Catastrophic

Chapter Two

By midafternoon, the hurricane has died down enough for all of Washington D.C. to go about their business. For me, it’s going back to private school tomorrow.

Private school. More like School of the devil. I’d give anything to be a regular teenager again with regular problems. To smell the nasty cafeteria smell once more. To fail Gym because I really don’t care about how many pushups I can do. To sass teachers to their breaking point and get detention. To be in detention once more and throw paper airplanes around the room. To learn and love amongst normal people. Real inspirational, I know.

But for many, it’s going back to their jobs. That is, if they have any.

    The storm wreaked its havoc across the Eastern shore, and you can tell by many of the sky high buildings in DC. Planks are loose, roofing has came undone, and streets have too many potholes to count.

    It’s nothing that can’t be fixed though, and immediately work starts on repairing our glorious city, brick by brick (although most houses aren’t made of brick. It’s a metaphor. Cue Augustus Waters speech).  

    At least, that’s what my FATHER told me at the dinner table. I guess my old buddy Hurricane Harold reminded him he actually had a family, because ten minutes into supper, old daddio comes strolling into the dining hall. As soon as he walked in, my mom’s fork dropped, a ping as it clattered on her ceramic plate. Pat, for once, was speechless, and I just stared. Stared at his cleanshaven jaw and his slicked back hair, at his clear eyes and his easy smile.

Father probably didn’t feel the thickness of awkward in the room or something, because he had plopped himself into a chair at the end of the table and started up a conversation.

“Hey kiddos! Survive the storm?” he asked.

No dad, we died.

“Most of DC is in pretty bad shape,” he continued, “but it’s nothing we can’t fix! In fact, they’re beginning work as we speak.”

Pat, all too happy in having his old dad back, jumped right into the conversation. “How many deaths?” Real smooth, psychopath.

Meanwhile, dad was stuffing his face with broiled chicken. Unable to respond as of the moment, he held up all ten fingers and flashed them 8 times. 80? 8? 100,000,000?

Pat’s green eyes went as wide as the plate themselves, looking so much like the laughing sea-green eyes that belonged to our dad.

“Roger!” my mother scolded. “Who are you to joke about the lives of our people! Timeout for you!”

She was serious too, about that time out thing. You could tell by the way her blue eyes iced over and hardened. When getting that look, ladies and gentlemen, you know not to mess with her if you like your life.

So, my dad shuffled over to the nearest corner. It seemed to last for eternity, and the whole thing was so hilarious I was straining against the laughter so much, that my face was going cherry red. For five minutes I was forced to be an apple as my father sat in the corner and my mother stared him down.

Finally, he was allowed to consume his dinner once more, and we got back to having a regular life. Or actually, a regular dinner. Regular people don’t meet celebrities weekly or go to private school. Regular people don’t have guards watch their backs 24/7. Regular people don’t have an insufferable amount of money or wear corsets still. I wish I was like them, part of their world. Sometimes, I’m trapped in my own body. My mind acts like the brat I’m supposed to be, but my heart still acts like the country girl in Nebraska. I’m trapped in this mansion, a prisoner in my own house. I’m lucky if I get to open my windows and feel a breath of fresh air.