diary of a teenage girl

Chapter 3: bookstore (Iris's pov)

I bow my head to hide my huge smile. "That guy was cute," Tia says as she wheels the squeaky book cart. "Yeah, he was," I say, remembering what he had looked like. "Was he wearing the park uniform?" Park is the name of the town I live in and the same name as my high school. I go to a private school, and the principal (who is also my uncle) pays for my education.
I've never been rich, but my dad always tried his hardest, and to my advantage, I am very smart and therefore can only stay if I remain in the top 2 of my class. A new person has been beating me lately, I have never met him though. "I think so. None of the guys look that good in our uniform, though." Tia says, still trying to suggest something.
"To be fair, none of the guys look good, period," I say, knowing that wasn't true. Partially, at least. I don't like any of the guys at school, maybe it's because none of them I can relate to. None of the girls, either. Even though I love Tia, I still feel like Tia just doesn't understand me. I'm not the girl to crush on guys, go to parties, or be popular. People don't understand why I am so devoted to getting the top mark in the school.
It's not that I'm embarrassed by my finances, but I don't feel like telling every person about it and having to hear them say, "Oh, I'm so sorry." People act like I'm a pauper, but since they're so rich they just don't understand. Me and my dad rely on a liveable income, and I don't have to worry too heavily about money.
I don't need people pitying me because I can do just as much as they can, and it's not like they were even trying to work towards anything anyway. The people at my school don't seem to think they need to work, and I guess they don't. But I feel that I have something to prove. Once my shift is over, I decide I want to head straight home.
"Hey Tia, I'm going to head out now," I tell her, walking out the door. "Wait, Iris, if you're leaving, come here for a second," Rose says, running to catch me before I leave. "Of course Rose, what is it?" I ask her. Rose is the sweet older woman who owns the bookshop.
She's also an old friend of my mom's, and when my mom died she helped out my dad, who works as a firefighter. He had to postpone getting a job as a fighter fighter when I was younger since my mom died when I was 5. He temporarily worked as a waiter and did many shifts when I was younger to take care of me while he also tried to spend all of his time off raising me, while still struggling with grief. I remember crying as a kid about my mom, and Rose would comfort me, saying, "You can't bottle it, unfortunately, it doesn't work like that. I know it hurts. But being sad is just as important as being happy." She would tell me.
She would tell me she wished my dad didn't bottle his sadness. As a kid I didn't get it, I just wanted my dad to be happy and my mom to be back. And I must say that eleven years later I still want that. A part of me knows it's meant to be this way. That god is there, protecting my mom. And I also know that he's protecting me, and my dad. I remember once, as a kid, playing with my dad and drawing. I drew us. My dad, my mom and I. He said, "What are you drawing, Iris?" Looking over. I watched as he looked at my drawing in his button-up, smelling like food and sprite.
I remember him looking tired. They were 23 and 22 when they had me. Married at 22 and 21, a kid a year later. He looked young. Like his life was just starting. "It's a good drawing," he told me, but he stopped his sentence abruptly. I saw a few tears streaming down his face through his hair, despite him ducking his head. "Are you okay, dad?" I remember asking. I recall him wiping his eyes and looking back at me, a new face on him.
"Of course! I'm so proud of my talented little girl." He said, picking me up and carrying me to bed. That was the only time I saw him cry. But I heard it. Late nights, when I would get home from school early. I hate the sound of it. I hate the pain in his sobs, the strain in the tears, the shaky breaths and I hate most of all that he had to overcome the grief secretly since he felt like he needed to hold himself together for me. I look into Rose's eyes in anticipation of her request. Rose is like a mother-in-law to my dad.
"I have flowers for you, dear." She goes into another room and comes back out with pink and yellow flowers. I spot baby's breath, my favorite. "I love baby's breath," I tell her, taking them from her and she smiles deeply. "Me too." She says softly. "I saw a handsome guy walking around town today. He made me think of you, he had green eyes."
"I met him. At the Hive." I smile, smelling the decadent flowers. "This is the third time he's come in this month. The first time he came in, you were in the backstocking books. He was looking at you dazed, and asked about you. He asked what your name was." I look at her star-struck, and I think I say "Oh," before walking blindly out of the store.
I daydream about this mystery boy on my walk home. As I get closer to home, I hope my dad is done with work by now. I hope to hear his voice and his soft French accent that I know so well. Thinking about those late nights, when he used to be in such pain makes me impatient to see my dad, just wanting to see him and tell him that I love him. When I say I love you I mean to say it's okay. I feel like he needs to hear it. But I know he doesn't want me to think he's struggling. He wouldn't want me to worry about him.
I eventually reach my apartment, and I see a very tall handsome lanky Asian boy leaning against the wall beside the door to my building, holding a phone up to his ear. I walk up to the door reluctantly, a little nervous. "Oh, let me get that. Sorry, I was just making a phone call." He tells me, putting his phone in his pocket and opening the door for me. He has a charming British accent. "Thank you," I say quickly, walking inside. I think he's from my school. But I'm not surprised, since this town is very small.
I walk up to my room, unlock the door, and take in the smell of fresh laundry. "Bonjour, ma fille. as-tu passé une bonne journée?" He asked me how my day was. "Oui. Today was really good. I had a long shift at the coffee shop." I answer in English. My dad is only 33, and he looks it.
I sit down quietly at the chairs next to our kitchen island. "Do you want any food?" He asks in English. "Yeah, sure papa," I say. He quietly prepares food as I sit there and trace the marble with my nails. I grab the book on my counter. "What book is that?" He asks. "It's called divergent. It's good." He gives a small "hmm" and continues with cooking. "How's Tiana?" He asks, not looking at me.
"Tia's good. I miss going to the same school as her, though." I confess, setting my book down. "Yeah, how is school? I hear your grades are still as great as ever." He says, flipping the Uzbek plov, a lot like fried rice. A meal my mom used to make. My dad is from Cannes, France, but my mom was Uzbek and raised in France.
"It's not like I have a choice. It's either get good grades or get kicked out." I say, correcting him. "I'm sorry about that. I'm trying to pick up as many shifts as I can Iris, I promise." I regret opening my mouth. "No papa, jes suis désolé, I didn't mean it like that. I'm grateful for everything we have. I don't need more." I apologize, aching to take my words back.
"It's okay, Iris. I'm saving up money. Soon we can get a house, and hopefully, I can pay for your college. I've gotten a promotion at the fire department. I'm thinking about using my degree in marketing because I've been getting offers. Big offers. I'd be making hundreds of thousands, and that's just the starting amount."
I can't help but get my hopes up. I can't help but want that life. "Okay, papa. I believe in you." I say. He dishes out the food and sits down with me, and we talk about our days. "Okay, papa. je vais au lit." I tell him I'm going to bed. "Mm." He says, nodding with his mouth full. I fall on my bed, my back hitting the covers of my bed as I quickly drift off to sleep.
I wake after a long nap and lift my head, looking around my room. A mess. I decided to clean it, despite the odds of it being messy again the next morning. I'm not what you would call an organized person.

September 29th, Wednesday

I wake up, in my clothes from last night with a book draped over my face. I take the book off of my face and look in the mirror. Smudged mascara, messy bedhead, and pilling concealer. I walk to my bathroom, wash my face, do my skincare, and brush my teeth and hair.
I put on my makeup and go get dressed in my uniform. This time I decide to not bring my jacket and hope no one noticed. I pop a bagel in my mouth and I'm out the door. "Iris, come on, let's go!" I see Tia leaning against my door frame, buttoning up her shirt and fixing her hair.
"What are you doing here?" I ask her. "My dad said I could walk to school with you because I will miss today. Doctors appointment!" She says, excitedly waving her hands in little fists. "Oh, your parents are letting you miss school for the whole day over a doctor's appointment?" I ask, starting to walk to the elevator. "Yup. They also want me to hang out with this Indonesian boy who is the son of one of my dad's friends."
"Oh. What about that Vietnamese guy from last week?" I ask, remembering him. "He didn't speak Vietnamese and didn't even know what pho was. It's kind of a dealbreaker." She tells me, as I swallow the bite of bagel that I was chewing on. "Mm. Isn't that the national dish?" I say. "Yeah. My parents think I only have American friends and that I need to 'get to know my heritage more'" she says with air quotes, opening the door out of my apartment. "Huh," I say, getting another bite of my bagel.
"But I think you being half Asian is good enough for now, and they might lay off if you speak some Uzbek." She offers, almost tripping on the sidewalk. "But I don't speak Uzbek," I say. "Speak French, they won't know." She says with a grin. "Well, my French is pretty bad. Hey, have you seen that cafe guy since yesterday?" I ask.
"Since yesterday? It's barely been a day, so no." She says, shuffling her feet and looking down. "Okay, well this is where I leave you." She says once we are in front of my school. "Okay, bye," I say, walking inside. A tall Asian boy, the same one from last night, is sitting on a bench, watching Tia as she walks away. I catch his eye, and he flings his backpack over his shoulder and walks over to me, opening the door.
"Ladies first." He says, reminding me once again of his British accent. "Thank you," I pause. "Is your only purpose in life to open doors for me?" I joke. "Pretty much." He says, walking with me to my class. He quickly passes me by, his long legs pushing him miles ahead.
Once my long day of school is over, I sit on the bench and watch the clouds pass over the sun, and the leaves fall gently on the ground. I watched a pretty girl from my school, a junior presumably, break up with her boyfriend who I think is also a junior. "You are nothing but a no-good trash bag boyfriend with a stale personality and half a brain!" She says, throwing a bouquet of red roses on the ground.
She looks down at her bleeding finger punctured by a thorn. She smears it on his forehead. As she walks off, I watch as he watches her walk off, his whole demeanor pathetic. I read the blood-written words on his forehead and laughed profusely. It spells out 'cheater'. I re-enact her break-up speech, trying to replicate her tenacity when she says, "No good trash bag boyfriend." When I remember where I'm supposed to be.