Neighbors with the Bad Boy (In Editing And Reconstruction)

Lonely

~Excuse the mistakes~

Chapter 13

I slipped inside of my house, slowly and quietly shutting the door behind me. And as I was about to turn around, a voice made me stop and freeze: “Where have you been?” And I just knew, because of the sharp and demanding tone, it was my mother.

I rotated my body towards her and smiled. “Um… out?” I blurted.

“Out?” she repeated. “You were supposed to be home”—she looked at her watch, processing whatever time (which I knew, for a fact, was before my curfew) was displaying on her clock and then  looked at me—“at Eleven-Thirty, and it’s One O’clock in the morning. One O’clock. Do you know how worried I was—how worried your father was?” She shook her head in disapproval.

My head was hurting immensely, though because I was still—and I knew very well—slightly intoxicated, I tried not to make it too obvious. “Sorry, I guess I just lost track of time.” I giggled softly, and then slapped a hand over my mouth.

Her eyes narrowed as she walked closer to me, observing my face and then clothing, before backing away a couple of steps with wide eyes. “Have you been… drinking?” she asked hesitantly.

“No,” I lied.

“Walk in a straight line,” she ordered. I turned my body slightly and began to walk: one foot before the other, though as I was about to put my right foot in front of my left foot, my view became a tad hazy and I missed partial balance.

“You’ve been drinking,” she stated angrily.

My mind was racing, but I refused to talk. Anything could come out of my mouth: a lie, the truth… anything. So I just glued it shut, and studied my mother’s angry and disappointed face.

“Do you know how dangerous it is to drink? Especially if your only sixteen—and it’s even worse if you drove! Did you drive?” she said, panicking. Though before I could speak, she was already looking out of the window. And as expected—at least for me—the driveway was clear, excluding my father’s black truck. “Where’s my car?” She turned to me with suspicious eyes.

“I—“I gulped, “I had to leave it at the party. I was kind of, well, asleep… and drunk, so a friend—actually the new neighbor—took me home. I—“

“You were drunk?” my mother exclaimed. “You were asleep? Why were you asleep? Did you have…?”

“No!” I said quickly. “Not at all! I just didn’t really feel good, and well, I fell asleep…”

Her eyes studied me closely, and then she began to massage her temples, repeatedly saying: “This is not happening, this is not happening.” I sighed, waiting for whatever extensive lecture would come my way—but it never did. Instead she said, “Just go to your room; we’ll talk about this is the morning. Late morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I turned and began to walk up the stairs, hearing the faint sound of my mother muttering, “Teenagers these days.” And I was sure—without even looking—she rolled her eyes.

I was surprisingly never given a long speech about defying my parents (elders, in general), or how much drinking can kill you, or what peer pressure can do to you, or how unsafe it is to drive while drinking (again, though in much more detail). But I did get a punishment: I’m grounded for two weeks.

I had to call Brandon and tell him that I wouldn’t be able to make it for our date, and after dialing his number and hearing his soft, sweet voice ring through my ears, a small part of me just couldn’t do it; I didn’t want to hurt him.