Awake

Chapter 2

Dinner that night was uneventful. My parents were pretty quiet; Dad read the paper during dinner as usual, and Mom wasn't a big fan of small talk. Not with me, anyways. Her and I have nothing in common, really. She wished for three perfect, academically brilliant children, and instead of three, she ended up with two, and one who preferred creativity than studying flash cards in her spare time. Mom has fought with me for years, begging me to follow in Jennie and Lucas' footsteps, and go all the way for class valedictorian. When she realized that my grades were average and always would be, but that I excelled in music, she shut me out, and settled for at least not failing any of my classes. Passing my classes was easy enough, but passing to her was no grades lower than a B. I haven't dared go any lower than that, because the one time I had a C in a class for a week, she thought the world would end, I swear.

My dad, however, is a little more relaxed. He, like Mom, wants no lower than a B in any of my classes, which is fair, but at the end of the day, he's not the one to bring down the hammer; that's all Mom. Dad just sips his coffee, all day, observing things as they happen in the house, only stepping in when my mother is on the brink of insanity. Apparently, my habits have her tiptoeing by that line quite frequently.

Basically, all Mom ever asks is how my day was, and if my homework is done. "Good, and yes," are good enough answers for her, then she's quiet the rest of the night, watching the news and cleaning up the house. You know how I read, write, or play music when I'm bored or needing something more? Mom's something more is cleaning and obsessing over our grades. Since Jennie and Lucas have gone off to college and she can't monitor their grades every second of every day, it all falls on me. As I've gotten older, she's checked my grades less and less, and by that, I mean no more and no less than once a day. To be honest, I think she's still holding out hope that I'll change my mind one day, and flip a switch to being a clone of her other two perfect, brilliant children.

Sorry to disappoint, Mother, but it won't happen. Not now, not ever.

By midnight, I'm still not tired, and I find myself writing in my journal again.

It's lonely here.

In this world where I'm a musician, a writer, and a bookworm, the only time my family reads is when they study their textbooks or the newspaper.

It's lonely because I don't think my family has ever heard a song that has affected them so deeply they stop what they're doing to appreciate the true value of the song or lyrics.

And it's especially lonely when I have all of this- my words, my stories, my characters, and I know I could never share this with any of them, because they would laugh, shrug it off, or pretend like they care.

I know they don't. And that's okay. I know I'll find someone who will.

I'll find someone who loves the music the way I do. Who appreciates words and quotes and books the way I do.

I might have already found him.

My phone dings, and it makes me jump. Naturally, I'm a jumpy person, and even more so when I'm so deep in thought. When I look down, I see Nathan's name across the screen, and see that he's send a picture message. When I open it, I see that he snapped a photo of the empty park in my neighborhood. Shortly after, he says, Hope you're awake, need to talk.

Oh, no. Typically, when people say they need to talk, it's never good. This can't be good, right? My heart races a mile a minute, wondering what he would possibly need to talk about. Hands shaking, I grabbed my running shoes and a light jacket, sneaking down the hall and out the front door, as I've done the whole summer. Once I reach the end of the driveway, I break into a sprint, racing to the park.