Before heading home, I stopped at the small supermarket a couple of blocks from my house.
As soon as I walked in, the air conditioning hit me like a blast of cold air from the North Pole.
I get it—summer, heat, and all that—but turning a supermarket into a freezer in mid-June seems a bit excessive, doesn't it? What are they going to do in August? Try to freeze themselves to escape "heat depression"?
I didn't even grab a cart since I only needed one thing: ice cream. My parents love ice cream.
I ponder which flavors to get. My dad's favorite is cookie, while my mom's is mint. I grab one tub of each flavor, and while I'm at it, I also pick up my favorite—coconut. I head to the checkout, pay, and ask for one of those insulated bags to keep the ice cream from turning into a milkshake on the way home.
I return home, open the door, and close it behind me, placing the keys on the table next to the door.
No sign of my parents.
I take the ice cream tubs to the kitchen and put them in the freezer. Then I head to my room, close the door, and take off my shoes. I sit cross-legged in front of the mirror, preparing to rehearse what I'm going to say to my parents. At least this way, when I'm in front of them, I won't end up rambling about random stuff.
I take a deep breath and start talking to my reflection as if it might come to life and say, "Great speech. Your parents won't ground you for this."
Yeah, right.
"Okay... how should I start?" I scratch my chin. "Mom, Dad, I'm in trouble." No, that won't work. "Mom, Dad, remember the tattoo I wanted to get? Well, Mom, Dad gave me the money because I blackmailed him, so I went to the tattoo artist, but when I walked in and closed the door, the owner's favorite painting fell." I think about it for a moment. "Well, I could say that I went through with the tattoo, and then keep the money while making a drawing with a black marker and pretending it's my 'new tattoo,'" I muse aloud.
Someone clears their throat behind me. "You're not keeping my money."
My parents have opened my bedroom door and are standing in the entrance. Fantastic.
My mom looks at me, puzzled. "What do you mean, you made the owner's favorite painting fall? Are we going to have to put a sign on your back that says 'Stay Away from This Girl, She's Bad Luck'?!"
My dad sighs. "Here's the deal: you're going to tell us what happened. But first, let's go downstairs and eat the ice cream you bought." And then he disappears.
Hearing that last part, my mom's eyes light up, and she follows her husband.
Those two go crazy for ice cream. I'm a freaking genius.
I head back to the kitchen, sit at the table, and open the coconut ice cream tub. I have a bit, then pass the tub to my dad. He hands over his tub to my mom, and she gives me hers. We repeat this cycle several times. That's how our ice cream tradition works.
While my dad continues to eat, my mom starts talking. "So, Brianna, why don't you tell us how it went?"
I take a deep breath and start recounting the events. "I walked into the store, and as soon as I closed the door, a painting fell. After a moment of silence, the guy I think is the store owner took me to his office. He told me the painting was valuable because the frame was gold." I take a spoonful of mint ice cream, and we go through the tub-passing routine again.
"He gave me two options. I could either pay for the damages right away or work at the store with part of my salary withheld each month to cover the damages. I chose the second option, and he said I start on Monday."
My dad looks at me incredulously. "Let me get this straight. You closed the door, and out of nowhere, a painting fell—his favorite one—and it was valuable..." He pauses. "Damn, Brianna, you're not kidding when you say bad luck follows you. Especially considering you were born on February 29th." And he bursts out laughing with my mom.
Thanks, guys, for laughing at my misfortunes.
Then they stop abruptly. My mom looks at me in shock. "Wait a minute... you chose to work indefinitely instead of paying immediately? Damn, you're really becoming responsible and mature." She looks pale.
I widen my eyes while my dad supports her.
We all had the same thought. She was so pale I feared she might faint.
I certainly won't tell them how much I would have had to pay. My mom would have had a heart attack. Better to work it off rather than ask for that kind of money. Damn gold frame.
I close the ice cream tub, put it back in the freezer, and then turn to face them.
"Well, escaping to Mexico wasn't an option."
My parents exchange glances, and after a moment, my dad speaks.
"Kate, dear, should we ground her or not?" He looks at me. "Usually, she doesn't take responsibility, so punishment is the obvious choice. But... what do we do now?"
My mom thinks for a moment, then speaks. "Well, Christopher, I'd say that for this time, just because she's being mature, we should do nothing. And look on the bright side. We'll spend months without seeing her around the house for most of the day, and that'll be five days a week."
"It'll be a dream come true," my dad replies dreamily.
Oh God, what kind of family are we?
I give them one last look. "Well, it's clear your days without me will be empty. Goodbye, muggles." I head back to my room.
At least they took it well.
A deafening sound interrupts my beautiful dream. It takes me a moment to realize that the sound is coming from that infernal contraption more commonly known as an alarm clock.I want to throw it against the wall, but my mother would do the same to me, and that idea doesn't thrill me at all.I turn off the alarm and roll over, hoping to fall back asleep. Then I remember what day it is.Shit, today is Monday. It's my first day at work.I jump out of bed and grab some clothes at random from the chair, which has become my new wardrobe.I just hope the shirt isn't dirty.I dash down the stairs and head to the kitchen to grab something to eat. I see my mom already sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in her hands."Why didn't you wake me up earlier knowing I start work today?" I ask her.She looks at me and raises an eyebrow perfectly drawn with an eyebrow pencil.It's my mom, and she does her makeup better than I do, damn it."You said you were becoming responsible, Brianna. So it's a
The ringtone of my phone interrupts the silence of my room. I look at the screen and see that it's Carly, my best friend.I swipe the green icon to answer the call.I don't even get a chance to say "hello" before she starts talking."Tonight you and I are going dancing. I want to see you in a dress and heels. We'll get ready at my place and then walk to the Hunter so we can drink since we won't need to drive. No arguments. I'll pick you up at nine," and she hangs up.I couldn't have found a stranger best friend.I put the phone back where it was before, that is, thrown somewhere on my bed. As far as my first day went, it wasn't too bad, aside from James and the fact that I wasn't even looking for a job. I'm tempted to prepare some fake medical documents stating my insanity or that I have an extremely contagious and deadly disease, then bring them to work and leave them sticking out of my bag and wait for James to read them. Just to pass the time and get some revenge. Yesterday, he gav
Today is my second day of work, a job I've been looking forward to.After last night's "incident" with the heels, Carly and I ended up heading home because of the storm that rolled in. Nothing new, just my bad luck reminding me who runs my life. Convincing her to postpone our night of drinking until we mistook street lamps for celebrities, taking selfies with them, and posting them all over our social media with the caption "OMG, I finally met a star, so excited!"—only to be mocked for eternity—was a challenge.Basically, it was going to be a fantastic evening.We spent the rest of the night watching Pretty Little Liars and gaining at least ten pounds from all the junk food we devoured together.I grab one of my completed sketchbooks and put it in my bag. I don't have a preferred subject or style; my sketchbooks contain drawings of animals, landscapes, portraits of people, abstract subjects, plants. Watercolors, charcoal, and pencils alternate. Everything that inspires me ends up in o
I swing open the wooden door leading to the kitchen, grab one of the chairs around the table, and turn it to sit astride it. I look up to meet my parents' gaze, which was already fixed on me. "I need money," I start.My father raises an eyebrow. "How much?"I look at him. This is the moment he's going to kill me. "A little money..." I take a moment while he waits for my answer. "Something like a hundred or two hundred-"My father interrupts immediately with, "I'm broke." He returns to reading the newspaper he had left on the table during my entrance.My mother hasn't said a word yet. She continues to stare at me, and I must admit it's becoming unsettling. "Did you get yourself into trouble with some drug dealer and owe them money?" she asks.I roll my eyes. "No, but-"Before I can finish, she interrupts me. "Are you in trouble in general?""No m-" I'm interrupted again."Are you risking your life if we don't give you this money?" she continues.Oh God, this conversation will never end