Remember Me (On Hold)

ix.

ix.

Later, my parents call me down to the kitchen. I find Mom washing lettuce and Dad heating olive oil and garlic in a pan.

"What?" I ask them.

Dad turns to me. "Well, hello to you too," he says.

He's taken his tie off and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his dress shirt. He hold his arm out to hug me, but I pretend I don't notice and open the freezer instead. The cold feels good.

"How was your day, sweetheart?" my mom asks.

"Okay. Do you want help?"

"You could chop the onion," she says.

I grab a knife from the drawer.

My dad continues some story he must have started to tell my mom before I came down. At first I try to listen, but I have no idea what's his talking about. I cut the onion in half and my eyes burn.

A minute later, the phone rings and my dad hits the speaker button.

"Hello?"

We wait. A recorded voice comes on.

"This is the Hamilton High School office of attendance calling to report that your child missed one or more periods today. The absence will be marked as unexcused unless we receive a doctor's note or notification from a parent or guardian explaining that the absence was due to a family emergency."

My dad stops stirring. My mom turns the water off. I stand with my back to the phone, chopping.

Shit. I forgot about the phone calls.

"Arabella, did you cut school?" Mom's voice is straining to be patient.

I stop chopping and turn around, thinking maybe they'll feel bad when they see what their onion is doing my eyes. But they just stare at me.

I can't think of a good excuse, so I just tell them, "I hate my photo teacher."

"Ms. Hart?" Mom's eyebrows lift in surprise.

"You liked her last year." Dad says. My parents glance at each other, but they don't say anything. I can see my mom get frustrated. Her lips are tight and she starts taking it all these short breaths. Dad sighs.

Finally, he says, "Ella, you can't ditch school. There are going to be a lot of people in your life who you won't like and you're going to have to learn to deal with them."

"Ms. Hart is a very, very nice woman," my mom says. "She taught you and Harry so much last year."

"She didn't teach me anything," I say. "I wish I'd never met her."

I turn to look out the window but its dark, so all I see is us, reflected. The most unlikely of family portraits. My mother, an apron tied over her suit, her hair falling out of a barrette; my father, leaning against the oven, one hand rubbing his forehead in exasperation; and me, staring straight at the lens, onion tears drying on my face. I try to think of some way to explain this situation to them, but my mom is going on and on about the dangers and consequences of skipping school until it seems so absurd that she's reacting like this over something so small.

"Why are you laughing?" Mom asks me, her voice hurt and angry.

"I can't help it," I say giggling now. "You're acting psychotic."

She stops talking. She stares me hard, then wipes her hands on her apron. Calmly, she walks to the stove and turns it off. She turns toward me and I brace myself for a hug. But she brushes past me, lifts the cutting board from the counter, and scraps the chopped onion in the trash can.