Masila

Hania

Hania

Only three things could be wrong if my mother was calling me past ten at night.

A. Somebody's dead.

B. She figured out something I did that my Dad didn't catch me on.

C. A and B both.

So that was my excuse for being extremely nervous as I press the accept button and press the phone to my ear.

"Hania?" My mother speaks first.

"Mom?-"

"Sorry sweetie, I need a word with your father and he won't answer his phone. Bring it to him, please?"

I yank back in surprise. My dad didn't answer his phone? For Christ's sake that's all he does!

My mother sounds angry- like I'm going to shoot somebody angry. Did my dad do this?

Wouldn't be the first time, but it would in a long time.

I stand and scramble out my room, sleep still having it's claw like grip on my mind. The hallway seems to go on forever before I reach his side.

I bang on my Dad's bedroom door. "Dad?"

I hold the phone away from my face as he opens it, dressed in pajama pants and half a face of shaving cream.

"God, Han, can't you see I'm busy-"

I gesture madly towards the phone, mouthing "Mom,"

He frowns and chews on it for a second. With an aggravated sigh, he snatches it frome me.

Your welcome, loving father.

"What?" He snaps, and glares at me a second before slamming the door in my face.

Classy.

Sleep now completely void from my mind, I press my ear to the door.

I hear muffled sounds as my Dad prowles around his room, like he does when he's on the phone with a business client, or, of course, my dreaded mother.

"No!"

The sudden scream echoes around the house to where I could have heard the pronunciation in my room.

He's shouting now. "I know that! Hania is old enough to help me, Clary!"

Two things wrong in that.

A. My parents are talking about me in a not-nice fashion.

B. Clary? Jesus, Dad didn't anyone ever tell you that Mom is of accustomed African descent and takes high offense to being called anything other than "Clararia," ?

No? Thought so.

"Are you kidding me?" My ear presses to the door again. "No, of course not! What kind of father do you take me for?"

Judging by the long pause from my Dad and the squeaky version of someone yelling through a phone, not a good one.

"I can do whatever I please! And if you're done, go back to worshipping the sun and dancing around a freaking fire while I take care of our daughter, alone!"

I hear the beep that signals the dramas over and that I should scurry to my room before my father turns the rath on me.

But I can tell now, that I don't really think the dramas over.

Whatever it is.