I made sure to lock the door as quickly as possible, and slid down the door with my back against the door.
I ignored the pounding through the door that created vibrations into my back. I ignored the aggravated voice telling me to open the "damned door." I ignored everything. As much as I could.
As I could.
I don't how everything had fallen apart so quickly, so easily. In my household.
School was as tedious and aggravating as always, my friends as pushy and half the time annoying as always, music lightening up my day as it has started, Dylan nice as always, people bound to be skeptical about me in the next jazz practice; everything is as always as it had been.
But at my house is a different story.
Joe hasn't been in the house that often and Mom is becoming much more distant.
Mom looks at me differently now. I can imagine the thoughts running through her head:
Oh my God, when did my daughter become such a slut?
I should've known she would turn out bad. Thank goodness I have Max and Nick and Joe.
She can definitely do better in her grades. Then maybe she can get away with half the things she does when I'm not here.
What happened to my beautiful, naïve daughter? She still gets good grades but that's it.
I can't wait until she leaves.
My body starts shaking slightly and it's not because I'm cold.
The knocking is relentless, it seems like Joe's arm isn't getting tired any time soon.
When my vision gets blurry because tears are building up and my teeth start chattering from my increasing shaking, I know I'm having an anxiety attack.
"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, "Not right now. Please not r-right n-now." My whispered words become stutters.
My heart rate accelerates and my breathing becomes shallow. I start hyperventilating and I can't bring myself to get up and go to my bed because my spot on the ground seems safer than trying to get to my bed.
"Come on, Christine. I just want to talk to you. Open the door!" Joe demanded from the other side.
I didn't reply, only giving him silence in return.
Everything is turning to shit. Just shit. To me, at least.
We were eating dinner while Max was at his friend's house so it was just me, Mom, and Joe.
I don't think I'll ever forget the look in Mom's eye when she uttered the few words when we started eating her pot pie, "So how's school going?"
There was nothing particularly malicious about the sentence, but the way she looked at me. As if daring me to tell her whether I'm doing good in my classes or not. As if daring me to tell her whether I sleep around like she assumed oh-so-quickly.
"Good," I had replied stiffly, the sinking in my stomach foreshadowing that this dinner wasn't going to go smoothly. I suddenly didn't feel all that hungry anymore.
"You're not failing any classes, correct? I know how stressful things can be and senioritis and all," Mom continued. I never understood how she could eat so quickly and talk at the same time.
"Of course not," I said, looking her in the eye, "I'm handling my classes and extras perfectly well, actually." There was an impatient tone in my voice.
