The Starving Children Want Ice Cream

Sandy

"Sandy Xander Roberts!" I heard Mom yell from the kitchen.

Shit. This time even before I could say I was home.

"Y-yeah?" I called back.

Mom stormed to the foyer, her face red with rage. She was holding a paper in her hand. That could only mean one of two things; 1) It's my report card and I fucked up a class or 2) I got a letter from the principal for some shit I never did. Neither sounded pleasant.

She held up the paper to show that, yes, it was my report card and, yes, I completely fucked up a class. She pointed angrily at my failed grade (English of all subjects) and drilled holes into my skull with her eyes. My mom can be scary as hell when she's angry. At that moment in time, she was worse than Satan.

"What the hell is this?" she asked, her eyes latched onto mine.

"My report card, Mom," I responded. Smart move, Sandy.

"That is not what I meant," she retorted furiously, "Sandy, what in the hell is this?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Okay. Yes, Mom, I failed English but you know I don't like it."

"That is no excuse to fail the class. Your teacher even noted that you seemed to have a, and I quote, 'lack of respect for the course as displayed through various half-hearted essays as well as sloppy completion of several assignments.' Sandy--"

"Look, Mom, I just don't like English," I stated again (as if that was a strong argument the first time) and dropped my bag next to the door. Mom was not buying it.

"It's fine to be disinterested in something, Sandy, but that doesn't mean you should slack off and fail the whole damn course!"

"I just think I could spend that time doing something I actually like." I snatched my report card from my mom's hand. Another smart move, Sandy. I pointed to my better subject. "Mom, look. A 100% in Latin 3. One hundred percent. In Latin three."

Mom puffed out air and rolled her eyes. What was the point of fighting a hopeless battle?

"Sandy, that is spectacular," she said, animosity oozing into the room, "but that does not give you permission to disregard another class entirely! That is not tolerable in this household!"

I looked at the ground to avoid eye-contact. My mom hated it whenever I failed a class. For me, English just wasn't my thing as I found it completely boring. Not my fault. Tell the teacher that her class is utter shit with a dull ass curriculum.

"Sandy," Mom started calmly--too calmly--stroking her ponytail. Oh fuck. The ponytail stroke meant the world was coming to an end. "You have to understand that I am a lawyer and your father is a doctor--"

"Mom, no. Don't start with that again." Not that lecture. She had given me that lecture (approximately) 1,791 times before. I didn't want to to hear it a 1,792nd time. She told it as if it meant something different every time. Something important. What she didn't realize was the more she told it, the more it lost meaning.

She glared at me. "Sandy Xander Roberts," she hissed, "you do not interrupt your mother when she's speaking. Do you understand?"

My mom didn't like being interrupted. Usually I'd shut up, then muster a "Yes ma'am" whenever she got like that, but that day I couldn't take it. I've put up with Mom's lectures all the time. I was done with her stubborn, rigid judgments of my choices.