Your Loyal Servant

(5) Errand Boy?

Tommy glared murderously at me, his haunches flexed as though he would strike me. As I tiptoed passed him, he hissed—he wasn't too happy with me for waking him up in the middle of the night.

I hadn't eaten dinner. Because I'd locked myself in my room after learning I had a servant I didn't want thanks to some unpaid debt nonsense, Mom didn't give me dinner. She tried, knocking on my door and begging for me to eat, but I refused. So I spent the rest of my evening sulking on my bed.

When midnight rolled around, I felt pretty hollow, empty, and weak. My stomach had started to eat itself, and it was growling in choler at me, yelling, "How dare you skip a meal! I need food, dumbass!"

Finally, I gave in. I slid from my bed, which made Tommy wake up and plot my demise, and then slunk downstairs. When I opened the fridge, my uneaten dinner covered in saran wrap waited for me, with a note on top, complete with a smiley drawn by my mom.

Even though food wasn't allowed in my room, I decided I didn't want to get caught eating downstairs at the dining table—Dad would lecture me about family mealtimes.

I could imagine the conversation: "If you have time in the middle of the night to eat your meal at the table, then you have time to eat at a reasonable hour with your family."

I wouldn't have much say in that discussion.

Turning on the lamp on my desk, I plopped down in the seat and dug into my cool green beans, mashed potatoes, and rib-eye steak. As I ate, I turned on the radio and listened to the music playing quietly.

Once Tommy smelled food, he forgave me. He leapt onto my desk, mewed innocently, and settled himself near my plate. Since I knew this would happen, I scooted some meat pieces over to him, and he ate them, content.

After returning my empty plate to the dishwasher, I climbed back in bed and snuggled under the blankets. To show his appreciation, Tommy curled up next to me, purring in content.

As I pet his sleek, smooth fur, I murmured, "We eat too many cold meals, don't we, Tommy?"

He yawned in response, cuddling into my side.

Although I wasn't proud of the fact, I had locked myself in my room and forgone dinner on several occasions. Whenever something displeased me in life, I'd stomp into my room and stay in there until morning. Before entering high school, I discovered I could slip away while my parents were sleeping so I could eat something before my stomach devoured itself. By the small crumbs I'd leave, Mom caught on to my habit, so she kept my dinner in the fridge for me.

Dad wasn't a fan of my dramatic rebellions, especially if it meant skipping out on meals—he was big on family bonding time. He encouraged dealing with the situation like a mature adult, but those attempts failed.

On the other hand, Mom wasn't so offended. She claimed it was a part of growing up—and I had a lot of growing up to do. Of course, she did say dinners were lonely without me, but she also claimed she understood a teenager's need for dramatic exits, so she let me go when I wanted to.

My parents claimed I was born with a theatrical gene: an entire strand of DNA devoted to drama. Instead of bragging to the other parents about my grades or my musical talent, they complained about all the drama I stirred up: the tantrums, the hammy begging for a toy, the incessant whines about the pettiest of things. They said it went hand-in-hand with my short-temper.

My parents also explained to the other parents that my drama DNA took over where my patience virtue should have been. That caused a lot of trouble—and wrinkles—too.