TWO
Flashbacks
My eyelids slowly fluttered open as I yawned loudly. The first thing I saw was brown stuff. I recognized it as my hair and pulled it away from my face. The second thing I saw was my dining room around me.
Faded blue paint was peeling off the walls, the cheap Kmart curtains hung loosely in front of the windows.
Why am I so uncomfortable? I looked down. I was sitting at the dinner table, the laptop in front of me. So I didn’t get to the homework, did I?
Stab me. Really. I’d rather be stabbed by an innocent stranger then my English teacher.
I yawned again and pressed some key on my laptop and the screen turned on. I looked at the lower left corner, 4:31 AM. I had slept for about eight hours. Eight hours of what? Snoozing blankly in front of a laptop?
That’s right, I don’t have dreams. Actually, I do. Everyone has dreams, I just always forget them. Jen told me it’s good I don’t remember my dreams, she says she either dreams about some random dumb stuff, or guys with chainsaws trying to attack her, (she goes to the Haunted Forest a lot). So I’m not sure if not remembering my dreams is a positive or a negative yet, I’m trying to figure that out.
I yawned loudly again and stuck my hand in my jeans pocket. I felt a piece of gum and a little paper. Oh right, I had gone to CVS about a week ago and bought four packs of Extra spearmint gum, my favorite. I popped the dried out piece into my mouth.
I shoved my laptop in my book bag and stood up. Crick! Damn, my back just has to betray me at this horrible moment of which I am soon to die.
I bended over and felt the pain numb. Was I already becoming an old lady? A blurry memory of Ms. Bridgeton watering the trees in front of Market Square wearing an ankle- length skirt passed through my mind. No. I have many years more to enjoy my emo life.
I looked around the house for a bit, everything was where I left it. I started to walk up the stairs when I looked back and saw a book on the kitchen table. It wasn’t there when I came. Mom must have put it there for me to read or something. No thanks.
The last time mom recommended a book I was stuck reading a dull story about a preppy, teenage girl who saves the day and kisses some guy. If life was like that I’d punch it in the face. Preps are not my type.
I stopped for a moment. Was Kade a prep? I didn’t really stop to look at what he was wearing. But just because you’re smart doesn’t mean you’re a prep. No, he’s definitely not.
After a few more painful crick’s I got to my room. My room is about the size of an average walk-in closet. There’s this tiny twin bed with purple blankets, a cheap night desk with a purple lamp on it, and a wardrobe. There you go.
By the way, my favorite color’s purple. Always has been
I put my stuff next to the bed and jumped in. Three painful hours of homework. Or I could just go to sleep and forget about my life. Yes, maybe I should-
No. I’m not that emo.
Or am I?
No, I’m definitely not.
I unzipped my book bag and turned it upside down, revealing four humongous text books, two novel books, a magazine, and one binder which should probably get its own area code.
Okay, lame joke, I know. I make really bad jokes. Mom reminds me all the time.
For a moment I thought about my mom going out with someone. Yes, that’s how bizarre my mind can get. But I must admit, makeup does cover those burn marks pretty well, and she’s lost like what, twenty pounds, from last year?
Not to mention she owns her own café.
No, she’s always been the independent one of the family. Always. But it’d be so freaky. I just can’t see her dating. She’s thirty-eight, which isn’t bad, but still.
And she always has the best stories. Really. I told her once she should write a book some day, her life biography or something. I remembered that one night she told me…
“Cam, I made din’!” she had yelled from the kitchen.
I hate it when she says ‘din’. It’s like an annoying woodpecker always coming to get you with its funny words, o’, din’, baby girl. I had wondered where she got those words from, you know? I was only seven, and I thought it sounded funny.
Anyway. I had run down the stairs because my mom doesn’t cook usually, but when she does, it’s like Heaven on earth. Except an even better Heaven.
“Mama, what did you make? Jello?”
“No baby girl, I made homemade Italian pasta.”
“Have you ever been to Italy?”
“No. But I’ve been to many other places. Here, now eat up.”
“Like what, mama, like what?”
I had rolled my fork around the pasta to make a giant ball of spaghetti. I swear, that was the best paste I’ve eaten my life. My mom had been in a good mood because she had saved enough money finally to buy that café she always wanted. But I didn’t know that.
“Oh tons of places. I’ve been to Mexico, and Texas, even Canada.”
I had rolled my eyes in impatience. “Mama, but where did you grow up!”
“Oh. Well, I was born in Mexico, but I moved to New York when I was only four, maybe five.”
“Oh, well why?”
“Because both my parents couldn’t ‘ford me. You see, I was born in a poor village, Juaga, and they didn’t have enough money to buy me clothes or food. They wanted to give me a good life, like yours-”
“I have a good life?” I asked dumbly.
“O’ coarse, and you should always be grateful for what you have. You live under a roof, have plenty of food to eat, and plenty of clothes to wear. Think o’ the poor children still livin’ in Juaga, and not just there either. Tons of places around the world. Oh so many.”
I never forgot the face she had given to me then. It was soft, and full of feeling. Depressed. Weak. Alone. And all I brought up to say was…
“So what happend?”
“Hmm?”
“What happened after you left Mexico?”
“Well, first my parents took me to the capital, Ciudad de Mexico, and all I ‘member being taken away in a truck full o’ people. And then, I was being hugged by people I never knew. And, then I lived in Brooklyn, I was adopted.”
“What’s adopted mama?”
“It means your parents give you to another couple.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s k honey. It’s k,” she said while rubbing my back gently.
“What did you do in Brooklyn?”
“Oh plenty o’ things. My rents were nice people, but they passed. And I went to school, oh I forgot the name, but it was a good school. Very good.”
“As good as mine?”
“O’ coarse not.”
“Good.”
“And then I moved here, ‘cause… er, because.”
“’cause what mama, ‘cause what.”
“I wanted a better life that’s all.”
“Was life bad in Brooklyn?”
“No honey, but my er-rents passed. I had to go, and I was twenty.”
“Tweeen-tea?”
“Yes hon, twenty.”
I don’t remember anything else. But it was a good story. Even though it had no details what so ever, I wouldn’t comprehend them at age seven anyway.
Hey, what’s that smell? I sniffed around a bit. Oh god. It’s me. I smell like horse poop. Shower first, then homework. I tip-toed to the bathroom to make sure I wouldn’t wake mom up. She gets quite cranky when I disturb her beauty sleep.
I pulled off my clothes and stacked them up on top of the toilet. Then I decided to throw them into the dirty basket. They smelled bad. Why? All I did with them was sit at school for seven hours, ride my bike home, and - oh, my bike probably smells disgusting from being left out in the rain for a week on mud.
I went inside the shower and switched the handle to HOT. I felt the boiling hot water dripping against my oily skin. It felt nice.
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