As I was waiting in the hall, I couldn't help looking at this enormous painting. I couldn't say what it was, but there was something strange about it.
I had lived surrounded by paintings as long as I could remember, and this one looked very familiar. It was an oil painting of a landscape, more specifically a mountain during night fall, while stars were starting to become noticeable on the sky. It gave me a feeling of peace, but also loneliness.
My fingers were about to touch the canvas when I was startled by a very familiar voice: "You know, this painting was your mother's", Linda said.
I was caught off-guard by that, but it wasn't very surprising. My mother loved everything related to art, so she painted all the time, especially after she quit her job as a banker to pursue her dream of becoming a full-time artist. She sold most of her works locally, to friends or tourists. Even though her paintings didn't make her famous, they brought enough money to our family. My mom only stopped painting when she was run over by a car and died.
That was why I came here. This was Linda's house, and I liked coming here whenever I felt sad or just wanted someone to talk to after my mom's death. She always knew the right thing to do and, sometimes, that was to just let me be.
"Do you want to talk about what's upsetting you, Sky?", Linda asked.
I shook my head, letting my hair slip from behind my ears. Today I just wanted someone who acted normal around me.
Ever since I went back to school, I had become popular for being known as the girl whose mother had died, and everyone looked at me like I was about to have a breakdown. I hated every freaking second of it.
This whole situation made me so angry sometimes that I felt like punching every single one of my schoolmates. I knew they didn't do it to upset me, but I did't need nor want anyone's pity. Even my best friend was annoying me with her conversations about my feelings. It was like she was trying to become Dr. Phill 2.0 or something.
Pushing my anger away, I sighed and went to the living room, preparing myself for a relaxing afternoon of TV watching.
When it was almost dinner time, I returned home. My dad's cooking skills were less than none, so all the meals in our house were either microwaved food -which wasn't the tastiest nor the healthiest -, or they were cooked by me. I wasn't very good at this either, so about half of what I tried to cook ended up burned or with an horrible taste.
I was thinking about what I was going to make for dinner when a football hit me so hard in the face that it almost made me fall on the ground.
"Just because you can't play, it doesn't mean you have to hit other people, asshole!", I yelled.
"I'm sorry", said Ethan, the jerk who lived next door to me since I was thirteen years-old, "I was just trying to fix your face, but I guess that's impossible."
"Ha-ha, funny. Maybe I can try to fix your new car, too. I wonder if a hammer will do the job..."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! Just leave my car alone, you psycho", he said.
Boys.
Ever since we met, Ethan and I had been constantly picking on each other. It wasn't like I hated him or anything, but that guy deserved to be put down from his high horse by the only girl who didn't consider him the coolest person ever. I mean, he was a jock, not God, but because of his so-called charm, almost every single girl at school was constantly drooling over him. Those girls were bimbos, but not me! I simply thought he was kind of ... cute. There, I said it!
Trying to refocus, I went inside without saying one more word to Ethan, while silently fuming about how big of a jerk he was.
