Clueless | DAERIN

10: spaghetti

d a n i e l l e
—

I laugh at Haerin's text message before quickly texting her back.

My best friend is finally getting her casts off today after two weeks of me basically being her arms and legs.

She has been looking forward to this day ever since they put those dumb casts on her arms, and I cannot be there.

My mother is making a big deal about me 'not spending enough time with the woman who birthed me.'

She usually does not care if I eat with them or not. If she had it her way, then I would be sitting in a rehab facility right now for an eating disorder encouraged by her.

"Danielle June Marsh, come eat dinner now!" my father roars from the dining room.

I sigh as I turn my phone off and slip it into my back pocket. I quickly stand up from the living room couch before making my way towards the kitchen.

"Please, skipping a meal or two won't kill her," my mother scoffs as she takes a sip of her red wine.

I roll my eyes at my mother's words and take a seat in the only empty chair at the dinner table across from her.

This is part of the reason why I never eat dinner at this house.

"Can we please discuss this later?" my father grits out with annoyance.

My mother scoffs, taking another sip from her wine glass. My father sighs and takes a deep breath before aiming a smile in my direction.

"Do you want some spaghetti? I specifically had it made by my colleague who just visited Italy," my dad offers.

I smile and nod my head. I grab my plate and hold it out for him so that he can serve me.

My mother carefully watches how much spaghetti he puts on my plate, only to roughly smack the back of his head when he fills half the plate with the delicious pasta.

"You're adding too much; it should be one-third spaghetti and two-thirds salad!" she stresses.

I groan with irritation at this.

I seriously miss the Kang family right now.

"I'll take it," my brother says with an excited tone of voice. He practically hops across the table to grab the plate from our father's hands.

My mother takes his empty plate and prepares it for me, barely putting any spaghetti on it.

Are you kidding me?!

She said one-third!

That is way less than one-third!

"While we're on the topic of Italians—" my little brother speaks with a mouthful of pasta.

I completely block him out as rage begins to flow through my veins.

"That's literally a forkful of spaghetti!" I exclaim to my mother.

My brother ignores us, talking to my dad about a family trip to Italy.

We literally do not speak Italian!

"Don't be so dramatic; I should be giving you no spaghetti," she rolls her eyes.

"Do you see how big your thighs look in that skirt?" she asks me rhetorically.

I ball my fists so tight that I can physically feel them shake.

"I'm the average weight for a sixteen-year-old girl," I state with a firm tone.