Hawthorne Heights [Editing]

eight [edited]

Milo Cooper Locke

'Mrs. Hayes just had to email my parents...even after I begged her not to,' I grumbled to myself.

I frowned at the laptop in front of me on the glass dining table and tried not to scowl at my father over the screen. Our table distanced us, but barely. His salt and pepper mustache practically rested atop my laptop screen. It jumped every now and then, letting me know that he was grumbling under his breath. I just wanted to snatch the mole under his eye right off of his face.

The back of my neck remained damp and cold after my time on the court with Miracle and Warren, so I pulled my hair up into a bun to keep it from smelling like salt and outside. The whir from the ceiling fan provided only a small distraction from the tension in the room. My mom sat next to the mustache, and her eyes sent chills down my spine. Despite having long blown-out hair, she kept it tied tight in a french braid, which only made her appear even meaner. The braid pulled her skin taut, making her look a bit more like a vulture than a woman.

"You need to stop wasting your time on that basketball court and pay more attention to your studies, Milo," my mom reasoned.

She looked over at my father and motioned with her hand for him to speak. His mustache jumped again.

He carried on the conversation, with a simple statement, "You need to start working on your college application forms as well. You're not going to be some bum mooching off of us like Tyler's son."

Again with the comparisons to his friend's children. As if I even know them. And good for Tyler's children.

"You should be willing to help out your child no matter what. That's your job as parents."

He laughed outrageously and widened his eyes, "Our job as parents? Our job is to feed you, clothe you, and put a roof over your head. Anything else is a privilege."

"Then why have a child if you're deadset on doing the bare minimum? What sense does that make? You seem miserable as parents and treat me like a project due the next day as opposed to a human. No one told you to have a child, that was your decision, not mine or anyone else's."

My mom sipped on her wine and stared into the red liquid as if she wanted to be everywhere but here. I wanted to grab a bottle and drown myself in it just to avoid the impending argument.

I complained, "You know I already sent in three applications to several HBCUs and considering the fact that I used my money, I should have a say in what colleges I apply to. College applications aren't cheap and I don't see either one of you coughin' up some change."

My father refused to allow me to attend a historically black college because he felt as though the classes would not offer me an extensive education. He studied at a PWI, a predominantly white institution, and met my mother there during his  junior year. He wanted for me to follow his path in life, yet no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't bring myself to fill his shoes. They weren't my style.

I watched as the vein in his forehead jumped and his neck tightened the more I frowned at him from across the table.

"Considering that I'm your father, I have a say in whether or not you apply to certain colleges. I don't want you going to some school full of niggas partying and doing everything but studying."

His beefy fist slammed down onto the spotless table; the wine in my mother's glass swished dangerously. The fan continued to rotate.

I laughed, "Oh my god, you're such a hypocrite! You claim to be cultured and educated, yet you generalize your own people. Ooo, I can't wait to move out! You claim that you want me to be successful like you, but look at us! We  live in this dump!"