A Thousand Ways To Run

W a r r e n

I groaned heavily, lying on my stomach with my face down in my pillow. My open window was making the room way too bright for how early it was. I rolled over, feeling the same pain I had the last time I rolled onto my back. I arched my back up to avoid whatever chunk of plastic was digging into it. I reached under and grabbed it, feeling my body relax. A flashlight? What the hell?

I tossed it on the floor, hearing a loud clunk as it fell. I winced. That wasn’t good.

I waited for Mom to come stomping in the room and tell me for the thousandth time that I had to stop ruining historical buildings, but she never came. Thank God.

I buried myself under the comforter again. Why, out of all objects, had I chosen to sleep with a flashlight?

Closing my eyes again, I tried to fall asleep. It was useless.

I got up, rubbed my eyes, and went to pick up the flashlight. There was a scratch on the floor from where it had landed. Great. I would be hearing about that one later.

Why did I even have it? Oh, right. The same reason I’d stayed up until two in the morning – that weird girl.

Out in the kitchen Dad was drinking his coffee and flicking through the paper. I nodded at him in our usual greeting. I don’t know why he always read the business section. He’s the one that inspires half the articles.

Mom was doing her usual: inspecting her face for any imperfections and filing her nails. It’s only a matter of time before she gets plastic surgery, and everyone knows it. My bet still stands with the Senator from Ohio on which body part will be first. He says lips; I say nose. In a fear years, I’d have earned an easy fifty bucks.

“What was that loud noise from your room?” she asked, looking away from the pocket mirror for a second.

My dignity being stripped away.

“Alarm clock doesn’t work,” I answered instead, running my hand through my bed head.

A box of cereal was on the counter, so I grabbed it and poured a quick bowl, closing the drawer with my hip.

My father scowled at me, using his business suit stare. “You should put a shirt on.”

Maybe if I wasn’t too tired to argue, I would have.

I slipped one on that was laying on the floor of my room and came back in to finish my cereal. It tasted like old peanut butter. The fridge still had some milk in it, so now my cereal would taste like old peanut butter and a gallon of old milk. Sunday mornings are the worst for breakfast. The chef always takes the morning off to go to church, so I was left to scrounge for anything considered edible.

The only sounds in this room were the turning of newspaper and my chewing. It wasn’t uncomfortable, in fact it was better than what usually happens. Maybe it’s a politician thing – always talking about the future. They’ve got enough about the future of our nation at work, so all that’s left is my future.

“What are you working on today, Wren?” Dad asked, tearing his eyes from the two day old paper.

I clenched my fingers around the spoon. “Can you stop calling me that? It’s a girl’s name,” I nearly growled under my breath.

“Sorry, forgot,” he muttered.

‘Again,’ I added silently to myself.

“Figured I might take a break from studying. You know? Sunday and all.”

From the corner of my eyes I could see my mom’s pink lips scowl. My dad was better at hiding his disappointment, returning to the paper.

“You don’t have any tests coming up, do you?” he said, hidden by the Food section.