Thick Ice

An Exhausting Run To the Mailbox

"And that's it?" Mom asks incredulously. "You just walked in and got a tour?"

I shrug. "Yeah."

After Lauren had set me up with a uniform(a bright red polo tee, a matching windbreaker, and a pair of black pants), she quickly guided me back over to Mr. Biggs office before escaping back into the Skate Room. As she had said, a flash of horror crossing her face, it's simply just morally wrong to leave the task of greeting customers up to Lucas' sly innuendos for too long.

An injustice to the well-being of others.

After having that first run in with him, I didn't even bother questioning it.

In his office, Mr. Biggs just slid over a couple forms for me to fill out with my personal information and explained to me how the scheduling works. It's all through a phone app apparently. Oh, how convenient the world has become since Steve Jobs graced our planet.

"So when's you're first shift?" Mom raises a cup of coffee to her lips, reminding me of my own steaming mug perched in front of me. I want to let it cool down though– scolding hot beverages and I do not get along.

"Um, I think Sunday night," I say.

Mom beams at me and leans into her elbows. "Are you excited?"

"I-"

"We should go out and buy you gloves," she interrupts, her eyes lighting up with visions only she can see. "I think you should do your hair in those cute little pigtail braids you used to do when you played soccer in high school. Oh, and we can go have a Girl's Day and get manicures– you don't want your nails looking all chewed up on your first day!"

Jesus woman. I think she's looking forward to it more than I am.

There's a reason I haven't braided my hair like that since high school(for the sake of not looking twelve), and I absolutely loath getting my nails done at a salon. Even the thought of them picking at my cuticles makes a cringe roll down my spine. However, I don't want to be the reason her little mood spike gets crushed, so I just plaster on a smile and tell her, "Maybe."

Hopefully, she'll just forget about it.

I hear the front door open and close, and then moments later Dad trots into the kitchen. A strong, musky odor follows him into the room. His running shirt clings to his body, prominent sweat stains seeping through the thin fabric. His eyes flicker between Mom standing at the counter, and me sitting in a stool on the other side before his face breaks out into a wide grin.

"Morning Essie!"

"Good morning." I grimace and swerve under his arm, saving myself from the attempted hug. I just showered and I'm in no way welcoming his sweat to get anywhere near me.

Crisis averted, I still can't help but notice the slight tension in the air. Dad had clearly gone out of his way to ignore Mom, and she is clearly trying her hardest not to say anything about it. Since Wednesday night, when they told me about the divorce, they both have been practically tip-toeing around the house, desperately attempting to avoid one another. I had thought the arguing was bad, but no. This was far worse. In my opinion, they were acting even more immature than when they were disagreeing about my preference of shrimp.

In the past few years, I have grown accustomed to the petty quarrels, even becoming somewhat numb to them. What other kids may have dealt with a few times had became my routine. Wake up early. Brush teeth. Make breakfast, dodging any attempts of dragging me into the feud. Finish getting ready for the day. Ignore the raised voices somewhat muffled my by bedroom door. Watch T.V.