The Dog Whisperer

● Chapter Two

As soon as I walk in the house, I can tell something's not right. It's eerily quiet and very unsettling to me. I pull the front door back and recheck the number of cars in the driveway to make sure I hadn't imagined them. But there are still all four cars staring back at me, leaving me to wonder what's going on.

My parents are never this silent. I should hear at least one, if not, both, of them watching TV or yelling or rattling around in kitchen. I'm at the foot of stairs, yet I don't hear a peep coming from Will's room. Will is loud in almost everything he does, whether it be playing online video games, strumming his guitar, talking, or merely just entering a room. His presence is always deafening. Surely, he's doing something that requires noise. And Spencer? Well, Spencer makes about as much noise as a block of wood.

Then, I hear it.

My dad clears his throat from the living room. Oh, something is most definitely not right here.

I push the door into the frame as carefully as I can behind me as to not make a sound so I can sneak up to my room. I end up slamming my toe into the nearby table as I turn around, producing a large thud and "shit" from me. I screw my eyes shut, wincing and hobbling around on one foot as I clutch my wounded toe in pain.

"Wren," my dad calls out, now alerted of my arrival.

Boy, do I know how to make an entrance, I think, rolling my eyes at myself.

"Yeah?" I respond, my voice gruff as I try to absorb the pain in my toe.

"Can you come here?" His tone is polite.

I set my foot down, my toe still stinging, and make way into the living room. My parents sit together on the beige sofa. They both appear comfortable, a bit too relaxed for my own good. The television screen is black, completely off. The curtains are closed, despite the fact that it's still bright out with the sunset just beginning on the horizon. There's a fire ablaze in the fireplace, attempting to give the room a warm glow. It seems to have the reverse effect on me. Right now, I feel anything but warm; the sight before me is unwelcoming and nauseating. This is a clearly orchestrated trap.

What did I do?

My mom's light hair is pulled back with a clip, making her appear a lot younger. She still looks tired, the lines etched into her face around her eyes will tell you that much. My dad does too, especially with his five o'clock shadow. Yet, here they are, united and ready to rip me to shreds like a couple of vultures.

"Have a seat," my dad instructs, his voice still pleasant.

I want to decline, tell him I'd much rather stand. It's easier to make a quick escape that way. Instead, I follow his command and seat myself on the other couch next to theirs. I sling my backpack off my shoulders, where it crumples onto the carpet.

"Principal Timmons called earlier," my mom voices.

And suddenly, I know exactly what direction this conversation is taking.

"Are you kidding me right now?!" My voice is just below a shout, but I cannot contain my anger. That man has some balls.

"This is ridiculous. Yes, I told the soccer team to go fuck themselves. However, would I have had to say anything if that stupid water balloon hadn't been thrown in the first place? No! It's not like I did anything to provoke them, so yeah, I'm going to get pissed off if I'm suddenly attacked while I'm minding my own business! Jesus!" I sound overdramatic and insane, but I don't even care at this point. If my parents think I'm about to tolerate being lectured without a fight, they are sadly mistaken.

My dad holds his hand up to stop any further protesting in its tracks. "Sit," he calmly says. I hadn't realized in the process of my rant that I had stood up, but I flop back down in my spot on the couch.