Down The Hall

Chapter One

"This is so stupid," I said to myself, as I stared out the passenger side window, following the dancing power lines that almost seemed to never end. With my hand resting against my cheek, I lay my head back against the seat, letting out an annoyed sigh.

"You don't have to keep doing that every hour," my Dad said from the driver's seat, hitting my arm with the back of his hand.

I shift my body toward the door a little more to get out of reach of him. He always does that little hit when he knows he going to have a serious conversation with me.

"I'm not doing anything," I snapped back waiting a second before turning my head to him and giving a fake smile that said, I don't want to give you this but I also don't want to get in trouble.

"Don't give me that. You act like I haven't been hearing your bratty comments and seeing your pouting. This just has to happen and you know it."

"The point is for you to hear it. And I'm not stupid I know it has to happen."

My Dad's eyes shot over to me once more and this time I was able to catch it. It was the look of 'say something like that again, I dare you.'

It seemed as though lately those furrowed brows and squinting dark blue eyes were there every time I was in his presence. His dark brown hair even seemed more disheveled around me.

"You're really going to piss me off. I'm trying to do everything I can to make this better for you but you just don't-," he paused, releasing the steering wheel a little from his grip. "Just don't push me, Lucy. I mean it. You're not the only person going through this."

I know I'm not the only person going through this, and I know how life-changing this is to Dad, but it's just so hard to get behind. Leaving your childhood home where you've built all your memories with family, friends, and neighbors, just hurts. A piece of my heart is always going to be left there, alone with another family who decides to buy it and remake those memories. Being so fixated on my own memories I guess I forgot all about dad's.

I loved him and me together when I was younger. There was a time, maybe the only time I missed with him when we actually looked like father and daughter. I would knock on his door around 7 pm every night, my hands shaking because I was nervous and my legs goosed bumped from our ice cooler of a house. He would say "yeah" in a very low monotone voice, trying not to seem tired from his hard work in the sun all day. Taking that as a sign to open the door, I would tiptoe in, giving puppy dog eyes, and put on an appreciative smile.

Then going over to his side of the bed I would pause for a moment before wrapping my arms around his stomach. Listening to its grumble that was inhuman. He would then put his arm around me. His grip was tight and rough, but it was the only affection I would get until the same time tomorrow. Sinking into his hold, I'd slide my body onto the bed next to him and watch TV.

Neither of us would move from that position for an hour, sometimes five because he would accidentally fall asleep and I wouldn't want to risk waking him. This was the only time during the day I would get to see him and I couldn't complain. I loved those small moments. It was the only moment where I felt like one of my parents cared, even if it was just for an hour.

"I know I'm not the only one," I said before turning to the window again, now following the white line on the side of the road.

"Mh," he grunted. "You'll like my friends, Lucy. And you'll like your new school. Don't get so worked up."

"Mh," I copied him.

"Plus they're rich too. Which I know you'll enjoy," he let out a little laugh. I rolled my eyes to his joke, or what I thought was one.

"Mh," I replied again, thinking if he really knew anything about me at all.

After the "conversation," we sat in silence for another minute, waiting for someone to break it, but neither of us cared enough to. Instead, he turned on the radio that blasted country music throughout the car, shaking it with every guitar strum.

I closed my eyes and said quietly, "And this is why I don't talk to you." It was too weak to make it through the music but strong enough to stay in the air until we got to his friend's house.