I'm On Your Side

7 | A resolved past... somewhat

I SHOULDN'T BE reading.

In fact, I should be doing the complete opposite―I should be writing―but it's hard when your dad comes into the office room every five seconds.

Literally.

I mean, the guy has nothing better to do than come into the office room every five seconds. I swear he's just doing it to make sure I'm staying on "task," which is why I've decided to "pretend" to read Julius Ceasar for my stupid English class.

Don't get me wrong, I love English―hell, I love writing!―but when you constantly involve critical reading or any form besides writing (realistic fiction, I forgot to add that―that's the most crucial part. Honestly, fuck those essays they force us to write) in class, then I'll start to despise attending English class.

So, I guess I do hate English. Except for those days when we get to chill, which is rare, so, yeah―I'm still sticking to my guns―I do hate English. And it doesn't make it any better that it's required for all four years of High School.

Like, give us a break, already!

At least I have Creative Writing to look forward to next year. I wanted to take it this year, but since Junior year is really important and all that shit, I decided not to. I wonder how Creative Writing would be like. Of course, it would be different virtually: writing at home where all the bad energy always radiates, so maybe it's a good thing that I'm saving it for my Senior year.

But I wonder how the class would be set up.

Like, do we have to choose a theme and write from that? Or are we able to come up with our own story idea... and share it? As much as I want to share my story with the world, I don't know if my audience pertains to the people at Lincoln High School.

I feel like the people at Lincoln High School are pretentious and sharing my story with them, especially when I already know most of them (unfortunately) would be awkward and humiliating. I want to share my story with an audience I barely know―strangers, but have the same feelings that I express in my story.

"Isha," my dad says, interrupting my thoughts, at about his 30th stroll in the office room.

I look up since I know if I don't, he'll get irritated―he has anger issues and high blood cholesterol. "What?" I ask in my usual grunting tone. It's something I've developed over the years that now even if I want to change it, I can't (or I can, but that takes time, which I don't have).

"We're leaving," he says as he heads over to the cabinet in the office room to get his wallet―the only thing he should be here for, not "checking" up on me (to be honest, I don't know if he was checking up on me, but that's the only logical reason I can think of... and because I like to think of the worst of him). "Study for two hours and then watch TV," he says and I pretend to invest myself in Julius Caesar, "okay?"

I nod my head. "Okay." There's something about talking with my dad (I hate calling him my dad―it makes it seem like I own him or something, or that he belongs to me, which is disgusting) that I hate. Like, I can't stand looking at his face for even five minutes (though I have to otherwise I'll end up in bigger trouble). It's not because I'm intimidated by him―although I have thought of that, it doesn't seem pragmatic though―maybe it's because I despise him.

Yeah, that seems pragmatic. Considering all the stuff this man has done to me, it makes sense―I despise him.

"Isha, you really need this 1400," my dad says suddenly, and, for some reason, I immediately know to look up at him. Something about his tone makes me, I guess. Or maybe it's because he struck an internal cord because, according to my parents (mostly my mom though), "good colleges" (why is there even such a thing like this) won't accept me with my 2.8 GPA (at least I'm improving with my Junior year grades).