Shakespearean Tragedy
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It soon became evident that Lil Confucius, true to her form, had easily seen through my intentions. She wasn’t going to spare me even a tiny sliver of time to shower her with flattery and grovel for the kitten’s sake. No, her strategy was patently clear: wring out a more favorable bargain by unsettling me with her dark musings about the kitten’s fate.
“All right, Maknae-ya, let’s not waste any more of our time. Now, how long do I need to clean your room to earn your vote?”
“Finally. I thought you’d never ask. Here’s my one and only offer, so please listen carefully: thou shalt clean my room twice a week for an entire year; handle my dishes after every meal, also for a year; take over my laundry and house-cleaning duties whenever it’s my turn, for the said duration. Plus, you’ll prepare my weekday dinners. Naturally, food must be suitable for my palate. Oh, this also lasts for a full year.
“So, if you’re fully on board with my generous terms, say ‘call.’ If not, ‘fold.’ Either way, no biggie for moi.”
“…”
At that precise moment, a profound silence, so deep that the mere fall of a Kleenex tissue would have resonated like a bowling ball crashing, engulfed Lil Confucius’ chamber. I just wanted to storm out of her room, cursing at the top of my lungs. But I had to stifle that urge and bite my lip.
It was painfully obvious who was running the show, who commanded all the negotiating leverage in that moment. Without my sister’s vote, I’d be powerless to protect the orphaned kitten that slept on my belly as though I were its mother.
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Lil Confucius was all too aware of my predicament. Her brazen terms weren’t a product of impulsiveness. No, she was playing her cards like a pro. From the moment I’d brought up the family vote, she’d been weighing her odds, meticulously calculating just how many chips to toss onto the poker table.
O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring…
Hey, snap out of it! Quit reciting Walt Whitman’s lugubrious verses from Leaves of Grass. Don’t forget, you’re currently in the thick of a negotiation to save that po’ kitto.
I know, but forget all the cleaning, how am I to cook for her, pray tell? I can barely make my own sloppy Joes right!
Dude, look on the bright side: Cooking for the finicky Maknae might just transform you into a culinary maestro. That’s a win for your meals as well. Moreover, your future self will thank you when your cooking skills make you a hit with the ladies. To be honest, consider yourself lucky. If Lil Confucius had a touch more chutzpah, she might’ve demanded your servitude until you left home for coll—
“Fold!?”
Maknae’s abrupt shout, dripping with a ‘what’s-taking-you-so-long’ impatience, broke the pervading silence, jolting me out of my feverish Hamletian inner debate. I took a deep breath and murmured faintly.
“call.”
“COOL.”
My whispered surrender was instantly met with Maknae’s emphatic gloating, her tone brimming with triumphant smugness. As if her victory wasn’t stinging enough, she even threw in an opportunistic slant rhyme to rub salt in my wound.
“Why are you still here? We’re done, so begone. Shoo, I’m busy here.”
I hadn’t even had a moment to wrap my head around the Shakespearean tragedy that had transpired within mere minutes in Maknae’s room when she dismissively told me to scram with an exaggerated wave of her hand, repeated thrice for emphasis.
Adding to my despair, there was no telling what Lil Confucius might do next. Should a more enticing deal be brokered with Mom, oh you could bet your bottom dollar that she’d dump our agreement quicker than you can say “sucker.” Her fickleness would remain a thorn in my side till the very end. Thus, with my mood in the dumps, I trudged out of Maknae’s room looking every bit like woebegone Tom getting booted from home after falling victim to another one of Jerry’s tricks.