A Year Being the Cheerleader

47.

I check the time on my phone for the tenth time since I came out here. And apparently it has only a minute. We cannot be late. I hate being late. Why can't everyone be like me? Why don't they hate being late? I mean, it is so inconvenient and awkward. These are the reasons I like to go solo. No waiting. It is just me, myself and I. I don't really complain, but I am deadly impatient. And right now I am miserable out of this world.

Finally, after three minutes and twelve seconds later, my mother and father trudged outside to the sliver SUV I am currently leaning on. I don't even look up from my phone as Dad opens the car door.

"We are going to be late," I say walking off. This is getting way out of hand. "And that's why I am not going anywhere."

To make my point known, I sit down on one of the chairs on our porch. I don't even bother to go inside. Dad had locked up and even though I have a spare key, I am not going inside. I don't even want to go and they make us late. Unbelievable. I have an already stressful life.

"Get in the car," mom tells me through the car window. "Or you will have to wait there until we get back and I have paid too much for not dress for you not to come."

I look up from my game of Angry Birds as my father sends a scowl my mother's way. She juts out her chin and look away. Her way of saying he should handle it then. But that is the problem. I am not an object that can be handled and where you make up every quality about it. Nope, I am not. I hate being late and everyone who knows, talk and even sees me, especially the persons who I live with, know how punctual I am. And this is far from punctual.

"Amber darling," dad says softly as he approaches me as if prepared for me to thrash or throw a tantrum. "What time do you think the church service starts?"

I look up at him incredulously. What is he implying? That I don't know the time my church starts their service? I am pretty sure it haven't been that long since I have been to church.

"Dad, you already know the answer to that," he raises an eyebrow at me and I know that it means something like "do I?" It's quite a challenging aspect of him I have as well, so I know that look. I sigh, a little too loudly. "It starts at nine...doesn't it?"

I ask in the end by the shake of his head and the amused smile on his face. I can't be that wrong. Probably it starts 9 something instead.

"No, it doesn't," my look of disbelief intensifies and he grins at me as he sits beside me. "That is Sunday school for the children. You are now seventeen, soon to be eighteen, so you come up front with the adults."

My mouth forms an "O" at this and he gets up and stretches out his hand for me to take. I place my hand in his, a little embarrassed at my display earlier.

"It actually starts at eleven and now..." he pulls me up to stand up and he smiles as he looks at his watch. "It's only a few minutes after nine. I think we are quite early, unless you don't want to go to church too early?"

I smile at that. He doesn't push it on me, but he asks me what I want. He acknowledges the fact that it is my choice and decision. I shrug.

"I don't think this dress was met to be worn at home for so long," he chuckles and we make our way to his vehicle.

"Very correct my daughter," he gives me one of his rare dimples smiles and kisses the mop of blonde hair on my head. I shake my head and scrunch up my face. He has to make me feel short. Or rather remind me that I am shorter than him. But nothing is wrong with that. I don't think I want to be more that six feet five inches anytime in my life. Five feet eight inches is good enough for me, even though Nate teases me about my height almost everyday. "You're weird."

I get in the SUV as I roll my eyes at my father. He can say some things that makes absolutely no sense.

"It runs in the genes," I say jokingly as Dad gets around the steering wheel. "No offense to you mom."

My mom rolls her eyes and Dad shakes his head to ward off the laugh that clearly wants to erupt from his lips. Wow, we are really a mature family.

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