Secret // Calum Hood

29

Elena

“I’ll be fine,” I lied as I pushed Calum out of my car and sped off down the streets toward my house.

She will be so angry with me.  She was a perfect student, never missing a day of school in her life, much less skipping school.  She wouldn’t understand or listen to me.  She wouldn’t give me any normal punishment like any other normal parent.  She would make a big deal out of it, she would take it to the extreme.

I stopped my car in the driveway and stalled for as long as I could.  But the longer I wait, the angrier she would be.  I felt a tear slip out of my eye as I looked at her car in the spot ahead of me.  Why did she take today off of work, of all days?  But I’ve dealt with this before.  I’ll just go in, face her, and then lock myself in my room like always.  I was more afraid of what I would do after.  I felt the most recent scar on my wrist as I walked through the front door.

“You’re home early,” Mom commented, appearing from the kitchen.  She didn’t sound angry. In fact, she sounded normal, almost happy.  Maybe she didn’t look at her phone today.

“I have a lot of homework.  I’m just gonna go upstairs and finish-”

“Help me in the kitchen first.  These dishes are just so overwhelming,” she ordered.  I put my bag down and apprehensively followed her to the kitchen.  My stomach was in knots.  I feel like she’s planning something.

“Can you wash while I dry?  Oh, and I have something on the stove,” she said.  I took the cleaning brush from her and started scrubbing the dishes slowly, still wary.  She dried them like normal, not paying attention to me.  We continued this awkward silence filled wash and dry cycle for fifteen minutes.

“Now that the dishes are done, help me with dinner.  You need to learn how to cook anyway for when you get married and your husband comes home hungry,” she said.  My old self would laugh and say that if my husband is so hungry, he should get off his ass and make himself a meal.  But Mom rarely cooks, and when she does, she’s damn proud of it.   I helped her make dinner and when we were sitting down, ready to eat, I couldn’t touch anything on my plate.

“Why aren’t you eating?” she asked.  Out of all times she should pay attention, this just had to be one of them.  I sighed.

“I’m just not that hungry I guess,” I muttered, stirring the food around with my fork.  She took a sip of red wine.

“Could it be because you’re nervous about something?” she asked.  I almost choked.

“Nervous?  What would I be nervous about?” I asked timidly.

“Me finding out that you skipped school,” she suddenly said, her tone turning dark and accusatory.  I froze for what seemed like the thirtieth time that day.  I set my fork down and looked at the table, looking anywhere but at her.

“Oh”.

“Yeah, that’s right.  What the hell is wrong with you?!” she suddenly yelled, throwing her plate off the table.  “Look at me!”