Angelfire
Page 7
It was as if she'd total y forgotten what I had told her that morning. I wanted to chuck my spaghetti into both their faces and scream, Hello! I'm right here! It was almost more comical than enraging when they argued about me as I sat right next to them. When they total y forgot about my presence in a room, they made it obvious that they cared more about fighting with each other than about my mental health. My dad huffed. "If you feel that's necessary."
"There are a lot of things that I feel are necessary."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She stared at him. "You know exactly what it means."
"Don't play mind games with me."
It was nights like these that made me wish I had a dog. I needed an excuse to get out of my house and go for a walk. Anything to get the hel out of there.
"You're never home, and when you are, al you do is yel ,"
Mom accused him. "I'm afraid of you when--and if--you come home at night. So is Elisabeth. It wouldn't shock me if her nightmares are a result of al these years of you screaming at her for every little thing. This isn't about you and me, Rick--this is about the way you treat your daughter."
That was al I could stomach. I stood up from the table and took my plate into the kitchen, mental y blocking out my dad's enraged response. Everyone's parents argue--that just happens in any relationship--but parents shouldn't fight in front of their kids. My mom and dad were focused on blaming one another for my nightmares, when both of them were probably the cause.
I went up to my bedroom and sat on my bed, staring into the mirror over my dresser. The pink music box my dad had given me when I was seven sat between a pair of scented candles and a birthday card my grandmother had sent me earlier in the week. I got up, walked to my dresser, and lifted the top of the music box. The little plastic bal erina inside unfolded and stood. I lifted the box and turned the key on the bottom. Delicate music began to play, and the bal erina turned slowly. I watched her dance for a few moments, wondering how my life had gotten this way, how my dad had turned into such a hateful person. I loved that music box, now mostly because it reminded me of the wonderful father the man downstairs used to be. I'd have given anything to turn back the last ten years of my life--and that wasn't something someone my age should have to feel.
3
REFUSING TO LET MY DEPRESSION SINK DEEPER, I popped in a movie. I settled on 13 Going On 30, since that was how old my parents made me feel. At least the happy, funny moments might be able to restore my cheer. On and off I could hear the yel ing. When my clock rol ed over midnight, my parents had begun arguing again.
"Happy birthday to me," I said dismal y. Within the next minute, I received eight text messages containing variations of "happy birthday!" involving excessive punctuation and two texts including "luv u bitch!"
I decided to spend my first few minutes as a seventeenyear-old by sneaking out the front door to sit on the porch. I leaned against one of the columns and took in a deep breath. Night had settled and the air was a little chil y, but I was comfortable in my T-shirt.
After a little while of sitting on my porch and picking at my nails, I stood up and started down my driveway to the sidewalk. Once around the block should be enough, I decided. I really needed a dog. I considered for a moment: a car or a dog for my birthday. . . . Yeah, car. I didn't think I'd get it exactly the next day, but more likely over the weekend. I knew a lot of kids didn't get cars for their birthdays, or even cars at al , let alone the chance to go pick one out, so I shouldn't complain. But then again, a lot of kids got to have parents who didn't scream at each other. Everyone made their sacrifices.
I heard a low rumble in front of me and stopped walking. It didn't sound mechanical like a car engine, and I definitely didn't see any headlights ahead, either. I strained my eyes to peer into the darkness. The streetlamp above me buzzed and went out. Past the sidewalk corner and deep into my neighbor's wide lawn, I could see nothing. For an instant I thought of Mr. Meyer's murderer. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to go walking around outside after midnight?
"What are you looking at?"
I let out a smal cry and spun around as my heart leaped into my throat.
It was Wil as if he'd appeared out of nowhere. He looked worried and determined, but he was obviously trying to hide those feelings.
"What are you doing out here?" I whispered harshly.
"What are you doing here?" he countered.
I threw my hand up. "I live here!"
Suddenly, I had a terrible thought. I had first seen Wil the day before, the night Mr. Meyer died. No, no, no. That was ridiculous. Wil was just some hot, weird guy I happened to be seeing everywhere I went. That didn't make him a murderer. Hadn't my mom given me a can of mace for Christmas?
What had I done with that?
"So why are you out for a walk this late at night?" he asked, distracting me from my thoughts. "Even if you live here, it's pretty late to be wandering around at night."
"Wel , you're out here too. I like being outside at night. It's relaxing."
That smile widened. It was like he thought this was funny.
"Most people would feel nervous."
My hands rested on my hips. "Why? Should I be?"
"What?"
"Nervous."
"Probably."
"You don't seem like you're nervous."
"I can take care of myself." His smile turned dark, knowing.
"There are a lot of things that I feel are necessary."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She stared at him. "You know exactly what it means."
"Don't play mind games with me."
It was nights like these that made me wish I had a dog. I needed an excuse to get out of my house and go for a walk. Anything to get the hel out of there.
"You're never home, and when you are, al you do is yel ,"
Mom accused him. "I'm afraid of you when--and if--you come home at night. So is Elisabeth. It wouldn't shock me if her nightmares are a result of al these years of you screaming at her for every little thing. This isn't about you and me, Rick--this is about the way you treat your daughter."
That was al I could stomach. I stood up from the table and took my plate into the kitchen, mental y blocking out my dad's enraged response. Everyone's parents argue--that just happens in any relationship--but parents shouldn't fight in front of their kids. My mom and dad were focused on blaming one another for my nightmares, when both of them were probably the cause.
I went up to my bedroom and sat on my bed, staring into the mirror over my dresser. The pink music box my dad had given me when I was seven sat between a pair of scented candles and a birthday card my grandmother had sent me earlier in the week. I got up, walked to my dresser, and lifted the top of the music box. The little plastic bal erina inside unfolded and stood. I lifted the box and turned the key on the bottom. Delicate music began to play, and the bal erina turned slowly. I watched her dance for a few moments, wondering how my life had gotten this way, how my dad had turned into such a hateful person. I loved that music box, now mostly because it reminded me of the wonderful father the man downstairs used to be. I'd have given anything to turn back the last ten years of my life--and that wasn't something someone my age should have to feel.
3
REFUSING TO LET MY DEPRESSION SINK DEEPER, I popped in a movie. I settled on 13 Going On 30, since that was how old my parents made me feel. At least the happy, funny moments might be able to restore my cheer. On and off I could hear the yel ing. When my clock rol ed over midnight, my parents had begun arguing again.
"Happy birthday to me," I said dismal y. Within the next minute, I received eight text messages containing variations of "happy birthday!" involving excessive punctuation and two texts including "luv u bitch!"
I decided to spend my first few minutes as a seventeenyear-old by sneaking out the front door to sit on the porch. I leaned against one of the columns and took in a deep breath. Night had settled and the air was a little chil y, but I was comfortable in my T-shirt.
After a little while of sitting on my porch and picking at my nails, I stood up and started down my driveway to the sidewalk. Once around the block should be enough, I decided. I really needed a dog. I considered for a moment: a car or a dog for my birthday. . . . Yeah, car. I didn't think I'd get it exactly the next day, but more likely over the weekend. I knew a lot of kids didn't get cars for their birthdays, or even cars at al , let alone the chance to go pick one out, so I shouldn't complain. But then again, a lot of kids got to have parents who didn't scream at each other. Everyone made their sacrifices.
I heard a low rumble in front of me and stopped walking. It didn't sound mechanical like a car engine, and I definitely didn't see any headlights ahead, either. I strained my eyes to peer into the darkness. The streetlamp above me buzzed and went out. Past the sidewalk corner and deep into my neighbor's wide lawn, I could see nothing. For an instant I thought of Mr. Meyer's murderer. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to go walking around outside after midnight?
"What are you looking at?"
I let out a smal cry and spun around as my heart leaped into my throat.
It was Wil as if he'd appeared out of nowhere. He looked worried and determined, but he was obviously trying to hide those feelings.
"What are you doing out here?" I whispered harshly.
"What are you doing here?" he countered.
I threw my hand up. "I live here!"
Suddenly, I had a terrible thought. I had first seen Wil the day before, the night Mr. Meyer died. No, no, no. That was ridiculous. Wil was just some hot, weird guy I happened to be seeing everywhere I went. That didn't make him a murderer. Hadn't my mom given me a can of mace for Christmas?
What had I done with that?
"So why are you out for a walk this late at night?" he asked, distracting me from my thoughts. "Even if you live here, it's pretty late to be wandering around at night."
"Wel , you're out here too. I like being outside at night. It's relaxing."
That smile widened. It was like he thought this was funny.
"Most people would feel nervous."
My hands rested on my hips. "Why? Should I be?"
"What?"
"Nervous."
"Probably."
"You don't seem like you're nervous."
"I can take care of myself." His smile turned dark, knowing.
