not enough

1 - not good enough

Tom sniffs.
Hay-fever was the worst. He always had to ask for tissues seemingly constantly as soon as it starts to get warm. Attempting to relive the burden of his ever-stuffy nose, he fishes around in his pockets for a tissue. But, oh. Of course he'd used the stack he'd taken up at school.
He rolls his eyes and continues on his way home, it was such a short walk, and his parents didn't... mind? Care even? That he was walking back on his own at his current age of eleven.
The spring flowers and cut grass spewed everywhere over the brightly lit sidewalks were beautiful to get a whiff of, but if he breathed too deeply near them, his nose would run more than it was already doing. So that would be fun.

He'd only recently started slowing his pace once he gets near the house, looking out to see whether his mother had finished collecting his older sister, Sarah, from her high school. If she hadn't, he'd have to wait outside sitting on the porch steps for her. He didn't have to worry about his father much, not until he came home at six.
Dragging his sleeve under his nose, he spies his sister waving at him from the bottom of their driveway.
He waves back and quickens his pace to rush up and greet her.
"Hey, Tom! Nice day at school?"
"Yeah it was good," he replies, squeezing her in his arms.
"Do anything fun?" she asks as they turn towards the front door.
"Nope,"
"Aw, well, there's always next week,"
"Kids, come on, get inside," Their mother calls.
Tom gets a hold of Sarah's hand and drags her up toward the door their mother was holding open.

"Nice day at school?"
"Mhm!"
"Always good to hear," His mother smiles as she shuts the door. "Alright, you two go play,"
"Wait can I have a... a-" he sneezes, covering his nose at the last second. "Tissue?"
"Bless you," His mother smiles and pats him on his shoulder, fishing a couple of tissues out from their box on the side. "Here you go,"
"Thank you," he takes the tissues, pressing one straight to his nose and kicking his shoes off.
"Hey, put those away, your father's coming home early today,"
"Oh- is he?"
"Yes, now go on, put them away,"

~🧊~

He sniffs again, as he was sat at the table, at his usual seat that faced the stairs.
"Who is that sniffing?" His father asks, slamming down his knife and fork, they clatter against the china plate.
Tom swallows. "Me,"
"Would you stop it? It's distracting enough and- don't use your sleeve,"
"Sorry,"
The bunch of flowers in the middle of the table were not helping the ever-tense situation at what was the Kazansky dinner table.
"Well my day was absolutely awful, this son of a gun was trying to negotiate this deal he made up on the spot and was managing to not make it work in any sense of the word,"
He tries to concentrate on his fathers elaborate re-telling of his day, he was a very respected man, known for his work with both the Navy and Army, didn't care much for the Air Force, or the naval-aviator aspect of the Navy. Tom, however, found that absolutely fascinating, he'd sneak on trips to the public library when he'd say he'd be going to see his friends to school just to scour through the books on flight they had.
"Thomas," his father says loudly, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"Yes?"
His father raises an eyebrow. "Did you hear my question?"
"No,"
He sighs loudly. "What did I say about zoning out?"
Tom looks to his lap, and sniffs. "Sorry,"
"And that god-awful sniffing! If you can't eat quietly without including that heinous racket, I suggest you go somewhere else,"
"Sorry," he shifts in his seat, picking at the skin around his nails and staring directly down at his lap, hyper aware of his nose about to drip. "Sorry- can I be excused for a minute-"
"N-"
"Yes Tom, go get a tissue," his mother steps in.

He scrapes back his chair on the sleek wooden floor, and winces, but just as quickly dashes to the kitchen and the saviour that was the box of tissues. Three left. Oh great.
He takes them anyway, and presses one straight to his nose, pocketing the other two. Having done so, he steels his nerves and goes back to the table, sitting back down and breathing in through his mouth.
"Sarah what did you do today?"
"I had a great time with Anne and Maggie in the afternoon, we were laughing so hard for ten minutes so we-," she says, smiling fondly at whatever she had been doing.
"No, not with your friends, I meant, what did you learn?" Their father demands, arching his eyebrow.
Tom sniffs and glances to his sister in sympathy.
"I.. well, we were practising creative writing in english language today-" Her eyes light up, slower, but still so at her favourite subject. Tom loved hearing her talk about her stories, he always marvelled in wonder at how she managed to come up with the ideas for them.
"No, Sarah, not that sappy creative writing," His father says, disgusted at her enthusiasm. "Real subjects like mathematics that will get you somewhere,"
"We.. didn't have that today," she says quietly.
"Pah! What have the schools come to? Not teaching the younger generations of useful subjects? Abigail, what do you think about this?"
"Well, I think its quite absurd,"

Tom sniffs, all-too used to his fathers rants about this or that or the other, and his mothers accepting agreements of them. He didn't think that his mother really agreed, but he was too afraid to ask.
Instead, he sips his glass of water, giving his sister another compassionate glance. "Thank you for the meal, mom," he says, willing to divert the tenseness that forever hung over them. "It's really good,"
"Oh, thank you Tom," she smiles at him, beyond thankful at his simple gratitude.
"Yes mom, thank you," Sarah replies.
Their mother smiles warmly, looking between them. "Thank you both,"
"Mhm, mhm, yes, quite good," Their father says hurriedly, itching to move the conversation onwards yet again.
Tom can't help but notice the ever so slight disappointment flicker in his mothers dark blue eyes.

"Thomas," he says.
"Yes?"
"What did you learn at school?" he rephrases the question he used for his sister, making sure that there would be no mistaking in what he wanted the answer to be.
"Um," This would be a difficult one. They didn't have mathematics on Fridays, only english and art, both subjects his father made evident that he detested. "We were doing division," he lies, they had done that yesterday.
"Again?"
"Yes,"
"Hmph,"

~🧊~

Tom was filled with a gut-wrenching anxiety at the report card he held in his hand. His favourite subjects, art and english, were both A's, but they did absolutely nothing to ease the fear at the simple B by science and C by maths.
He was so, so screwed.
He really didn't want to show his parents. His mother, maybe, would be a little forgiving, but his father, no way in hell would he escape the day without some sort of punishment.
Oh god.
He sniffs, swallowing. What a great start to the first term of high-school. He wanted to chuck the piece of paper into the nearest bin and not come home until nine. But the house was there. And so was his fathers car. Sarah and his mother were both out at what they called a 'ladies shopping trip' so they wouldn't be home until late. Leaving him alone with his father until they did so.
Tom inhales, his hands clammy, and he grips onto the paper with such force his knuckles turn white. Then he opens the door.

The hallway was silent. Dead silent, not even with the radio or television on, which was a very bad sign.
He kneels down and unties his shoes, putting them in the closet by the door, along with his coat, still hanging onto the card despite his hand shaking. Padding quietly further into the house, he leaves his bag at the foot of the stairs, in case he has to run up there and hide away in his room.
He was so screwed and now the anxiety was revealing a sick feeling too.
He sniffs again.
"Thomas is that you?" his father's voice booms from the living room.
Oh jesus.
"Yes," he calls back.
"Come in here,"
Tom's throat dries out before he could acknowledge the order. "Coming," he says hoarsely, then swallows, going as slowly as he dared to the living room.

"Did you get the report card?"
He nods, standing three metres away from his father who lounged on his chair.
"Give it here,"
End of my life in three.
He steps closer and gives him the card.
Two.
He watches, dread choking him as his fathers stone grey eyes slide down the results column.
One.

"Mathematics is a C?! Science is a B?!" His father roars, flinging the card back at him, and he only narrowly dodges it as it flutters to the floor behind him.
"Yes, sir,"
"That has got to be a mistake! No Kazansky has ever gotten a score as hideously low as that!"
"No, sir, it's not a mistake," Tom sniffs, directing his eyes at the overly complex patterned rug, bracing himself for the worst.
"Thomas," his father says warningly, standing up. "For once in your life you'd better be lying to me,"
"N-no, I'm not," he slides his feet backwards.
"You are a good-for-nothing disappointment to this family!" he yells, and it was all a blur as he lands his hand right on his cheek. "You are not enough for this surname,"
Tom flinches, reeling back away from him even more. "Yes sir," his voice catches.
"You disgust me. Go to your room,"
"Yes sir,"
Tom spins on his heel, sniffing and walking as fast as he can to the stairs, grabbing his bag by the straps and running up them.

Full of the all too familiar animalistic prey fear and that sour adrenaline that spiked through his blood, Tom shuts the door as quietly as it allowed, and turns and presses back on it. His heart was beating so loud and fast and hard he was surprised to look down and see that it was not in fact, thumping out of his ribcage.
He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his hands to his cheek that was flaring up with a sharp sting.
This was him getting off lightly, but no doubt he'd be staying there for the whole evening. He wouldn't dare show his face to his mother, and he'd try to hide it from his sister. She'd probably get him to open his door at some point during the evening.