You Think You Know Me? You Don't.

Chapter Three. 

By the time I got home that day, having to work with “Emo Boy” in Chemistry seemed like the least of my problems.

I had spent a couple of hours at the library, doing research for a project that was due. It was almost 7 o’clock when I finally finished, and I had stopped by at a McDonalds for dinner.

Now it was nearly 8. I pulled the house keys out of my pocket. After unlocking the door, I stepped inside. I walked up the wooden stairs to my bedroom. It was the first door on the right, right across from my dad’s study.

Nothing had changed since I left in the morning, not that I expected it to. There was still my unmade bed against the wall, my laptop left out on my dresser, and some of my clothes lying around on the floor. I decided to clean up a bit before starting my homework.

When my room finally looked somewhat clean, I picked up my pen and began writing my composition for ELA. It was titled, “The Person I Care About Most.” It went like this:

She passed away when I was just a little girl, but I’ll never forget her. She could be my best friend or my worst enemy, but she will always be one thing: my mom.

Her name was Clair. She had wavy brown hair and amazing green eyes, with lots of eyelashes. She had a beautiful singing voice too. When I was a baby, she’d sing me to sleep each night. I remember the tune until now.

She was the best mom in the world. Loving, caring, and kind in every way.

By looking at her, you would think she was perfectly healthy, but she was dying of breast cancer.

It finally took her life on September 30th, 2006. But that’s alright because she’s with God now, watching over me.

I put the pen down and wiped the tears from my eyes. That was a lie.

I was raised as a Catholic. Since I could walk, I’d been going to church with my mom and dad. Whenever I was sad or hurt, my parents encouraged me to pray, telling me that things would get better.

But they were just saying those things because there is no God. I prayed all the time for my mother to get well again, but she died anyway. I prayed that things would get better but they only got worse. If there was a God somewhere out there, why didn’t he help me when I needed it most?

My painful thoughts were interrupted when I heard the front door open and then slam closed again seconds later. Dad was home.

Not that it mattered much. Not that it mattered at all, really.

My Dad was almost never home anymore, since he was always out working.

Or drinking. I figured it was his way to deal with Mom’s death, because he never drunk when she was still alive. To be honest, I’ve never had a drop of alcohol in my entire life. My mom always told me it would mess up my brain, and my brain is one of the only good things I’ve got left.

My brain is the only chance I have to get into a good college. And get away from this miserable place.

I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. I got out of my chair and poked my head out the door. “Hey. How was work?” I asked him. “Fine. How was school?”

“Fine.” I answered, barely able to get the words out before he walked into his study and closed the door behind him.

Conversations between Dad and I were always like that. We hardly talked, and when we did, it was about school, work, or money. Every week he gives me $200 allowance. Most 15 year olds don’t get that much, I know. I always thought of the money as a way to make up for not being there for me.

But I’d rather have a real Dad any day.