A/N: This was supposed to be a one-shot focusing on Karen, Darry and Jo Curtis, BUT the Karen part ended up being really long, so this will probably turn into a two-shot or three shot. This first section is pure writer's indulgence on my part, just a typical day at the home of Darry and Cathy Curtis (swear jars! bad 80s fashion!). You'll probably be bored, but I hope not, because I actually LOVE focusing on these everyday moments.

I need a 93% on my math final to get an A for the semester, if I don't, I'll end up with a B. My first B. Ever. And I can kiss Princeton goodbye. That's my goal, to get accepted into Princeton. It's been my goal ever since I was 11 and first watched Meet Me in St. Louis with my mom over hot cocoa and popcorn. I figured if Lon could get accepted into Princeton, I could too. Of course I don't just want to go because of the movie; it's one of the best schools in the country. But most of all, I don't want to let my dad down.

When I told my dad I plan on going to Princeton he shook his head and said "what, is Yale your safety school?" But from the way he winked and how his eyes sparkled I could tell he was proud. Yale is not my safety school, Dartmouth is.

I'm in the kitchen studying, the dense aromas of Hamburger Helper filling the room. Mom is at the skillet adding water, the meat crackles and pops, smoke billows through the air before everything settles into a sizzle. She has on her 'pirate pants' long ago maternity pants that have reincarnated as around the house pants. The name comes frayed cuffs and worn navy blue color. I think she looks like a middle-aged server at Long John Silver. I don't tell her that.

I could study in my bedroom, Dad just repainted it for me, lavender and pale yellow, it reminds me of a butterfly come to life. I like this color scheme way more than the baby pink and white my bedroom used to be painted. My dad did that paint job too, but I never told him I hated those colors, that it made me feel like a baby. I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

It's easy to get distracted in my bedroom, I have over 100 stuffed animals, or I should say I had over 100 stuffed animals. I gave half of them away to the toy drive mom ran for the hospital. Besides I'm getting too old for stuffed animals. That is what my best friend Bethany tells me. She wears leopard print bras from Victoria's Secret and way too much "Wet n' Wild" electric blue eye shadow. Really she should ease up, she totally overdoes it. But she's been my best friend since we met at tennis camp when we were nine, so I keep my thoughts to myself. I keep a lot to myself.

I'd love to wear a leopard print bra, but first I need breasts. I'm fifteen and flat as a pancake and if mom is any indication, I don't have much hope. Unless, Bethany says, I get implants, but I don't want implants, they'd make me look and feel slutty. Besides, I read that silicon can travel up to your brain and give you brain cancer or something like that, and then my degree from Princeton would go to waste.

Until then I'm stuck in my A cups from Dillard's.

I study in the kitchen so I don't have to look at the pool and think of my nonexistent breasts. Instead I think of my chances of going to Princeton, which with every B I receive in Algebra, deflate like the breasts I hopelessly long for.

I've been flipping to the answer key in the back of the book so many times that my thumb print leaves a mark on the thin yellow pages.

UGH! Another wrong answer! I let out a deep sigh and a soft 'shit' but mom can't hear it over the roar of the meat. I say a silent prayer of thanks that Hamburger Helper really does live up to its name. Otherwise, I'd have to pay 50 cents into the swear jar. The swear jar, which used to be a cookie jar, sits on top of the microwave, stuffed with pennies, dimes, quarters and one torn dollar bill; all courtesy of C.D. who called Steve Sax a 'puta' for messing up an easy throw to first base.

C.D. pestered Mom saying he should get partial credit for swearing in another language. Dad added another $1.00 to his bill.

"Así es la vida" Dad said as he held out his palm for C.D.'s dollar bill. I didn't even know he spoke Spanish.

"Huh?"My brother asked. His Spanish starts and ends at curse words. He wants to learn how to swear in every language. He tried (and failed) to get Patrick to teach him how to swear in Vietnamese. Over the winter break our church sponsored a family from Ghana who stayed with our pastor. C.D. was very disappointed to find out that the national language of Ghana and the only language our visitors spoke, is English.

I move to the next question, and I keep on messing up. Vigorously, I rub the erasure shavings along with my chances of getting into Princeton onto the kitchen floor.

I bend down, feeling the painful crick in my neck, the sharp throb of a steel vice squeezing my temples until I'm sure that pressure will cause my brain to explode like candy in a piñata; when my brother moves my Aqua Net frosted side-pony tail out of his way, snatches my pencil from my carpal-tunnel syndrome knotted hand and writes, "2x3 4x2 – 6x + 9" in the spot my erasure almost tore a hole.

"Huh?" I look up at him.

"That's the answer," he says impatiently.

"How the heck did you figure that out," I ask testily. I've been working on that problem for five minutes and he just waltzes into the kitchen, looks over my shoulders for five seconds and figures it out.

He shrugs, "it's easy," and takes a bite of Granny Smith from the fruit bowl and puts it back down on the table. He just got his braces off; I got mine removed last year. Of course it's easy for him, he's a gifted. He doesn't have to slave over his As. Not that you would know it from the number of detentions, suspensions and fights he gets in. He's the only person I know who can get the highest score in the entire state on one of those standardized tests and be in danger of failing English because he doesn't do the homework, all in the same week.

Ever since he almost failed English, Mom and Dad have put him on a tight leash, he can't watch T.V. or play video games until his homework is done and my parents have to check it over. They also call his teachers to make sure he's telling them the truth when he says he has no homework for the night and they call his teachers at school the next afternoon to make sure he turned in his homework. Mom threatened to sit outside his classes for a week, "in my pirate pants" she added ominously, and she would of, she really would.

"What, don't you trust me?" C.D.'s voice and tongue were wet with anger and spit.

"No," Dad replied dryly.

Frustration burns through my chest and throat before a spark of anger leaps from my tongue, "Shut up you rat! I can't stand you, you're so annoying." I almost said 'damn annoying' but stopped myself.

I'm angry, but it's not just because of the math. Last week I caught him smoking a joint. I've never even seen a joint before, except when police came to our school for the Anti-Drug assembly. I cried because I know drugs are really bad and C.D. could end up in prison or it could rot his brain, and even though he's full of crap and drives me nuts I love him and I'd go crazy if something happened to him. He makes me laugh, even when I shouldn't.

I never thought of my brother as drugie. C.D. said he only smoked two times. I begged him to stop, or I'd tell our parents on him. I then made him pinkie-swear, something we hadn't done since we were in elementary school.

He called me a nerd, but promised me. I trust him, he may be a lot of things, but he's not a liar. He knows I'm serious as a heart attack about ratting him out to Mom and Dad if I ever see him within twenty miles of a joint. If Dad caught him smoking, I'm pretty sure he'd kill him with his bare hands. My dad is big guy. He could probably snap my brother like a twig.

But as relieved as I am that my brother won't smoke pot anymore, I'm still mad at him for being dumb enough to try it in the first place. My brother is nothing like those loser burn outs who hang around the back parking lot at school.

Mom, a packet of seasoning in her hand, swiftly turns around, "C.D. leave your sister alone," she says in a no-nonsense tone.

"I wasn't doing anything! I was trying to help her with her math. It's not my fault Karen is a crazy Schizo."

He apologizes instantly to mom, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

Mom closes her eyes, and I know she's thinking of Uncle Edwin but she gives my brother a slight smile, "I know, honey."

My brother has on a black vest covered in jewels and his blue "Pocket Poseidon" t-shirt. C.D. used to play baseball just like Billy and Tommy still do, he played outfield, second base and finally short stop, which he took as a personal insult. He's small for his age. What he lacks in height he makes up for it with his ginormous ego and even larger temper. He joined the swim team, and to everyone's surprise, despite his stature he ended up being one of the top swimmers. The girls on the team nicknamed him "Pocket Poseidon." He always has tons of girls hang around him. Bethany thinks he's cute, I think Bethany needs to get her head examined.

Mom looks at me and sighs, "Karen, really, calm down sweetie. It's just math. You don't need to be perfect."

I would have believed her, really I would. But while she had on her 'pirate pants' her hair is perched upon her head in perfect rings of soft, black silk, like a crown or a halo. She has a long swan neck, and her arched eyebrows make her look regal. She's beautiful. Aunt Mary did her hair because tonight my parents are going to a gala for Saint Francis Hospital where mom will be honored with an award for outstanding employee of the year. She's the first part time employee to receive that honor.

Mom and I have the same shade of black hair, but while hers is soft and luscious, mine is scraggly and my bangs are drenched in sweat, which is super attractive. No amount of Aqua Net can save my hair.

Even her pirate pants is another reminder that mom is able to seamlessly balance being a wife, a mother and business woman. A lot of the families at the country club have housekeepers, we don't. We can't afford a housekeeper and mom would never go for it. Instead she cooks Hamburger Helper for us right before she's off for a fancy dinner. She's perfect.

So forgive me for not believing her.

Both my parents worked hard to get where they are. Mom worked two jobs to pay her way through college, Dad had it even worse. He never had a chance to even think about college, his parents died in a car crash and he became my uncles' guardian. My dad ended up owning one of the largest residential construction companies in the eastern Oklahoma. For a period of our lives he spent so much time at work, we hardly saw him. Yet almost everything in our house is because of him: the remodeled kitchen, the rec room with a bar, the swimming pool, even the bay windows under which I stretch out my legs and read "My Antonia."

Seeing the junked up house on St Louis where Dad used to live and which now has a 'for sale' sign in front of the rusted chain-link fence and the slightly larger, but better kept house where my Grandpa and Grandma Carlson still live, makes it even worse, because if my parents rose above that to get to where they are today, what excuse do my brothers and I have not to be the absolute best at everything?

None.

My dad gave up his dream of going to college, one day I'm going to be accepted into my dream college-for both of us.

"As long as you do your best Karen, we're proud of you," Mom once again breaks through my internal soliloquy.

Except I *know* that my best is an "A" and my parents know it too. Even though they're too nice to say anything, they would probably be a little bit disappointed. My dad always brags about me to everyone, even Uncle Soda and Uncle Pony who are probably sick and tired of having to congratulate me every time I bring home a report card of Straight As. It's both nice and super embarrassing all at the same time.

But it would be the worst thing in the world if he stopped bragging about me; if he stopped telling his co-workers that I'm one of the top-seeded tennis player on Southern Country Club junior tennis team, or how I was once one of five recipients of the 'Student of the Year' award among every eighth grader in the city, or even how I paid for the T.V. in my bedroom with money I earned babysitting Hazer and the neighbor boys last summer.

No, as much as his bragging embarrasses me, it would be far worse if he stopped all together. I'd gladly carry the burden of stooped shoulders, sore necks and headaches for the next three years.

Mom sighs, knowing that despite my burdened, stooped shoulders, her words are falling on deaf ears.

"Here," she hands C.D. the wooden spatula, "stir," and leaves to check out on my brothers who are letting the rec room live up to its name.

"Aye, aye, Captain," C.D. snaps his day-glo socks together and gives a mock salute. Mom tries to groan but can't hide her bemused smirk.

"Pirate pants" C.D. murmurs under his breath once mom is out of ear shot, and even though I'm still cheesed off at him, I smile. We're only a year apart and for the years before Billy was born and Patrick was still in Vietnam we were the only kids on either side of our family.

"Hey!" I pull him by his belt and examine his vest, the sky blue diamonds, ruby red circles and emerald green squares look awfully familiar.

"Did you steal my be-jeweler?"

He looks down at his vest, "I prefer to say that I stealthily borrowed."

I'm not even really that mad, now if he stole my be-dazzler, that would be a whole different story, but I like to tease him.

"I won that at the church fun fair," I say slyly.

My brother shrugs, "yeah, well aren't you familiar with the sage words of the ancient Hebrews, "and thou shalt cleave unto thy favored brother thy be-jeweler and he shall make thy silken cloth bling with a thousand jewels and it shall be good."

"Do you know that cleave can have two opposite meanings? It can mean cutting apart or sticking together?" Cleave was one of my Advanced English vocabulary words, that's how I know that.

C.D. looks up from the skillet, "Karen, did you just fart?"

"DAMN IT! THOMAS JUSTIN GET UP HERE NOW!" Mom bellows from the foyer. C.D. and I come out from the kitchen, Tommy runs up from the rec room with Billy behind him, a table tennis paddle still in his hand.

"Looks like someone owes the swear jar a few quarters," C.D. says smugly. Mom gives him, 'the look' and he puts his hands up in a surrender motion, "okay, okay, you don't, you don't!"

"What did I tell you about leaving your rollerblades out here on the floor? Someone could have tripped." Mom holds the purple and black inline skates above Tommy's head.

"Daphne told me there's a serial killer on the loose named Roller Roger and he kills people and that bullets can't stop him, the only thing that will stop him is if he trips over roller blades, that's his kryptonite," he takes a deep breath.

Mom sighs, "Tommy, you're eight years old, you're too old to keep on believing every wild tale your cousin tells you."

"Daphne is seven," I butt in, "she's too old to be telling wild tales." Tommy shoots me a grateful look. I didn't do it for him, it's a matter of family pride.

"Tommy, you don't care enough to put your blades away, you won't care enough if you lose them for a week."

"No, no, no!" Tommy whines and C.D. and I roll our eyes, "I need them!" he moans.

"You do not need your rollerblades," mom begins irritably. "What I need you to do is to stop complaining, or else you're not going to get your roller blades back for two weeks, got it?"

Tommy tearfully nods and lets out a sobbed filled 'yes.'

"Is he actually crying?" C.D. shakes his head, but I shrug, "it usually works for him." Mom and Dad let Tommy get away with murder.

To prove our point, mom gives him a little kiss on the head, and hands him back his rollerblades.

"I don't have to give up my blades?" Tommy ask, hope filling his voice.

"No, just put them away, properly," mom sighs.

C.D. and I shake our heads. Tommy has no idea how easy he's got it.

Dad arrives already halfway dressed, his freshly polished black wingtips shine like the top of a baby grand that sits in our living room, his white starched shirt and crisp pants make him look every bit like the business executive, country club member and pillar of community that he is.

Even his un-done black bow-tie which is wrapped around his neck like a garland makes him look confident and sophisticated.

I have on washed jeans an oversized pink shirt with a lighted palm tree running down my sternum.

Dad is ready before mom is, he keeps on tapping on his watch, "come on Cathy, we're gonna be late."

"So, the award is in my honor, make them wait," mom snaps back.

Dad lets out a low, simmered sigh and grits his teeth. I pretend not to notice. My Uncle Pony got divorced a few years ago, but I could never ever in a million years imagine my parents getting a divorce. The thought is too awful to bear. They wouldn't, they love each other.

But when mom comes down the stairs, Dad's jaw drops and his eyes shine every bit as bright as his shoes, "holy…" He lets out a wolf whistle, and Tommy, who's a bit of a kiss up, whistles as well. Mom blushes and laughs. But she looks beautiful. Both my parents do.

Dad snaps on the silver and black diamond necklace, mom rarely wears nice jewelry and this piece sparkles and looks like something Princess Di would wear.

Mom snaps back into mother mode, "okay, Uncle Paul and Aunt Gretchen's number is on the refrigerator, I told them they could check on you at any time."

C.D.'s Adam's Apple nearly bursts out of his throat and he gulps, "Aunt Gretchen might be coming over?" He can barely get the words out. My brother has the biggest crush on Mr. Holden's wife. But she's a blonde goddess, not even mom can come close to competing with her, she's way above my brother's league. Not to mention, she's like forty-three and married.

Mom then says the words that have become our family motto as much as "you owe 50 cents to the swear jar" and "don't you DARE," "Karen is in charge."

I'm always in charge. Me and Charles.

C.D. crosses his arms, "she's not in charge of me, I'm fourteen I'm way too old for a damn babysitter," he grits his teeth at me.

Dad gets in his face, "act respectable and stop screwing around and then we'll trust you again." My brother almost got expelled from school for starting a "riot." Between that and his English grade, he's been on Dad's shit list for a while. They fight a lot, and Dad is always yelling at him, not that C.D. doesn't antagonize him every chance he can.

Mom only sighs, "C.D. put 50 cents in the swear jar."

"Dad said screwed, that should be money in the swear jar too."

Mom turns to Dad, "Darrel, put a dollar in the swear jar." My dad has to pay money to swear jar almost as much as my brother.

"Where's Billy?" We look around. Billy is eleven, and he's already bigger than C.D., he's kind of chunky. But Billy can hide in plain sight, he's quiet, keeps to himself, and unlike C.D. and Dad, doesn't have a temper like Attila the Hun. Dad jokes that Billy is his favorite, except he's not really joking.

Billy waves his hand through the second floor railing, "up here!"

As soon as Mom and Dad leave, I tease my brother, "oooh, Aunt Gretchen," I wrap my around myself and smooch the air.

"Hey, once Gretchen realizes the amazing sex appeal of the Pocket Poseidon she's gonna kiss that middle age lump of steroids goodbye."

It's Billy, now downstairs with us, who pipes up, "have you even kissed a girl?"

With that, C.D. lunges for him. Billy is bigger, but C.D. is crazier and crazy usually always wins out. But C.D. goes easy on him. Billy is C.D.'s favorite too.

"I kissed a girl! I kissed a girl!" Tommy squawks.

"Good for you," I say to shut him up.

I'm up in my room, C.D. and Billy are in the den watching T.V. and Tommy is playing on the piano in the living room, I'm still trying to figure out my math. Visions of polynomials and integers swirl around me and I'm wondering if I'm not cracking up. I wring my hands in frustration, pretending to strangle the numbers with my bare hands.

I walk through the hallway, scan the wall of family photos and settle on a picture of Karen Josephine Schmidt Curtis. My grandmother. She died before I was even a thought, but I think of her sometimes.

She's young in the picture, Dad said it was taken in 1940, so she would have been my age at time, but she looks a lot older. From her I get my long legs and front teeth that used to stick out. I never thought I'd say this, but thank GOD for braces. Because Holy Moly did my teeth sick out. I guess she couldn't afford braces during the Depression. I have my Dad's eyes, and even though the picture is in black and white, I can tell Grandma Curtis also had the same shade of light eyes. I have some features, like my beauty mark, which no one else in my family has, the mystery of genetics imprinted on my face. Dad says that I'm a lot like his mom, and he means it as a compliment, but besides that she "was a great wife and mother" and "very smart" (bet she probably never earned a B) and "worked hard" I know little about her.

In our family photos she remains forever young and in my brain she remains as colorless and one-dimensional as the black and white photos which captured her.

After making sure Tommy is in bed, I'm back to studying. I scan my room, my Wham! poster, my tennis trophies, Cliff, my stuffed giraffe, the calendar above my desk is covered in activities and obligations: school, tennis, babysitting, study sessions, extra-credit assignments, orchestra practice, student council, Key Club, yearbook. Next year, I plan on joining the student newspaper full time and will probably be on the Homecoming Committee and of course, National Honor Society.

I have a lot on my plate, but that's how I'm going to get into Princeton. All the pressure will be worth it in the end. I feel my eyelids grow heavy as if they are iron gates ready to close across blurry eyes.

I sigh, open my desk drawer and feel my way around my old Lisa Frank folders and notebooks, find the package of NoDoz and swallow a pill with my glass of water. My parents obviously don't know about the pills. I know I shouldn't take the pills, so I only take them when I'm really desperate.

I've never taken more than one in a night. Unlike my brother, I have good impulse control.

Even though I just took caffeine, I feel a sense of calm wrap around me like a warm blanket. I can now focus on my studies.

I put my Queen tape into the cassette player and as the opening beats of Under Pressure fill my room, for the first time all evening I feel the pressure drain away.

Pressure pushing down on me

Pressing down on you no man ask for

S.E. Hinton owns,

Queen/David Bowie own Under Pressure

Karen thanks you for any reading/reviewing. ;)