out of the blue / n.h

Chapter 22

“Wait, what? Whose your dad to my mom?” I flinch.

“Boss.” He nods. “I met your mom the other day and we talked a lot. And I was surprised to know you’re her daughter.” He chuckles.

Well what a surprise he’s actually the guy my mom talked about.

When we finish our meal I made him, I make an excuse to make him leave as soon as possible before my mom gets home. My mom will be beyond thrilled to hear Niall hung out with me. She will be the matchmaker between me and him and that’s the least thing I need right now. I don’t want to deal with any of it so I leave it far behind and try to be cool around Niall, even though I have those feelings towards him that is clearly a blur.

The next day, I get a lot of text notifications from Niall and a one missed call.

Another next day, I get a notification from Instagram showing that @niallhoran is following you and also twitter.

The next day I get no signs of social media interactions from him. And also the next day and the next day.

I try to act as if everything is cool when it’s not. I keep on looking over my phone screen and try not to have the feeling to text him first.

“You okay?” My mom suddenly asks as she drives the car down the driveway. I shut my phone and shove it back into my pocket.

“Yeah.” I answer unceremoniously.

“You can always talk to me.” My mom turns off the machine and pulls the key out of the ignition and leads me out from the parking lot to the church. I ignore my mom’s suggestion and follow her to the pile of long wooden seats. After the division of the host the Reverand bribed, I pray nothing but happiness to hallow over my harrowing life. It doesn’t make a change for a while, but it’s nice to actually can believe and depend on something.

On the evening, my mom is preparing for her promotion gathering party. She doesn’t really bother herself forcing myself to parcitipate because clearly there is no use. I’m trying to study for school tomorrow and keep my head on the book I’m currently reading, history.

As I try to memorize and examine the book pleas, I lay my body down and I look at the clock on my bedside table and the kneedle points right at 6.30 and that means I’ve been studying for hours, changing subjects to subjects and finally, I close my books and throw them on the floor. I sigh and narrow my eyes to the white roses painting. It’s beautiful. Every details of the rose displayed on every kinds of artistic aspects. I laugh at the painting and think to myself how stupid my dad was to made me such a boring flower. I stand up and lift the paint out of the wall and throws it on the floor, making it collides with the books I threw. The frame of the paint fell down on the picture and I can see the lint out of the back side of the frame. I breathe relentlessly trying to maintain my breath caused by the anger earlier.

I squint my eyes to make out the blur note that happens to be on the very top of the back frame. I walk closely to the frame and lift the big frame up. I try to read the small letters.

“Melanie, dear, open our fairy box.

             Your Captain Hook,

             Dad.”

My eyes are becoming glossier and glossier by the minute as I finish the short note. I sob loudly as I drop the frame and try to manage myself to calm. I inhale then exhale as I open the door to go out of my room. By the fairy box my dad mentioned, it’s a box I used to imagine where Tinker Bell hides everytime my dad pretended to be Captain Hook from the Peterpan fairytale. I was 6 and couldn’t get over fairytale shits until my dad left me, unsaid. So I couldn’t let go of the magic life of fairy tale until I was 11 and then I started to watch Suite Life of Zack and Cody, Hannah Montana and the rest of Disney’s childhood tv shows.

I pull the string that leads me to the attic. It runs down, showing high flights of wooden ladder. It’s a little higher than it should be. Maybe my mom cutted it higher so I wouldn’t reach it. Because after my dad left, the attic is the only memory of him that he couldn’t bring along with him. I climb up trying to get rid of my tears and try to wipe my stained cheeks. I sob as I reach the attic. Memories hit me hard in the back of my head as I try to open the basket full of old stuffs like my dad’s artworks, brushes, paint and all.