This is good because I don't have to leave my house to early to just be with my friends.
After an hour or so that has passed by at home, my phone is ringing off the hook.
The crunch of tires rolling on gravel serves as my early warning system that Dad is home. Picking my pen up from the floor, I sit at the table. The order came from my father, with Lynette hovering like the grim shadow of death in the background. I see the leather, brown and worn, clear as a snapshot, and then it strikes my back with a loud slap. I try to cover up but quickly my father whips me again. If I wasn’t so scared, I’d consider kicking him again.
From experience, I know that I won’t hear the crunch for a few more hours, when Dad is good and drunk. I didn’t say anything, just shrugged, but it really pissed me off. I listen to Sasha play for a few minutes, then drop the pen onto my notebook. Her daughter’s scream brings my stepmother out of the bedroom. I stare at the TV but my senses are focused behind me. Instead, I grab my duffel bag and hurry from the room.
My family loves to cook a whole lot of fatting foods like tamales.
Tamales are like a big tradition during Christmas; it's a long process to make tamales, so it's the best time for my mother and aunts to catch up on gossip.
The night is quiet; for much of the walk the only sound is my own steady breathing.
I enter the warm, dimly lit house to find my mother sitting alone, reading a book.
My stepmother lumbers past the kitchen table where I sit.
A curled wisp of blue cigarette smoke trails behind her like dragon’s breath. I know that if ever I marry a woman described as formidable, it will speak volumes about the sad direction my life somehow took along the way.