A Year Being the Cheerleader

35.

"What do you think about this darling?" My mom asks as I nibble my pen, trying to finish this essay.

"Hmmmhmmm," I hum in my throat as an answer.

At the corner of my eye, I see her drop the dress and look at me frustratedly as if this is my fault. It was never my decision to buy church dresses, so I don't see how this is my fault.

"Amber," she calls for my attention and I reluctantly look up to see her narrowed eyes that reflect irritation. "I am trying to be nice here."

"I didn't ask you to be," I retort before sharply turning my attention back to the matter at hand.

Probably I should write more about his children. That would make it reach 3000 words, I thought, my main focus on this history essay. It's pretty obvious by now that I do not like history. Or the teacher. It's like the subject was set up for students like me to fail miserably. I can't wait for senior year to come to an end, but oh dear, college.

My mother stands up in front of me a few seconds later, while I cross out words and write more words in my book. I can feel the intensity of her gaze piercing through me and I look up to see an angry monster. She can probably be passed as a mother as well.

"Who do you think you are?" My mother breathes through her nostrils and I swear I see fire. I don't flinch though and that seems to make her angrier.

"An alien, probably," I reply quickly, not getting the cue that it was a rhetorical question. "Since I am your child. Or are you telling me otherwise?"

I give her my innocent look and even go as far as blink sweetly with a smile. She looks at me dumbly at first, but when the words finally sink in, boy does she react.

First she grabs my book before I can hold on to it and throws it across the room and it crashes into the wall. My poor book. That's going to be hell to pay back later.

Then she speaks.

"Who do you thing I am, child?" She says and continues to speak quickly this time. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

Her nostrils flare and she lifts her hand in the air like a snake ready for a strike. It's nice she decides to use her hand when I am older instead of a belt buckle when I was younger. I shut my eyes, ready for the blow. But it never happens. I open to see what is the hold up. I have an essay to finish and this is totally wasting my time.

Unexpectedly, I find my mother not looking at me but at the person who is holding her hand still in midair.

My father's face, for the first time in history, is stone hard. It almost scares me to see him so serious. But I am not. For I have seen and known worse. I am just happy it isn't directed at me, but at my mother instead.

Hoping that's it for the morning, I scramble for my book across the room.

"How dare you." My father says quietly and mom cringes as his hand visibly tighten around her wrist.

"Honey," mom begins just as I reach my book and hug it to my chest. "You know I wasn't going to do anything."

"Oh, I know because I wouldn't allow it," my father snapped and he gives her tight smile. "Don't ever, ever so much as even hurt a strand of hair on her body."

And again, for the first time, I hear my mother's voice quiver as she responds with a "never". I am almost at the door realizing this is a scene that won't allow me to get a hundred on my essay.

"Amber." My father calls my name softly with no threat, but leaves no argument. I freeze like a deer caught in headlights. "Come here."

Without a word or further demand, I oblige. My eyes are glued to the ground and I feel so small. Just like I was five years old again. Only this time, I wasn't shaking with fear and tears streaming down my face.

"Look up, Amber darling." My father commands, his voice gentle, the voice I am use to.

I obey and I meet his sympathetic gaze. He has let go of mom's hand, but she is still by his side. He gestures to my mother and my eyes divert to her. Her voice, small and calm breaks the claim of silence in the room.

"I'm sorry."

I find myself actually affected and I realized something strange. I never really forgave her. I just want to forget and feeling like a damaged creature I remain silent, but my throat clogs with cries. The nod I give her is meaningless, neither accepting or forgiving. Not even acknowledging.

I look up at my father and he gives me a small smile. He probably thinks this is over. I turn to my mother again and I know it is far from over. I grab my backpack and leave, heading to my car. Once I reach it, I get in and drive. I drive until the tears stop streaming down my cheeks and then I turn back around to school. I park outside just as the bell rings. And for the first time in history, I am happy I am late. This day has already started with history making moments. I wonder what else is in store.

1999beauty
All rights reserved.