I clench my fist and think: just stop talking! The nail on my pointer finger digs into the knuckle on my thumb and slices it. I cringe from the pain. "I know... uh huh... okay, I'm going to hang up now so I can drive," I tell my father. Why won’t he just shut up?
We say our goodbyes and I hang up my cell phone, flinging it on the passenger side seat. What is making me so angry lately? What has gotten me to this point? I know the answer, of course, I just don't like to think about it.
It is drizzling outside and the sky is a light gray, blocking out the summer sun. I can almost cry, this weather reminds me of home too much. Then I take a closer look and my momentary illusion is shattered. It is too ugly and brown here to be home.
I sigh and look more closely at the cut on my knuckle. A thin line of blood stands scarlet against my skin; and it stings. Really bad.
Well, no need to sit around here any longer: I think. I look like a bum, with only a hair tie and four bobby pins to tame my frizzy, brown hair. I still have to cash my dad's check and then who knew what I'd do. I put the car in reverse and back out of the parking space, successfully avoiding any type of collision.
It is raining harder now, and my wind shield wipers are working themselves into a frenzy, flinging droplets of water in every direction, clearing my line of vision. I like this weather way too much. I am exhausted. Last night I'd been at the gym for two hours, and then hadn't fallen asleep until three in the morning. It was nine when I woke up. I crack the windows and scan through the radio, listening for a decent song. Lady GaGa: Alejandro. Yes, please!
Check cashed, I drive to my house to pick up some library books and a notebook. My mom just sits there, still a zombie, but worse than the last time I'd seen her. It makes me sick to my stomach. I get my things together quick and leave.
I drive to my dad's house to get the library books I have there. My brother is on the laptop and my sister is in the bathroom.
"I'm headed to the library," I call. "Does anyone want to come?"
"No."
"No."
Okay, I guess. "Dad will be home around 6:30, will you do your chores?"
No response.
"Okay, bye."
Once at the library, I turn in my books and find a small cubby to sit in with my notebook, the one I'm writing in now. I grip my DOLLAR LONE CENTER, bright yellow pen I'd found in my dad's glove compartment and start to write.
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Okay, well hi! This is just the first chapter, or more properly, introduction, to a story I'm writing about a girl and all the crap she has to go through because of her parent's almost-recent divorce. Thanks for reading
<3 ThisIsMe
