The Tale Of A High-school Badass

Chapter 3 - Quesadillas and Interventions

The branches of a looking Valley Oak scrape against the bird poop flecked windows of the school bus. Lorde's deep, raspy voice pumps in my ears as I gently mouth the words to 'Green Light.' The dry, salty wind of California reaches a fever pitch in the closed bus. The bus stops at the end of my Spanish style house, and I lethargically drag my dirty sneakers down the pavement to my doorstep.

The aroma of kidney beans and tres leches is almost tangible, a fresh lemon-y smell contrasts the warmth of the kidney bean aroma. A delicate ping sounds and I glance at the screen of my phone. The screen reads : Landon Moore has requested to follow you.

Follow me? He doesn't seem like the person who would take the high road, he would rather choose the sex and sarcasm road all the way down to hell. I jab at the delete button, partially in confusion and partly in amusement. I wait for a minute, and another request pops up. Desperate and pathetic, is the slap not hint enough? Interestingly, I cautiously press confirm.

His feed is a flurry of pictures with cigarettes, cars, women and light glare pictures in front of ornate mirrors. Obnoxious, pompous and undoubtedly rich.

A tab appears at the top of the app, 'Hello gorgeous, who taught you how to smack like that? Maybe we could try it on another body part someday :))' reads a message from Landon.

'Do you have no shame? None at all?' I reply in frustration.

'You have exceeded your daily dose of sexual innuendos. Lighten up on them, you're going to overdose.'

'Before I die, I have one last wish. You make up for that slap,' he types.

'In your dreams, I don't apologize for things I am not sorry about,' I type unhurriedly with a raised brow.

'Someday,' Landon replies cryptically, before logging off.

I suspect he is making out with some brain- washed girl in matching underwear. Perhaps he is sitting in his large room, smoke in the air and a joint between his lips.

I shake my head, in motion to erase all thoughts of him. The smell of the baking quesadilla shells envelops me and I walk enchantedly towards the kitchen dragging my Jansport bag across the floor. Dominic stands in the kitchen, his stethoscope on the table and his gloves carelessly at the floor.

'Hey Dad,' I say casually dumping my backpack on the floor.

The surprised manner in which his eyebrows rise is almost comical.

'Hi - Hi Mila darling,' he says, a bright smile colouring his face.

'What happened at school today Mila?' He asks whilst expertly flipping a golden brown shell.

'I slapped somebody, quite hard,' I say, showing him my slightly red palm.

'So it was just a regular day then?' He says, mid-chuckle.

'Pretty much,' I reply cheekily with a grin.

It's light, sunny, bright moments like these that I feel sorrow for my father. He left my family when I was a mere four years old, and my mother was carrying Brayden. It was my Mother's birthday, I had made her a card in my broken, childlike handwriting and a cake with butter and chocolate chip cookies. I woke up early that day, when it was still dark outside, and waddled downstairs to pour a glass of chocolate. When I got the landing of the stairs, I heard padded footsteps and the whispers of a man riddled with conflict and commitment issues. Obviously, at the age of four I had no idea what my father had been saying. But till this day, the occasional dream floats by where his words are crystal clear.

'Finally, I can spend all my money entirely on my self. No more chew toys or baby-proofing or gifts for my bloated wife. My money, my house and my freedom.'

He was a pathetic man. A man who lived and perhaps continues to live like a petulant 16 year old. My father was a man who could bear no familial responsibility. I find it fitting that he choose to leave before Brayden was born. He had no opportunity to cause Brayden the same pain he caused me.

The following 12 months after my father left were a blur. A blur of Brayden's firsts, my mother working from home and my grandparents. Even though my grandparents were unsupportive of my mother's choice of a 'suitor' they never blamed her for making a choice that was unreliable. They stood by us,supported us, cooked for us, tucked us into bed and watched Teletubbies marathons with us. My mother had reached the peak of her journalism career when my father decided to leave. My mother had been recently promoted to editor, and initially her work suffered when my father left. My grandparents swooped in to save the day, and Mum's work resumed its usual pace.

1 year later my parents were divorced and we haven't heard so much as a whisper from my estranged father. 4 years later my mother went to a Blue Water High School Reunion. As she stood drowsily by the punch bowl sipping on a glass of lukewarm sangria, she swivelled her head around to spot somebody who wouldn't remotely consider talking about the colour of their child's poop or a wisdom tooth procedure. Score! Chopin's concerto and AC/DC were simultaneously playing a misplaced rhapsody in her mind while she gazed in utter surprise at her high-school sweetheart, Dominic Wright.

Bing! Bang! Boom! 8 months later, a young Brayden and I watched Dominic drive a U-haul to our front yard and drag an ugly,antique mahogany cabinet to our porch. Dominic had been living with us since then. The first few months were slightly frictional, he was beginning to get used to our schedule and we were adjusting to his odd hours at the hospital. 2 months from now would mark 14 years since he had moved in.

I am startled from my reverie by the raucous sound of Brayden banging the door and running to kitchen at the classic 'Tiger Woods racing from side chick to side chick' speed. Brayden's ruckus is followed by Cookie Monster's loud barking and ecstatic yapping. I almost don't hear the banging at the door over the tumult within the house.

Christian stands at the doorstep, Ava and Trevor by his side. All three of them sashay, yes sashay, inside with no word or reason. I raise my arms in frustration, roll my eyes and follow them to my room. Trevor sits down on the bed, and Ava takes a seat on his lap like there is no other place in my entire room to sit. Christian pulls a disgusted face, and places himself on my desk chair. I settle myself on my bean bag, scanning in perplexion the faces of my sombre friends.

'We are here for an intervention,' they say in unison.

'An intervention? To intervene in my plan to take a long nap, or to intervene in my plan to binge watch Gilmore Girls?' I reply in a bored tone.

'Mila, you are falling of the train,' says Ava's lanky boyfriend.

'I don't see no train,' I mutter.

'It is a metaphor, dammit,' Christian responds in partial annoyance.

'Mila, why did you slap that poor boy?' Ava questions, her delicate feature screwing up ever so slightly.

'Poor? Poor? Try saying that word to the big bucks stashed away in his Swiss Bank account!' I exclaim.

'Mila!' Trevor bellows.

'Mila, he may be an absolute dick. But, you can't just go around slapping people,' Christian tells me as her stares me down with his swirling chocolate eyes.

'It's not like I got caught,' I mumble in response.

'He was being condescending, elitist and unnecessarily sexist, emphasis on the sex. I did what I saw right, I slapped his airhead so that he saw a group of birds haloing around his hair. Now, if the three of you still have a problem with that, get your culos out of my house,' I say lifting a finger, just a single finger and gesturing towards the door.

Ava gapes at me, and gets up almost immediately. I suppress a chuckle at her incredulous face, as she storms out of my room. Christian places a strong, definite palm on a confused Trevor's mouth to stop him from asking what culos are. Christian drag Trevor out of the room by the shoulder, opening the door for an ecstatic Cookie Monster.

'Christian,don't you dare touch the quesadillas !' I howl.

A series of quick-footed steps follows and the slam of the front door echoes throughout the house.

×××

Hello! After a short, hectic hiatus, Ta-Da here is another chapter. Chapter 4 should be up in a few hours, unless a Gilmore Girls marathon lures me in yet again.