The Promises I'll Keep

Chapter 3

Yesterday I couldn't wait for Monday. Now I'd like to send it back in a gift wrapped box. I wait by the door, watching my "family" in chaos around me. Family. What a joke...
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"Hillary," my dad started in a somber voice. I groan. Whatever's coming next won't be something to discussed over smoothies and chocolate dipped strawberries.

"Yes, dad. I apologize. I've learned my lesson. Yeah, sure, whatever. There, can I go now? I assure you, whatever you had to say will probably end up with me saying the same things. So let's save time and let me leave now."

"Hillary, this is not a joke! I understand you've been having some qualms about Bella."

All I asked her to do was keep out of my bra drawer. How did that end up in a discussion about qualms?

"I want you to understand that we are a family. Chelsea may not be able to have kids but she is still a wonderful mother and she deserves to be treated like one."

"I will not, I repeat, will not accept any drama in this new situation."

Dad hadn't needed to be so aggressive.

Like I could judge on what made a mother.

I don't think I'd ever really had one.
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I get lost in memories that I forget about school. (Un)fortunately my best friends had to remind me.

"Hillary, move your butt out the door before I move it for you!" Char yells. I groan and give a half-hearted goodbye to my family.

"Could you be any louder?" Trace mutters as I approach.

"Yes, in fact, I could," Char retorts. She winks at me and I suppress a smile.
This is my family. No matter how dysfunctional it is, it's better than my real family.

"I heard about the banquet thing," Char says a little too casually. Her subtle attempt to find out how I'm doing is not subtle at all.

"Let's not talk about it. Find any new boy toys?" I try changing the subject.
"Oh no you don't. I'm warning you-wha!" Char shrieks as she trips and falls.

I try to contain my giggle. Trace makes no such attempt. Her laugh bounces through the air and I can't help it.

We're both leaning over, clutching our stomachs, and laughing.

"Shut up, you...punks!" She whips the object of said trip and my laughing ends abruptly. It's the book.

I slowly open it. Maybe it belongs to some other kid whose mom is a promise breaking wacko. When I see the artwork, I know it's not.

My mom should be an artist. Her sketches are so good and when I was little she used to draw one of me for every day of the week. My dad's mother who in no way hides her disdain for my mother once told me lawyers had no creativity. That somewhere between law school and their first case, it's drained out of them. My mother was a lawyer and she could draw with the best of them, I imagined telling her. Whenever she said stuff like that I would tune her out and imagine my mother's drawings.

They'd be of imaginary worlds.

Or animals that could fly.

Or hot air balloons with air conditioning.

And I always started to smile.

My grandmother would always ask why I was smiling.

"Because there's a place in my head, Ma. And it's perfect."

Sorry for the bad chapter. I was way too tired for this. Eh, I'll edit in the future.

Me+tired=sucky chapter=chocolate

Hmmmm, if my math is right, I'm pretty sure it's chocolate time. :)