|CROSSROADS x LEAP YEAR | Eighteen-year-old April Lewis flees her troubled home, desperate to escape her emotionally distant, controlling mom, and seek out her dad.
Little does she know a chance encounter with her classmate will take her on a cross...
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"Stuffing your things in a backpack, hopping on a bus, heading somewhere far, far away? Just to see what happens?
At your age, I often felt like that."
Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.
I read and re-read the same four sentences, a grin spreading across my face.
Dad gets me. Like, truly gets me.
"April?" My mom's intrusive voice buzzes around me like a nagging mosquito.
I look up in annoyance. "What?"
"Don't you take that tone with me," disapproving lines are etched around her icy-blue eyes.
I loathe when she looks at me that way.
"Fine. Sorry. What?" I bite into my lower lip, trying very hard not to explode.
For a few tense moments, all that's heard is an annoyed hum of our impossibly tiny, ancient refrigerator.
"You didn't even touch your food."
I scrunch my nose at the smelly stuff sitting on my plate. A boxed mix of Mac and Cheese she whipped up for the third night in a row.
Does she really want me to eat that again? If so, she's trippin'.
"Not hungry."
I miss Dad's golden brown Pizza Pockets so much. Crescent dough, mozzarella cheese, my favorite toppings, and I was good to go.
But I'm not about to say that out loud.
"Won't you at least have a bite?"
"Sheesh, Mom. I already told you I wasn't hungry. Just leave me alone."
I can literally feel the weight of her gaze, heavy and scrutinizing, even if she isn't looking directly at me.
She clears her throat. "Want some tea?"
"No." I stand up, my chair harshly scraping against the scuffed orange linoleum floor. "I'm going to my room."
"At this hour? It's barely eight p.m."
"I'm tired." And she's suffocating me. "Plus, I have to pack for the graduation trip tomorrow."
"Family Ties will be on soon. We always watch it together." Her massive figure adopts a hands-on-hips pose, and bars me from accessing the rickety wooden stairs.
Family Ties. How ironic. And it's something we used to watch as a family. Together. Without Dad to laugh along, it's just lame.
"God, Marjorie, which part of I'm tired wasn't clear to you? Dad would understand."
Mom rocks back and forth on her sensible worn-out flats. I hate how she's always prioritized comfort and practicality over style.
Her gaze suddenly snaps to the floor and my breath catches in my throat. I know exactly what she sees. Dad's letter.
