Paraplegic (COMPLETED)

Chapter 6

I don't waste time getting home. This car is starting to smell just as bad as I do. Father will kill me if this moldy cheese smell is permanent. I keep my body hung over the steering wheel, so I don't stain the seat with my clothes. The last thing I need is to spend three hours getting this thing cleaned.

Okay! Time to plan how I'm going to pull this off.

I'll need to sneak inside the house without any distractions. The last thing I want is mother grilling me with questions as to why I'm splattered with food. There's no way I can pull into the driveway without anyone noticing; I'll have to park down the street and hike back on foot. I can use the side entrance through the kitchen, then slither upstairs to my bedroom, grab a change of clothes, then sneak back downstairs, and finally back to school.

I navigate the Benz onto our street. There's a section of cart path that cuts across the road. I have to stop in order to let a foursome of golfers drive through. They take their sweet time making it across. All the while, the digital clock on the radio stares me in the face. I can practically feel time slip through my fingers. There's this inner urge to slam my fist to the horn, but I force it back. They're old. It wouldn't make them move faster even if I did do it.

Finally, I'm moving again. As I near our house, I cruise on by for a few hundred yards, then walk back on foot. Father should still be at work, and August doesn't get home from school until four thirty, so I only have to avoid mother.

I feel like a robber skulking up to my own house, tiptoeing around to the side door. The lock clicks as I turn the key. I stick my head inside making sure mother isn't there waiting for me. Much to my relief, she isn't.

The wooden steps of the staircase creak as I ascend to my room. I've always noticed a subtle amount of creaking, but right now it seems like a million times louder. But I finally make it to my room. The first piece of clothing on the rack in my closet is a white V-neck. I don't think twice about searching for something else; I yank it off the hanger along with a pair of pink yoga pants. My face and arms are still stained with food, but I can't take the chance of turning on the faucet; mother will hear the water running from downstairs. I'll just have to wash up when I get back to school.

There's this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I stand at the top of the stairs, staring all the way down to the bottom, wishing I could teleport myself down there.

Why do they have to squeak so loudly? There's gotta be fifteen steps at least. Wait a second! What if I were to slide down the banister? No. There's the possibility that I might fall off the side and hit the floor, then that will really cause a scene. Stop procrastinating. You can do this, McKenzie. You. Can. Do. This!

With each step down the staircase, I cringe, fearing that mother will hear me, but I force myself to continue. I don't know which room she's in. She does this online sales rep thing from her laptop until four o' clock. She usually sits in the theater room due to the chairs being more comfortable. I'll stay clear of there and cling to the wall on my way back to the kitchen.

My feet touchdown at the base of the stairwell. I feel like doing a victory dance, like I've just overcome a monstrosity of a challenge, or cured world hunger, or—

"McKenzie, we need to talk!" My heart plunges to my stomach as father's stern voice slices through me. It came from his den. But why is he here? He never gets off work this early. Like, ever. Why now? Why today?

I'm a mere arm's length from the side door. A part of me wants to pretend I didn't hear his call and slip out. I place one foot in front of the other and wrap my fingers around the brass knob.