Why She Was In Denial

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Yeller active.

I wanted to yell, and it be effective.

I just didn't think anyone would hear me.

—-

"Charlie Bee James," I muttered. "What an odd name for a young girl."

"She's only two days old, Abigail," my mother, Kina, pointed out.

I knew when she was born, though I didn't really care.

I bent down so I could pull my knee-length socks above each knee. Private school wasn't too bad.

I got to wear short skirts, and knee-length socks. Five years after wearing the outfit, I thought it was quite casual rather than strict — attention I could muster either way.

"When are you going to call her your sister?" my mother questioned.

She held the baby in her arms so carefully, and it pissed me off in a weird kind of way.

Were babies always held like this? Why couldn't they be put down — like, in a crib, or perhaps the middle of the street?

I groaned. I didn't want the baby to die — I just didn't want the baby to be alive at that moment, either.

"If Liam was old enough to be my father, and if my actual father was a dead man," I answered quizzically.

Liam was my mother's husband. I assumed he was Charlie's father, dedicated to the fact that he held Charlie the same way my mother did.

My actual father, well — I didn't know his name. I just knew he was alive somewhere, being completely un-fatherly.

She sighed, "Your lunch is on the kitchen counter. Have a good day, Abigail."

I nodded, kind of robotically, before cutting out of the living room to retrieve my lunch from the kitchen.

I didn't call anyone dad. I didn't even call my mother mom.

Through all the years of torturous trails, my mother never stopped questioning if there was something wrong with me.

I didn't talk enough.

I read books too often.

She double knotted her shoelaces, while I completely extracted all shoelaces from my shoes.

I didn't like berets, or hairspray.

She ate like a starving gorilla, while I ate like a stuffed rabbit.

We were too different, and she found it to be a bit unsettling, due to the fact she gave birth to me and raised me.

I saw myself as normal, average. I was a typical teenage girl.

My mother was the weird one. I didn't like her baby, or that she married a man that was merely under the age of thirty.

Liam was twenty-eight, to be exact.

My mother was over-weight now, and I wanted Liam to look at me more ever since then.

I didn't feel bad for wanting the attention. He was young, and hot.

By no means did I see him as a father figure. We lived together, and he supposedly impregnated my mother. I felt as if my mother and her baby was his obligation.

If I was a year older, I was sure he'd look further into interests with me.

I thought I was attractive. My uniform fit me more snugly compared to my after-school-clothes, because I had it since the seventh grade. I was in the eleventh now, and my breasts became cantaloupes — thanks to puberty.

I had an eye out for what I desired, and my step-father just so happened to be caught at that very level. I was seventeen, and couldn't make any moves on him until I turned eighteen — but it was one of the most things I thought about.

In line with sleeping with my step-father, was continuing the name I had for myself in school.

I was popular. People asked me for advice, and copied my style. Boys liked me, and sometimes I'd like them back. I kept my options open — just until that door would open for Liam.

I was definitely in love with Liam. I tried not to let him know how I felt, because I didn't want anything to happen too soon.  I believed we were pent for each other. That was a definite. 

We had to wait for each other, but I knew he was worth the wait.

He was a man. A man was what I needed.

I hoisted my bag over my shoulder, letting it weigh down one side of my body as I walked out of the front door.

A car pulled up into the driveway, and I waved at the driver. My expectant smile lit up my face.

I might have been in love with Liam, but for now, I had a boyfriend.

I might have also kept my options open with guys at my school — but more than anything, I needed the in that I had with Tyler.

He was almost like the water I drank from a fountain, because I'd be parched without him. He was what made me the most popular girl in private school. He played on the lacrosse team for the local public school. He was the leading player. He also drove a kick-ass car, because his parents were loaded.

I got in through the passenger side, and then greeted Tyler with a kiss.

His hand reached for my long, straight blonde hair—he always liked touching it. He twirled a piece of it around his finger.

"Feeling okay this morning, Abigail?" he asked.

"Same old," I responded dryly.

"Alright, let's get out of here," he said, his tone thick and mysterious.

I loved that Tyler was one of those unreadable guys.

I didn't have to worry if he was sad, or upset. He never told me, or showed the emotion. He was practically trapped under a paper box with his emotions.

But then again, I was pretty sure I was, too.

Me and Tyler: we were almost the same.

We were two individuals that wanted the same things.

—-