Dark Chocolate Cherry

CHIVY

Six months after my parents divorced, I was caught smoking in the janitor's closet at Stevens Point Area Senior High and was henceforth expelled, and since there are very little high schools in Stevens Point that aren't religious or unwilling to accept a gloomy seventeen-year-old or both, my father decided that it would be both reasonable and necessary for us to move.

It's in late January of that year when he drags the old station wagon out of the garage and into the freezing Wisconsin air, parking the car in front of the house. He then, perplexingly, continues to fill it with meaningless material items stashed in bags of varying sizes. After the last bag is shoved inside, he stomps through a mixture of grass and partially-melted snow up to our front door and knocks three times before coming in.

"Inge, the wagon's all packed up and ready."

I cross my legs and proceed to stare out the window at the sky, which is as grey as a dirty white carpet. It isn't too pleasing, to be frank, but I have to work with it. Anything's better than looking at my father.

"Inge?" he asks calmly. "Are you ready?"

I shrug and he sighs. "Inge, you can't stay on that couch forever."

I wish he would stop saying my name. I've always hated the way he said my name because he pronounces it like ding, which means I'm named after a prelate. I prefer my name to be pronounced like fringe, since then I'm pronouncing it like playwright William Inge, and playwrights are a million times more dismal than prelates. Plus, William Inge lived through the sixties.

"This'll be good for you, Inge. The new school you're going to has a counseling program for kids like you. And they have a drama club, too. Doesn't that sound fun?"

Oh, so I guess sitting around in a circle with a bunch of insane meth-addicted seniors is fun. I never realized how great that sounds until this very moment. I exhale and try to focus on the oak tree that sits in our front yard. It's so perfect I want to crush it with my bare hands, crush that oval shape on the top and let the bark sink into the station wagon like nails. How are we going to move now, mister?

My father takes my coat off of the hook and walks into the living room slowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him throw it on the brown armchair next to me. "If you're not in that car in five minutes, then you're moving back in with your mother, young lady."

I turn and look into my Father's deep brown eyes, one of which is turned forward while the other looks at me. My father had a bout of some sort of eye cancer last year, causing his left eye to be replaced with a glass one, but it doesn't have the ability to turn like his right. Now he scares people whenever he looks at anyone, which isn't too flattering and makes it harder for him to find a girlfriend. "I wouldn't get in that car if our house was going to explode and your station wagon was a racecar."

He turns around and stomps out the door, slamming it behind him. I stare after him, thinking he'll come back, since he usually does. The door he slammed is a deep brown, covered in coffee and paint splatters, and the light reflects off of it in a large blotch of white. I stand up and walk over to it, thrusting the door open so hard the edge hits my wrist, and watch him open the car door.

"The realtor will be here in an hour!" he yells. "I suggest you either come or scat!"

"Maybe I'll just scat then!" I scream.

He slides into the car and starts the engine, revving it up so much Mrs. Soldotna across the street jumps and her snow blower blows snow everywhere. She shakes it at me like she's going to kill me with it and I slam my hand on our doorbell over and over again in response, which annoys her so much she eventually goes inside. I smirk and cross my arms triumphantly; I won two battles today. My father screams and starts banging his head over and over on the horn angrily, so the deafening honks echo throughout the whole neighborhood and make the trees move, and I wonder if maybe we're completely wrong about wind, maybe it's just a giant wave of soft, eloquent noise. It would make sense, if you think about it-remember that first scene in Back to the Future? Anyway, who cares? It's not like it's an important thought or anything, I'm just wondering.