“Come downstairs, sweetie!” I hear my mom call up the stairs. I knew she was just saying it to be polite, that she didn’t want whoever was with her to know that her daughter was an antisocial maniac.
Don’t really blame her, honestly.
“I'm doing homework, Mom,” I lie sweetly, knowing it would be whatever the person she was with would want to hear, so that Mom could lie about what a wonderful daughter she had. Really, she just talked about who I used to be. Instead of saying what a good grade I had in science when I was in fifth grade, she talked about my wondrous grade in chemistry or physics. As a replacement for talking about my division skills that I had, she spoke of success with the algebraic equations and calculus success. The only reason she knew what subjects to lie about were by my report cards that actually showed Fs and Ds, if I was actually doing something: it might show a C+.
"Don’t stay up too late working on that stuff, dear,” she calls up, and only I could hear the falseness in her voice. She knew I wasn’t doing homework, just as I knew that she wouldn’t tell her date that. It was Friday night, even if I had homework that I wanted to do I wouldn’t do it. I think the date’s name was Liam or something this time around.
“I won’t Mom,” I yell back in a falsely cheerful tone, waiting anxiously for the door to close and the lock to click from downstairs.
As soon as it clicks, I sneak over to my window and peer out through the thick curtains that helped to shut out the light during the day so I could sleep in as late as I wanted, rather as late as I could. I watch the car drive away, wondering why I kept putting up the act when her consistent boyfriends were around. Consistently changing, anyways, not consistent in much else. But that’s right, she had threatened me when I tried to be myself around one of the first of the boyfriends. Had asked him to pass the damn booze at the dinner table. I believe that was what I said, too. “Pass the damn booze.” Mom had told him I was an angel, and then I chugged half of the bottle of some of the more expensive wine straight out of the neck of the bottle.
He didn't come back.
And Mom wasn't exactly happy with me.
Which is why I didn't have anyone over. Not that I would've anyways, it wasn't like the people I hung out with (they weren't exactly friends generally just props) would be invited to my house anyways. By my mother or me.
I redress into more comfortable clothes: black jeans and a shirt that most would’ve thought was tight but was actually just curvy. Covering it up with a baggy hoodie usually kept people from noticing that there was actually a body under all of the layers I put on, but tonight wasn’t a night to do that. Instead, just the long-sleeved black shirt would do. I make sure to put on shoes that would be better for running than the usual that I wore to school. So black converse were put on over black socks. Lots of black, just like usual. A quick look in the mirror confirms that my make-up from today didn’t need another touch up, and grabbing my backpack shows that it was too heavy to take with. I decide to keep the small jack-knife that I had stowed away in my pocket before turning off the light in my room and moving stealthily over to my window again with a last look to make sure my dark brown hair wasn’t too out of control.
I go out and walk hunched over across my roof until I reach the sturdy tree that grew from the backyard. Going onto the thickest limb, I reach the ladder that had been hung there by my father when I had been in kindergarten. The ladder itself was wet with dew, almost slippery as I climb down it to the even dewier ground.
Dad, of course, wasn’t around anymore.
I run through the yard into the woods, knowing it was a shortcut into downtown, where I was going. Playing nice with Mom was something I wasn’t good at, but tonight I think she knew that I was actually trying to fake it. Usually I added a drawl to my words, an innocent cuss; some small hint that I wasn’t the good child she wanted me to seem. She might see it as my lightening up, but I knew she would never get my real motive. She would never guess that I was actually leaving, and if I were to come back, I would bring someone with me.
