Something Just Like This || [ON HOLD]

8 April 2017 | 👙

WHEN I ENTER the kitchen on Saturday morning, my dad and Aunt Jana are already seated at our round wooden table, talking politics over oatmeal and coffee.

I'm on my way to the fridge when my dad calls out to me. "What's with the hair?"

Setting down the carton of milk on the counter beside the fridge, I turn around to find my father wearing an expression of disapproval. "I have a video interview with a potential supervisor," I state. "Can't have it looking like I just rolled out of bed."

"You look better with curly hair. Your natural hair," he reminds me.

I roll my eyes, turning back around to fix myself a bowl of cereal.

"I think it looks pretty," my Aunt Jana chimes. "Both ways."

"Thank you Auntie," I say, sending her a smile as I reach into the cupboard to select the purple cereal box.

"If you hadn't failed all your first year courses, you'd already have a supervisor," my dad challenges.

I roll my eyes even though my dad can't see. Tipping the cereal box over my bowl, I lose myself in the rustling sound the cereal makes as it leaves the box and falls on top of the layer below. The light brown of the little cereal pieces remind me of senesced leaves, the kind that get blown about by the wind for weeks as they slowly lose their colour.

"Your scholarship could have covered your entire undergraduate degree," my father presses. "But you had to go mess that—"

"Stop!" I snap, slamming the cereal box back onto the counter. "I'm just as angry about the past as you are, but I can't change it."

"Yeah?" the slanted-eyed man across from me challenges, closing the newspaper in his hands. "I am angry, April. Do you know how much time, how much money I invested in—"

"Richard," my Aunt Jana tries, her gentle voice just loud enough to be heard. "Please stop."

My dad's gaze meets my Aunt Jana's, and for a moment I think this argument is over. Taking in a deep breath, I splash some milk into the bowl of cereal, nearly dropping the carton when my dad's voice bellows behind me.

"No," my dad argues, "she should know." Then, to me, he says, "Your cousin's two years younger than you, and she holds a full time job and is raising her one-year-old son—"

"Don't bring Cynthia into this," Jana warns.

Personally, I don't even understand why he's comparing me to Cynthia. Pre-marital intercourse is, like, number one on my dad's list of Bad Ideas, second to dating before having a phD. But now he's on my nineteen-year-old cousin's side.

But my dad doesn't listen, continuing his monologue instead. "While you—what? Waste my money! School is your only responsibility, and you can't even get decent enough grades to get into graduate school."

Now he's just distorting reality. The truth is I haven't heard back from any schools yet.

"Jesus, Dad! What don't you understand about me knowing I messed up?" I raise my gaze to meet his, two pairs of light green eyes finding each other. "If money's a problem, I could've just dropped out to work full time, or taken fewer courses— you know I would have." I say this even though I know it isn't true, that money isn't a problem and never has been. Not when my dad has worked two well-paying jobs since my mom and he divorced.

"You can't handle a full time job, April," he scoffs. "The real world is far too much for you."

"Richard!" my aunt scolds, shooting my dad a look.

But it's all too much, and I'm already making a b-line to the doorway, eager to escape before I do or say anything I'll regret. When I finally reach the safety of my room, I throw myself onto my twin-sized, hastily-made bed, being careful not to spill the bowl of cereal I'm cradling.

I scoop up some of the now-soggy cereal and bring the metal spoon to my lips, trying to erase my dad's powerful words and the image of his angry expression that's etched into my memory. My eyes grow warm as fresh tears fight their way to the surface, but I press my eyelids tightly shut, forcing them back. As the cold spoon touches my tongue and the sickeningly sweet cereal comes into contact with my tastebuds, I find myself wishing for one thing.

I wish I'd gone straight for the pot of coffee instead.