nuclear Family
In Which Packing is Boring and Air-Sickness Bags are Renamed
“Yeah,” I said, raising my head. “Yeah. I do.”
I hated packing.
Packing was synonymous to everything that wasn’t me: order and time management. I was not an orderly person. I lost everything, only finding said thing when I cleaned my room. [Which was never.] I had shitty time management. [Once, I turned up at school during the middle of third period because I had forgotten to set my alarm and slept through roughly half the day before my mother noticed that I was still in my bed.] Packing also caused you to find certain things that you filed away in hopes of never remembering. [For example, your grade four homework tasks that you never completed, or your old art.]
Halfway through emptying my drawers into two piles [wearable and unwearable, my mother had decided that this would be as good a time to make me clean out my old clothes as ever] I came across an article of clothing that definitely didn’t belong to me.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” I muttered, holding it up for closer inspection. “What the hell, is this Tory’s bra?”
Oh, shit.
I hadn’t told her yet.
* Tory took the news surprisingly well. Sure, she grumbled about me leaving, but was silenced after I reminded her that now I was gone, she was free to go to boarding school back in England.
I left for America the following week on a Thursday.
That’s when it all really hit the fan.
* Airports really were the worst places for celebrities. Gerard was trying very hard [and failing equally as hard] to be inconspicuous, with dark sunglasses and the hood up on his jacket. Naturally, this just attracted all the more attention to us. No one wears sunglasses indoors, unless you were a secret agent or famous. My father, of course, was the latter, and, as a result, easily recognised, especially in the queue for customs.
“Next!”
The bored lady behind the counter drummed her fingers on the desk, squinting at Gerard. “Sir, can you please take off your sunglasses and hood?”
Sighing, he did as he was told, as I cast a glance nervously behind us. Naturally, someone instantly screamed, “OH MY GOSH! THAT’S GERARD WAY OVER THERE!”
“Oh, no,” I said, wondering if I needed defend myself from a mob of fangirls with the Tai Chi movements that an old lady in the local dog park had tried to teach me once.
“Oh, no,” my dad said in a tone of defeat that suggested that this was not the first time that such an incident had occurred.
“I’m breathing the same air as Gerard Way!” squealed a girl with really nice dyed turquoise hair and a septum piercing.
“That is really quite creepy, once you think about it,” I mumbled as the lady held up my passport and squinted near sightedly at the rather unflattering picture of me.
“Have my babies!” screeched another. Gerard looked like he was trying very hard not to run away. I reconsidered my previous statement. “Okay, that one takes the prize.”
Things started to get marginally worse when they noticed me.
“Who’s that chick with him?” muttered one girl to another.
“Oh, no,” I repeated. I then turned to my father. “On a completely unrelated note to the large group of fangirls behind us yelling at you to sign unnameable parts of their body, can I dye my hair red later on?”
Gerard seemed to consider this proposition for a few moments. “It would be hypocritical of me to say no, seeing as how my hair was a fire truck in 2010 and then some. So yes, you may, if we get out of here alive.”
“Seems fair,” I agreed as the officer waved us through.
* I was grumpy. Really grumpy.
So far, I had survived 8 out of the 16 hours to Los Angeles [WOOOAHHH, WE’RE HALFWAY THERE] and I didn’t know if I could do it for any longer. We were stuck in economy class, due to hurried flight bookings and a snooty assistant who refused to upgrade a greasy haired dude and a snarky teenager who looked like she had been run over by a truck. [A result of a high speed chase through the duty free shops courtesy of the large mob of fangirls. I think we got banned from one of them for life.]
To add to my shitty mood, the inflight snacks were severely overpriced, the previously mentioned air hostess would not give me a sick bag [mine was missing], and there was a screaming baby in the row behind us.
“Listen here, son.” I waved my finger around at the platinum blond woman. “You will be sorry that you didn’t give me an extra bag when I’m famous.”
The air hostess crossed her arms and raised a thin, pencilled eyebrow.
I scowled. “Okay, fine, seeing as how that is not likely to happen in the near future, you will be sorry that you didn’t give me an extra bag when I projectile vomit over everything within a 45 centimetre radius.” Gerard tried to stifle a giggle. He didn’t succeed. [Hell yeah, I made Gerard Way laugh. See? I’m hilarious.]
Another thought crossed my mind. “Woah. Have you realised, air sickness bags are like condoms for regurgitated food.”
This time, my dad didn’t even try to hide his laughter. Needless to say, the look that was aimed at us before a new bag was tossed into my lap was deadly enough to peel Dulux paint off a wall. Gerard leaned over, casting a wary glance at the stroppy assistant.
“Remind me never to come between you and vomit birth control.”
* You know those times when you move after being stationary for hours, and you can feel everything within your body rearranging itself? That was exactly what was going on when I stood up to go to the toilet.
With every step I took, I could hear a soft crunching [very much like the one made when you bite into a meringue] being produced by my knees. Things only got worse when I finally made it into the cubicle…and the first turbulence of the flight hit.
“What the fuck,” I said out loud, almost without emotion from disbelief as the plane lurched from side to side cheerfully. I was going to die, stuck in the toilets, my father being mobbed by fangirls outside, with my pants down to my ankles. To make my situation even better, the automatic light had decided that time was up and it could turn off, leaving me in pitch black while the Qantas Airbus roiled…just like my stomach. Fate was such a dick.
Yanking my jeans up, I was thrown to the side, a bar of soap flying through the air and clipping me on the cheekbone as I snatched at it. Through a manoeuvre that the gymnastics teacher would have been proud of, I managed to wash my hands, push the flush button, and unlock the door, staggering down the aisle to my seat, with only a few minor mishaps along the way. [Minor mishaps, or, in other words, knocking over a tray of biscuits, tripping over three times, and falling into the lap of a very amused, very hot blond boy.]
“Ugh,” I complained as I dropped into my seat, earning a glare from the ginger girl across from me, and causing my hips to click very loudly and audibly. My life was a wasteland, filled with bad airplane food and-
A cup of pineapple juice was knocked over onto my lap, courtesy of the guilty looking gentleman sitting next to me.
Thanks so much, Dad.
* “Hello, sweetie.”
Lindsey Way, also known as Lyn-Z, the bassist of Mindless Self Indulgence, walked over and pecked Gerard on the cheek, taking one of the bags from his hands before turning to face me. “Now, who do we have here?”
I waved a little, smiling when she did. “Hi. I’m Helena.”
“Nice to meet you, Helena. I’m Lindsey, and this here is Bandit. Bandit, say hello to your big sister.” My half-sister did what she was told to, before hiding herself behind her mother.
Gerard chattered all the way through the car ride back to their home. It was an impressively large house, ancient looking white brick with henna red doors, and a tiled veranda. The interior, however, was surprisingly modern, despite the outside appearance of the place.
“We have two spare bedrooms, one upstairs, one downstairs, and a basement. Which one would you like?” My father hauled in the last suitcase and looked at me, before answering his own question. “Let me guess. You’re gonna choose the basement and become a hermit throughout your teenage years like me, aren’t you?”
“Like father, like daughter,” murmured Lindsey as she hustled Bandit inside.
I grinned up at them through my fringe. [My mother always complained about it and said that I couldn’t see as a result. I have witnessed people with bangs that covered both eyes, and yet they somehow managed to survive the crush of Melbourne public transport. But now I was free. FREE. FREEEEE AS A BIRD, TO DO ANYTHING WITH MY HAIR. FRICK FRACK PADDLY WHACK YEAH.] “Definitely taking the basement, if you don’t mind.”
Another two hours later, I was mostly unpacked [if you count vaguely shoving everything into a chest of drawers unpacking] and hooked up to the internet. Hey, a girl has priorities, okay? [Like wasting her life on the internet, blogging about her father’s band.]
Shit got real as soon as I logged in.
A series of blurry photos of me and my father at the airport had been uploaded, and it was spreading even faster than the news that Pete and Meagan were expecting a new child.
Well. This was annoying.
A hastily tacked up poster took a kamikaze dive off the wall, sounding like a dying cat, as if agreeing with my thoughts. [Or, you know, falling off because there wasn’t enough adhesive on the back of it.] I had to break the news to the people of Tumblr, and we all know how that usually went.
“Bollocks,” I muttered, leaning forwards to read the text beneath the pictures as my back protested. Staring in horror at the theories and the comments, I turned so that my voice could carry upstairs.
“Dad? How exactly do I explain to the internet community that no, I am not the new, secretive member of MCR, but yes, I was the one who tripped and fell into hallelujah-youngandloaded’s lap, conveniently mashing my face into his chest, and accidentally kicking the guy who was sitting next to him in the balls?”
I hated packing.
Packing was synonymous to everything that wasn’t me: order and time management. I was not an orderly person. I lost everything, only finding said thing when I cleaned my room. [Which was never.] I had shitty time management. [Once, I turned up at school during the middle of third period because I had forgotten to set my alarm and slept through roughly half the day before my mother noticed that I was still in my bed.] Packing also caused you to find certain things that you filed away in hopes of never remembering. [For example, your grade four homework tasks that you never completed, or your old art.]
Halfway through emptying my drawers into two piles [wearable and unwearable, my mother had decided that this would be as good a time to make me clean out my old clothes as ever] I came across an article of clothing that definitely didn’t belong to me.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” I muttered, holding it up for closer inspection. “What the hell, is this Tory’s bra?”
Oh, shit.
I hadn’t told her yet.
* Tory took the news surprisingly well. Sure, she grumbled about me leaving, but was silenced after I reminded her that now I was gone, she was free to go to boarding school back in England.
I left for America the following week on a Thursday.
That’s when it all really hit the fan.
* Airports really were the worst places for celebrities. Gerard was trying very hard [and failing equally as hard] to be inconspicuous, with dark sunglasses and the hood up on his jacket. Naturally, this just attracted all the more attention to us. No one wears sunglasses indoors, unless you were a secret agent or famous. My father, of course, was the latter, and, as a result, easily recognised, especially in the queue for customs.
“Next!”
The bored lady behind the counter drummed her fingers on the desk, squinting at Gerard. “Sir, can you please take off your sunglasses and hood?”
Sighing, he did as he was told, as I cast a glance nervously behind us. Naturally, someone instantly screamed, “OH MY GOSH! THAT’S GERARD WAY OVER THERE!”
“Oh, no,” I said, wondering if I needed defend myself from a mob of fangirls with the Tai Chi movements that an old lady in the local dog park had tried to teach me once.
“Oh, no,” my dad said in a tone of defeat that suggested that this was not the first time that such an incident had occurred.
“I’m breathing the same air as Gerard Way!” squealed a girl with really nice dyed turquoise hair and a septum piercing.
“That is really quite creepy, once you think about it,” I mumbled as the lady held up my passport and squinted near sightedly at the rather unflattering picture of me.
“Have my babies!” screeched another. Gerard looked like he was trying very hard not to run away. I reconsidered my previous statement. “Okay, that one takes the prize.”
Things started to get marginally worse when they noticed me.
“Who’s that chick with him?” muttered one girl to another.
“Oh, no,” I repeated. I then turned to my father. “On a completely unrelated note to the large group of fangirls behind us yelling at you to sign unnameable parts of their body, can I dye my hair red later on?”
Gerard seemed to consider this proposition for a few moments. “It would be hypocritical of me to say no, seeing as how my hair was a fire truck in 2010 and then some. So yes, you may, if we get out of here alive.”
“Seems fair,” I agreed as the officer waved us through.
* I was grumpy. Really grumpy.
So far, I had survived 8 out of the 16 hours to Los Angeles [WOOOAHHH, WE’RE HALFWAY THERE] and I didn’t know if I could do it for any longer. We were stuck in economy class, due to hurried flight bookings and a snooty assistant who refused to upgrade a greasy haired dude and a snarky teenager who looked like she had been run over by a truck. [A result of a high speed chase through the duty free shops courtesy of the large mob of fangirls. I think we got banned from one of them for life.]
To add to my shitty mood, the inflight snacks were severely overpriced, the previously mentioned air hostess would not give me a sick bag [mine was missing], and there was a screaming baby in the row behind us.
“Listen here, son.” I waved my finger around at the platinum blond woman. “You will be sorry that you didn’t give me an extra bag when I’m famous.”
The air hostess crossed her arms and raised a thin, pencilled eyebrow.
I scowled. “Okay, fine, seeing as how that is not likely to happen in the near future, you will be sorry that you didn’t give me an extra bag when I projectile vomit over everything within a 45 centimetre radius.” Gerard tried to stifle a giggle. He didn’t succeed. [Hell yeah, I made Gerard Way laugh. See? I’m hilarious.]
Another thought crossed my mind. “Woah. Have you realised, air sickness bags are like condoms for regurgitated food.”
This time, my dad didn’t even try to hide his laughter. Needless to say, the look that was aimed at us before a new bag was tossed into my lap was deadly enough to peel Dulux paint off a wall. Gerard leaned over, casting a wary glance at the stroppy assistant.
“Remind me never to come between you and vomit birth control.”
* You know those times when you move after being stationary for hours, and you can feel everything within your body rearranging itself? That was exactly what was going on when I stood up to go to the toilet.
With every step I took, I could hear a soft crunching [very much like the one made when you bite into a meringue] being produced by my knees. Things only got worse when I finally made it into the cubicle…and the first turbulence of the flight hit.
“What the fuck,” I said out loud, almost without emotion from disbelief as the plane lurched from side to side cheerfully. I was going to die, stuck in the toilets, my father being mobbed by fangirls outside, with my pants down to my ankles. To make my situation even better, the automatic light had decided that time was up and it could turn off, leaving me in pitch black while the Qantas Airbus roiled…just like my stomach. Fate was such a dick.
Yanking my jeans up, I was thrown to the side, a bar of soap flying through the air and clipping me on the cheekbone as I snatched at it. Through a manoeuvre that the gymnastics teacher would have been proud of, I managed to wash my hands, push the flush button, and unlock the door, staggering down the aisle to my seat, with only a few minor mishaps along the way. [Minor mishaps, or, in other words, knocking over a tray of biscuits, tripping over three times, and falling into the lap of a very amused, very hot blond boy.]
“Ugh,” I complained as I dropped into my seat, earning a glare from the ginger girl across from me, and causing my hips to click very loudly and audibly. My life was a wasteland, filled with bad airplane food and-
A cup of pineapple juice was knocked over onto my lap, courtesy of the guilty looking gentleman sitting next to me.
Thanks so much, Dad.
* “Hello, sweetie.”
Lindsey Way, also known as Lyn-Z, the bassist of Mindless Self Indulgence, walked over and pecked Gerard on the cheek, taking one of the bags from his hands before turning to face me. “Now, who do we have here?”
I waved a little, smiling when she did. “Hi. I’m Helena.”
“Nice to meet you, Helena. I’m Lindsey, and this here is Bandit. Bandit, say hello to your big sister.” My half-sister did what she was told to, before hiding herself behind her mother.
Gerard chattered all the way through the car ride back to their home. It was an impressively large house, ancient looking white brick with henna red doors, and a tiled veranda. The interior, however, was surprisingly modern, despite the outside appearance of the place.
“We have two spare bedrooms, one upstairs, one downstairs, and a basement. Which one would you like?” My father hauled in the last suitcase and looked at me, before answering his own question. “Let me guess. You’re gonna choose the basement and become a hermit throughout your teenage years like me, aren’t you?”
“Like father, like daughter,” murmured Lindsey as she hustled Bandit inside.
I grinned up at them through my fringe. [My mother always complained about it and said that I couldn’t see as a result. I have witnessed people with bangs that covered both eyes, and yet they somehow managed to survive the crush of Melbourne public transport. But now I was free. FREE. FREEEEE AS A BIRD, TO DO ANYTHING WITH MY HAIR. FRICK FRACK PADDLY WHACK YEAH.] “Definitely taking the basement, if you don’t mind.”
Another two hours later, I was mostly unpacked [if you count vaguely shoving everything into a chest of drawers unpacking] and hooked up to the internet. Hey, a girl has priorities, okay? [Like wasting her life on the internet, blogging about her father’s band.]
Shit got real as soon as I logged in.
A series of blurry photos of me and my father at the airport had been uploaded, and it was spreading even faster than the news that Pete and Meagan were expecting a new child.
Well. This was annoying.
A hastily tacked up poster took a kamikaze dive off the wall, sounding like a dying cat, as if agreeing with my thoughts. [Or, you know, falling off because there wasn’t enough adhesive on the back of it.] I had to break the news to the people of Tumblr, and we all know how that usually went.
“Bollocks,” I muttered, leaning forwards to read the text beneath the pictures as my back protested. Staring in horror at the theories and the comments, I turned so that my voice could carry upstairs.
“Dad? How exactly do I explain to the internet community that no, I am not the new, secretive member of MCR, but yes, I was the one who tripped and fell into hallelujah-youngandloaded’s lap, conveniently mashing my face into his chest, and accidentally kicking the guy who was sitting next to him in the balls?”
Notes
Here's the third chapter! It's past midnight and I am sleep deprived and I have to play cricket tomorrow, so please forgive me if this chapter was not as good as the others.
hallelujah-youngandloaded is my new url. You might also know me as the one who made that chat post about Fake Your Death and the rest of the bandoms reacting to the sound of the MCRmy screaming. [I'VE SEEN THE PAIN. COME BACK MCR, PLEASE.]
Okay, that's it for now. Please don't hate me.
I hope you liked it. Please rate, comment, and/or subscribe!
Signing out,
Coke/Mikey
happy easter now update
4/21/14