long last, chapter four has arrived!
I waited extra long to write this one, as I wasn’t exactly ready to
type it out at the time. This, unfortunately, was due to teen depression – premenstrual syndrome, to be exact.
I began by sketching out this chapter quite slowly, until I realized that, if I kept going at that
particular pace, I would never get the chapter done in time. Having only just finished it a couple of minutes
ago, this chapter – chapter four – may be a little “rough around the edges”, so to speak; I did type
it out rather quickly. However, I am unusually pleased with it…which is, I suppose, a good sign.
enjoy, in any case.
CHAPTER QUATRE: A CHRISTMAS QUARREL
“Breakfast!” yelled a
certain someone from downstairs.
Remy opened up one dreary eye a peep. His alarm clock read 6:45 AM. He
groaned, rolled over, and pulled the covers over his head, rocking his Kleenex box bed as he did so.
“Remy! Up and at em’!” his mom called in a raucous way.
"Ohh… Five more
minutes, mom!" Remy answered back drearily.
"It’s been five minutes since I last called you,
dear. Come on down, Remy. The oatmeal is getting stone cold!"
Remy rolled over onto his side again,
noticing that the clock’s minute hand was now pointed at the fifty minute marker. Rolling his reddened eyes at
the ceiling in disgust, Remy unwillingly slumped out of his warm and comfy bed, leaving a depression in the
mattress where he had slept.
After rubbing his eyes vigorously for a few seconds, he slowly surveyed his
rather catastrophic-looking bedroom. It wasn’t your usual, everyday residential living quarter. What with the
hard-wood flooring, paneled walls, and large assortment of knick-knacks, one might have though it was a badly
built treehouse at a first glance. After Remy’s little “accident”, one that involved he and his family
having to live in the sewers than in the bush, his father had gone out to locate a suitable home that would house
fifteen. He found one, too: A spacious area within one of the sewer’s many tunnels, about five and a half feet
long and wide by seven feet in depth, large enough to accomodate at least twenty rats. He quickly went to
building a rather rickety residence for his ever-growing family, adding a second story for Remy specifically.
Why Remy needed a story all to himself was certainly no riddle to his family. Everyone knew of his
unusual love for cooking and his annoying passion for collecting anything that had to do with the subject; his
room was practically a museum unto itself. In one corner of the room stood Remy’s kitchen, which he had
laboriously crafted himself over a period of two weeks. A collection of discarded kitchen tools rested in a
second corner: left-over utensils which Remy called “gold from the kitchens”. Neatly stacked away in a
third corner of the room, and next to his bed, were numerous pictures and memorabilia concerning Remy’s culinary
hero, chef Auguste Gousteau. One look at the room told anyone that Remy was a certified “foody”.
Remy heaved a tremendous sigh. He was desperately hungry, yet he wished that he had spent a little less
time fooling around the night before; he hadn’t exactly gotten a peaceful night’s sleep. He sighed a second
time, this time looking up at the ceiling as he did so, only to have a couple of spiders brush his fur. Remy
stared at them drearily. Between spiders and oatmeal, he’d take the oatmeal for breakfast. Slowly, but surely,
he walked towards his bedroom door…
Creak, creak, creak, went the hard wooden stairs as Remy stomped
down them in a relentless fashion. “I really need to get these stairs fixed,” thought Remy. He swerved
around a corner and walked into the very untidy kitchen, one which his mom never bothered to clean up as she was
always to be found knitting in her bedroom. Remy could barely make out the kitchen at first – he was already
quite exhausted from his adventures of the previous night. He rubbed his eyes vigorously. It was only a few
seconds before his vision of the ktichen went from blurry to crystal clear; he wasn’t surprised to find that the
room was in its usual state of disorder, as it was every morning. At first glance, one would have thought that a
tornado had twirled its way into the room… Pots and pans lay scattered across the dining table; flour, sugar,
and left-over cheese crackers had been discarded in a very unfashionable manner all over the once clean floor
that Remy had swept just the day before; and numerous dishes and utensils retained their place in the soapy sink
in a corner of the kitchen. Remy sighed…
Treading the floor carefully so that he wouldn’t slip on a
banana peel, Remy walked over to his mom, who was cooking oatmeal as fast as possible. Running around her were
Remy’s twelve rascally brothers and sisters: twelve hungry mouths to feed; twelve pairs of scattering little
feet; twelve sets of hands that broke whatever they touched…
“Hey, dad. You called?” Remy
muttered, almost indistinctly.
"Oh…yes…dear. Just…hold on second. Here, could you hold this
for me, please?"
"Hold this. And I’m your mother, by the way, not
Remy’s mother sighed tenderly, shaking her head
as she handed him the pot of oatmeal. Remy was so tired that he almost dropped the pot several times, so that his
mother had to keep a watchful eye on him as she spooned cup after cup of oatmeal into fifteen diminuative bowls
set on the center table. It was a relief when Remy finally got to put the pot down; he was so exhausted that he
accidentally leaned on one of his sisters, thinking that she was the kitchen counter.
don’t you go get your father," asked his mother, as she struggled to keep one of her children from pulling
off her apron. Remy replied with a nod and a very large yawn, before heading off to his father’s work-room.
“Mom? Mom…” Remy called to his dad once inside his work-room.
"Yes, son? And why
are you calling me “mom”?"
“Huh? Oh…uhh…it’s breakfast time.”
Remy’s father eyed him suspiciously.
"You really should get some more sleep, you know. What
were you doing last night anyway? I thought I heard something outside in the living room last night…"
“Huh…? Living room? What’s a living room?” Remy questioned his father unconciously.
“Heh – nevermind. I’ll be right in son.”
was seated at the kichen table, each with their own, rather small bowl of oatmeal, it became clear that Remy
wasn’t going to join in in eating with the rest of his family. He barely managed to stay awake at the table,
almost tipping over his bowl while trying to sleep in his oatmeal, before his mom finally decided to take the
matter into her own paws.
"Well, Remy…I think we would all like to know what went on last night.
Don’t you, father? Father?"
“Hmm…?”, asked Remy’s dad, looking up from his newspaper,
The Tailed Reporter. “Oh…yes.” He cleared his throat. "Yes…I
think we would all like to know what happened, Remy."
Embarassed, Remy looked down at the floor,
while trying to brush oatmeal off his whiskers as he did so. His mother and father never really approved of his
going out late at night, even though they allowed him to do so without hesitation. However, letting his sister
follow him out the door and into the unknown, and at night, was another thing. He knew that if he told them the
truth, Genevieve, who was sitting right next to him, would most certainly add a few details to his
story…probably exaggerating it as she did so. He finally decided to tell his parents the truth: some of it.
“Well…umm. I went…out.”
"Yes, we know that, Remy. But where did you go
out?" His mother asked. His father had gone back to reading his newspaper.
know. Just…around," Remy slowly admitted. He intended on holding the truth from them as long as possible,
lest Genevieve describe the finer details of the story a little early. She was already glaring at him with a
rather nasty grin pasted on her face…
“And?” His mother urged him.
"I just went
to cheese some fetch…er…fetch some cheese."
Remy was getting desperate
now, and Genevieve was glaring at him worse than ever.
"And…umm…Genevieve went with
me…," he said very quietly.
His mother looked as if she had just been knocked in the head by a
"It was just a bupple of clocks…ahh…couple of blocks! She didn’t really get hurt or
At this point, Genevieve decided to take things to a new level…
too! He did too! And he pulled my tail, and he-he…um…he messed up my bow, and then he dragged me home like an
old shoe, mommy!"
“I did not!” Remy retorted, outraged.
“QUIET!!” Remy’s mom had finally lost it. Remy and Genevieve shrank back into their
chairs at once; they knew better than to mess with their mother when she was at her “boiling point”, as
Remy called it.
“Remy…” She spoke faintly, trying to let off some steam.
Ma’am?" Remy tentatively answered.
"I think you knew better than to let your sister follow you
out the door last night. And Genevieve, you know better than to leave the house without my or your father’s
“Yes, mom,” Remy and Genevieve both replied.
Now…Remy, I know you’re tired, but could you please help me out with the cleaning today?"
“But…dad…I mean…mom, it’s Christmas!”
"Exactly. Do you want this house to
look like a storm when your relatives get here?"
Remy shook his head. His mother knew how much of a
neat-freak her son was, and so she had him in her clutches this time. She knew that Remy couldn’t pass up a
chance to make the house actually look like a house.
"Thank you, dear. Now…I’m going shopping.
Father, would you please look after the little ones today?"
“Hmm? Oh, of course, dear,”
muttered Remy’s father, who quickly went back to reading his newspaper.
“Thanks, mom…,” Remy
whispered, so that only his mother could hear him. His mother gave him a small smile; she knew how much her son
hated watching over his many siblings, so getting her husband to take responsibility for them was a rare treat.
“Well…I’m going to-to-to…,” said Remy, as he struggled to hold back a yawn. "Ahh…
I’m going to go brush my face and wash my teeth," he said drearily.
His mother chuckled to
herself…and began to sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”.