Click to Subscribe - By L. M. Augustine Page 0,7
to school. Or to work,” I add. There is nothing I dislike more than talking to him. Hearing his voice never fails to bring the taste of bile into my mouth, and all of my conversations with him seem to leave me nauseous. I hate my dad, hate how he ignores me, hate what he did to Mom and how he doesn’t even seem to care.
“Are you trying to say something about me?” he asks.
“No,” I say, hopping off the counter and moving toward the sink, bowl of cereal in hand. The spoon hangs from my mouth. “Of course not.”
He glares at me, but I ignore him. “I told you,” he says slowly, gritting his teeth. “I can’t get a job because I’m busy.”
“I can sure see that,” I say as I drop the bowl into the sink and turn on the hot water. “That newspaper has been keeping you busy for the last six months.”
“It’s just so riveting,” he spits.
I shake my head and ignore him, not wanting to engage any further. While the water is still running, I kick open the dishwasher and slip my bowl inside. Then I switch off the water, reach into the refrigerator to my left, and grab a ham sandwich lunch I prepared last night. In one single motion, I slip it into my bag and turn toward the door. “Well, I’m off to do something productive with my life. You should consider doing the same,” I say, then grab my backpack and walk out the door.
He doesn’t respond to that, but I can feel his glare on me as I walk down the front steps, into the driveway, and over to his old car he “lets me use.” I’m used to his looks by now, though. It’s been like this every morning since Mom’s death, so I know the drill.
It’s not that my dad’s abusive. He’s never laid a hand on me, and he most certainly isn’t ever going to. He’s not that kind of person; he barely even yells at me. He’s just in the background, a bitter nonfactor in my life. He makes me do it all alone, drinks his beer and makes snide remarks, and never does anything for me—but we don’t fight. That should be a good thing and maybe it is, but sometimes, I think his complete lack of caring is worse than fighting.
Fighting, at least, means I still matter to him.
Not caring doesn’t.
Right before I step into the car, I turn around. Through the foggy kitchen window, I meet his gaze and feel my throat catch. He just looks at me, his eyes hard, his lips curled.
***
I pull into the parking lot of my tiny high school a few minutes later and look around.
The school itself is only two buildings, a main one with two floors that are each divided up by subject and with a miniscule gym sitting behind the first. There is an athletic field surrounding the gym, but it’s the only field we have—depending on the season, it serves as the football field, the soccer field, the lacrosse field, and the field to every other sport students play here. The school is old, red-brick, and constantly surrounded by a thick mist, and as I step out of Dad’s car and walk up to the front entrance, the dew-covered grass wets my sneakers. The school is isolated atop a steep hill (known simply as “Hill Street”), like a special little sanctuary that achieves my one goal at the moment: to get away from the rest of the world.
Technically my school is a private school, but it costs almost nothing and teaches at just about the same pace as the local public high school. The only difference is this high school is much smaller, only about fifty kids per class, which is why my mom wanted to send me here. It isn’t a bad school, though. The kids are nice, even if I don’t really connect with them, and the work here is decently-challenging. Plus, the small class sizes and the fact that I rarely ever socialize with the other kids in town who don’t go here means no one knows about my vlog series.
A cool breeze brushes past me as I race up the steps to the school entrance. This early in the morning, the smell of moss is everywhere, probably from one of the trees surrounding the school.
It’s still too early to function beyond sleep-zombie status, I remind myself as I step inside,