(This is an excerpt from the fiction novel I am writing.)
To read this story from the beginning, view my blog wall for a complete list of chapters.
I don't waste time getting home. This car is starting to smell just as bad as I do. Father will kill me if this moldy cheese smell is permanent. I keep my body hung over the steering wheel, so I don't stain the seat with my clothes. The last thing I need is to spend three hours getting this thing cleaned.
Okay. Plan of action. I need to sneak inside the house without any distractions; I don't need mother grilling me with questions as to why I'm splattered with food. I'll have to park down the street – there's no way I can pull into the driveway without anyone noticing. I'll need to use the side entrance through the kitchen, slither upstairs to my bedroom, grab a change of clothes, sneak back downstairs, and finally back to school.
I navigate the Benz onto our street; there's a section of cart path where it cuts across the road. I have to stop in order to let a foursome of golfers drive through. They take their sweet time making it across. All the while, the digital clock on the radio stares me in the face. I can practically feel time slip through my fingers. There's this inner urge to slam my fist to the horn, but I force it back. They're old. It wouldn't make them move faster even if I did it.
Finally, I'm moving again. As I near our house, I cruise on by for a few hundred yards, then hike back on foot. Father should still be at work, and August doesn't get home from school until after three, so I only have to avoid mother.
I feel like a robber skulking up to my own house, tiptoeing around to the side door. The lock clicks as I turn the key. I stick my head inside making sure mother isn't there waiting for me. Much to my relief, she isn't.
The wooden steps of the staircase creak as I ascend to my room. I've always noticed a subtle amount of creaking, but right now it seems like a million times louder. But I finally make it to my room. The first thing on the rack in my closet is a white V-neck. I don't think twice about searching for something else; I yank it off the hanger along with a pair of blue jeans. My face and arms are still stained with food, but I can't take the chance of turning on the faucet – mother will hear the water running from downstairs. I'll just have to wash up when I get back to school.
There's this sick, twisted feeling in the pit of my stomach. I'm standing at the top of the stairs, staring all the way down to the bottom, wishing I could just teleport myself down. Why do they have to squeak so loudly? There's gotta be fifteen steps at least. Wait a second! What if I were to slide down the banister? No. There's the possibility that I might fall off the side and hit the floor, then that will really cause a scene. Stop procrastinating already. You can do this, McKenzie. You. Can. Do. This!
With each step down the stairs, I cringe, fearing mother will hear me, but force myself to continue. I don't know which room she's in. She does this online sales rep thing from her laptop, which she usually does from the theater room. I'll stay clear of there and hug the wall on my way back to the kitchen
My feet touchdown at the base of the stairwell. I feel like doing a victory dance, like I've just overcome a monstrosity of a challenge, or cured world hunger, or–
"McKenzie, we need to talk." My heart plunges to my stomach as father's undeniable, stern voice slices through me. It came from his den. Why is he even here? He never gets off work this early, like, ever. Why now? Why today?
I'm a mere arm's length from the side door. A part of me wants to pretend I didn't hear his call and slip out. I place one foot in front of the other and clasp my fingers around the brass knob.
"Now!"
Reluctantly, I release my grip and shuffle into the den.
Why does it have to be this way? I'm already late. I don't have time to chat. The girls are probably well underway with the photoshoot by now and I still have to drive back to school and get cleaned up.
As I brush past the glass French doors, father seated in his high-back LazyBoy office chair is the first thing I see. The antique desk he's sitting behind hides the lower half of his body. His suit jacket is folded neatly in half, laying on the back of the chair. The first two buttons on his royal blue dress shirt are unbuttoned, his silvery-black chest hair protruding through, and his sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms. He's poised as if he's about to devour a rack of babybacks. Mother is standing beside him, hands resting in front of her waist. I don't like their composer. It's rigid. I get the feeling I'm in for a lecture.
Father leans back in his chair. "Do you know why I called you in here, Kenzie?"
I shrug, not wanting to meet his gaze. "Um. No, not really." But I did have a thought in mind.
Could Principle Mayer have made the call that soon? It hasn't even been twenty minutes since I left school. If this is about Rhea and the catastrophic mess she caused, I'm going to be really angry. I'm late. So late. I don't need to rehash that event all over again for the nine millionth time.
The four days worth of stubble on Father's chin twitches as his lips crinkle into a smirk. He reaches into the pull-out drawer of the desk and dangles a key in the air. "Go check the garage." He tosses the key at me, which I catch one-handed.
My heart flutters with hope. Could it be? Is this the graduation present I've been waiting for? I dart out of the room and into the garage. The empty space in our three car garage is now filled with a fiery red Ford Mustang.
A squeal escapes me and I repeatedly jump up and down. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!"
I spin around, practically falling into father's arms. He rips the key from my fingers before I can fully process the action. "Hey! What'd you do that for?"
"To teach you a lesson." The playful smirk his face displayed moments ago is no longer there.
The sick feeling in my stomach swiftly returns. "I don't understand."
Mother speaks this time. "We just got off of the phone with the school principle."
I roll my eyes as soon as I hear those words. "Look, before you say anything, that wasn't my fault. Okay? None of it was my fault!"
"The principle told us you caused several thousand dollars worth of damage to the school. And how you treated that girl," she shakes her head in disappointment. "That is not how we raised you, McKenzie."
I slap my hands over my temples, struggling to subdue an enraged scream. "The entire school was throwing food! Why am I the one to blame? And as for that girl, she ran into me while I was holding a tray full of garbage. Then before I knew it, food was flying everywhere. That's the truth."
Father crosses his arms over his chest. "And you think just because everyone else was doing it that, then it was okay for you to do it, too?"
"I . . . I don't know. Okay. I wasn't thinking – just give me the keys so I can get back to school. The Blue Jays' photoshoot is going to be over soon."
"No."
My heart drops to my toes. "What do you mean no. That's so unfair!"
"You're grounded, young lady." He marches back to his den and stuffs the key back inside the drawer. "The only place you'll be going is back to the school cafeteria to help clean up that mess.
"You're kidding?" I can't believe what I'm hearing.
"Not even a little. Promise me you'll go straight to school and clean up the cafeteria." He eyes me sternly. I feel my own gaze shy away from his.
"Fine! I promise."
"And don't even think about taking the Benz. It's not far, you can walk to school. And on your way there, you can think about how we raised you to treat other people."
I snort at his command. "Oh! So now I have to walk to school? What if something happens to me? Huh? What if I get kidnapped?"
"You have your cell phone; you'll be fine. And when you return, we're going to talk about how you can pay me back for the property damage you caused to the school."
I'm practically out the door before he's able to finish his sentence. "Ugh! This is the worst day EVER!" slamming it shut behind me.
I thank you greatly for reading. Please 'follow' me and hit that 'vote' button, as that really does help. Comments are also welcomed.
~Cheers
(c) Copyright by Troy Dearbourne 2017. All rights reserved. Anyone who copies this document in any capacity without the written consent from the author will be in subjection to extreme legal action.
