Thalia

Chapter 9: Hold It

Chapter 9: Hold It

My spoon dropped in my Frosted Flakes causing milk to splatter.

Hold It Girl. They're freakin' calling me Hold It Girl. What the crap kind of a name is that? Yeah, sure. I pick stuff up with my mind. I researched it on my own and it's called telekinesis. Not Hold It Syndrome.

"If crime comes again, we hope that Hold It Girl can come and help in any way she can. Hold It Girl, if you're listening to this, please know our city thanks you and hopes to see you make a difference in Virginia Beach. Up next is the strange dog who got stuck to a tree. . . "

I turned the television off and go next to the back door to put on my army green Toms. They make me sound like a hooker or something. Hold It girl; She's a piece of trash. The name is lame and stupid. It's almost an insult. There has to be a better name for me somewhere.

Maybe I could be like,  Imma-Beat-You-Up Girl.

Wait, that is not only corny; but it will get me socked in my throat by gang bangers.

How about Teleki-freak. Ugh, this is pathetic.

I might as well name myself The-Girl-Who-Can't-Do-Jack. 

Suddenly, footsteps are coming towards me. Mom's up? This is gonna be something to see. Normally she's hibernating for the morning.

I can see through cracks in the kitchen doorframe, her going down the stairs looking suspicious. Her head flowing left and right. If this was a silent movie, she'd look like she had no bones in her lanky neck.

She quietly comes into the kitchen with a newspaper, still in her white, silk and half lace nightgown. Her light brown hair looking like a bird's nest. I can practically form out the eggs hiding in it.

She still hasn't come to notice I'm staring at her from across the kitchen even though I'm kind of hidden behind our half wall and counter top. 

She cautiously starts to look at the newspaper in her hand with anxiety written all over her body language. Mom, really? You still haven't seen me. Are you that paranoid? What are you even looking at? You're old baby pictures from where you cuddled and stroked staircase railings? That's probably where I picked up my weird eating habit of chairs when I was little. It's your fault.

"So, mom, how long are you gonna stare at that page?" It's been too long and I'm not very patient.

Her body stiffens and she snaps her head up to look at me so fast, I'm surprised it didn't go wonder off down the hallway for a stroll.

She doesn't even speak. Her expression is still looking at me and glancing down at the paper in quick bursts. Then she makes a run for it. Her bare feet clamping against our white-tiled floor. 

What the heck is she running for? I asked a simple question just to startle her! I drop my shoes I was about to put on and chase after her. Since, as I've said before, I am slower than the average person. And I picked up the slow trait from my mom so basically us chasing each other looks like you racing glue with syrup.

Just slower.

I chase her for about 30 seconds until I turn a corner and she has mysteriously disappeared. This is near the back of my crusty home and there's nothing but a laundry room, empty closet of death and a mouse trap. 

Where'd she go? I saw her turn in here!

I hear sputters of bare feet on hardwood floor passing me from behind and turn around soon enough to see my mom running back towards the kitchen. She's acting like a little child, slow motion running around the house. I'm raising myself.