Read The Secret Life of a Funny Girl for Free Online Page B

humpty, Dad stretches out with a big book in his hands. Now and then he chuckles softly to himself.
    â€œGood book, Dad?” He grunts a response—hasn’t heard a word, I know.
    On the floor beside the Christmas tree, Beth-Ann gently rocks a small wooden cradle. Her new Thumbelina doll lies covered with a tiny pink blanket, sucking its plastic thumb. Beth-Ann whispers softly to her doll, totally lost in a world of her own making.
    Piled beside me on the sofa are my gifts from Santa. The purple and yellow happy-face bag that Mom ordered from the States will definitely cause a major sensation at school. Then there’s Abbey Road by the Beatles, a record I’ve been dying to get for months. But best of all is my brand new maxi-dress. It’s blue and white and satin and ruffles, falling all the way down to my ankles—by far the prettiest dress I’ve ever owned.
    â€œWell now, isn’t this a cozy Christmas picture.” It’s Gran, standing in the doorway, two hands planted on her hips. Yikes, does she ever look crabby! Wire-rim glasses halfway down her nose, face blood red, frizzy grey hair springing wildly from the bun at the back of her head. Short and thick as a tree trunk, she’s wearing a plain red dress—red for Christmas Day, of course. Over that she’s got on one of Mom’s frilly white aprons, which looks ridiculous on Gran, cuts right into the rolls around her waist. She’s sizing up the three of us as she stands there, green eyes sharp as a cat.
    â€œLooks like everyone’s getting a great rest in here.” Her tone is clipped and annoyed.
    â€œSorry, Gran!” I jump up straight away. Cripes, what was I thinking, lying around daydreaming. “Can I give you a hand?”
    â€œJust coming in to get you,” she says, full of business. “I want you to stir the gravy so it doesn’t burn, while I mash the potatoes and turnip. Your poor mother’s got herself totally worn out with all this and I’ve just sent her in for a nap.”
    I follow Gran out to the kitchen. How is it that Mom can’t keep going, but Gran has no trouble and she’s about thirty years older? But hey, there’s no time to dwell on this point, because as soon as we open the kitchen door we’re hit in the face with a tidal wave of heat.
    â€œOh my God, Gran! It’s so hot! How can you stand it?”
    It has to be a hundred degrees in here—I mean, the window over the sink is so thick with steam you can’t see out. On top of the stove, Mom’s pots are boiling furiously away, like witches’ cauldrons. My mouth waters with the smell of turkey, and the bird itself sits plump and golden on a large oval platter in the centre of the table.
    â€œHeat from cooking never bothered me,” replies Gran, although I think it might be bothering her a bit, judging from the colour of her face. She picks up the masher and starts driving it into a big pot of potatoes sitting on the table right next to the turkey. Dollops of milk and butter are dropped into the mix, and Gran’s upper arms jiggle wildly as lines of potato squirt up through the masher like white worms.
    I drag my eyes from the sight and find a wooden spoon for the gravy.
    â€œLet’s see,” Gran says, more to herself than me. “We’ve got the turkey and dressing, the potatoes and turnip. Grace is bringing the creamed broccoli and the carrots. Kay is bringing the trifle for dessert. I don’t think we’ve forgotten anything.”
    â€œWhat time are they all coming?” I make deep, thick swirls in the velvety brown gravy.
    â€œIn about half an hour,” replies Gran. “Now, when they get here, we’ll feed the little ones first, here in the kitchen. Then we’ll make sure Grace has the baby fed and settled before the rest of us sit down in the dining room. No sense having Christmas dinner spoiled by a fussy baby.”
    â€œI bet