Queen of the Headphone Zombies

Measure

ZOE

Way Down We Go// Kaleo

Somebody sedate me. This dinner out is torture. Absolute, horrendous, brain numbing torture.

My father sits across the table from me in the restaurant watching me closely as he asks me how school is going. More like interrogates me about school. He is finally back from his trip. Which means the brat is home too. This father and son trip back east is an annual thing that always happens at the end of summer. A trip I always look forward to, since it means both of them are out of my life for a few weeks and I have complete freedom to roam around the house without any harassment or judgement.

But no freedom for me this time with my self-imposed solitary confinement. I squandered those days away mourning about the end of my relationship with Dylan. I wasted that precious time on Dylan. On that asshat. On that cheating fucktard. 

And as I sit staring at my father, I beg the universe, please don't let him ask about Dylan. My father never liked Dylan and it would give him great satisfaction to hear we'd broken up.  It's bad enough I had to put up with Dragon Lady's pity, no way I can handle hearing I told you so from the old man.

My father is sitting there his eyes narrowed as he barks out the questions like a drill sergeant. My father still controls most aspects of my life. In his mind, I'm still a child. In my eyes, I'm a seventeen-year-old woman desperate to get out into the world. Desperate to break free from these parental chains that are holding me back. I've craved total freedom for as long as I can remember, and I'll have it, at the end of the year, if I don't screw everything up.

My step-brother, aka the brat supremo, is sitting to my father's right and, as usual, has his mouth so stuffed with food it looks like any moment he may start choking. But no one at the table seems to mind the kid's lack of table manners. That's the core of the problem—they let brat supremo do whatever he wants.

I watch the kid stuff five fork loads of mashed potatoes in his mouth. He is trying to keep it all in, but I can see a thin line of smashed potato spit slid out of one side of his mouth and down his chin. Which immediately makes me lose my appetite.

My father barks out in annoyance a question for the second time. It's never a good idea to ignore dear old dad when he is in dinner interrogation mode. You only pay for it later with shorter curfews and less allowance.

"English Lit is great. I have a good teacher this year," I dutifully answer.

"And math?" My father's eyes narrow again and a frown appears on his forehead. "You have to do better this year in math, Zoe. Last year your grades were totally unacceptable in math. How you ever think you are going to get into a good college with sub par grades is beyond me." He isn't looking at me anymore as he is talking to no one in particular. "You really need to buckle down this year and get those grades up." This is a speech he is fond of giving. One that happens at least once a week over dinner when school is in session.

"I will work harder," I tell him flatly. It's something I automatically say anytime he complains about my grades.

My lack of enthusiasm is obvious in the tone of my voice and my facial expressions. And as usual it sets him off on a fifteen-minute rampage about my future. Or possible lack there of.

My father is always trying to badger me into picking some financially stable career. But all I care about is my music.

"It's your senior year. Graduation is right around the corner. I wish I could get you to realize how important this year is to your future," my father says. It is the first time he has used the word graduation.