The City Of Love (ONC2019 AND WATTYS2019 ENTRY)

Chapter Three ~ Double Whammy

        My convertible pulled into a parking space at Charlie's. I struggled to control my fast breaths. As excited as I was, I was also scared out of my mind! Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the car.

        It wasn't like this was my first date. I'd been out with a boy named Jackson in sophomore year, but it turned out he just wanted me to help him cheat on the upcoming biology test. It was a while before I went on any more dates after that disaster. I hoped with all my heart this one was different.

       My voice wavered as I asked the waiter if there was a boy named Zach here.

         "Sorry honey! I'll tell him you're waiting for him when he gets here."
She smiled encouragingly and led me to my table.

    At my table, I reached for my phone to see if Zach had texted.

     "Shit," I muttered, earning a glance from an elderly couple sitting near me. My phone wasn't there. I vaguely remembered plugging it in to charge at my desk, and not picking it up. I sighed. I'd just have to wait 'til he got here.

      So, wait I did. After about twenty minutes, I started to get nervous. Had something happened to him on his way here? After thirty minutes I started to wonder, maybe he wasn't coming at all. My breathing quickened and a drop of sweat fell off my forehead. Tears pricked the back of my eyes.

       "Olivia Grace Monelle!" A familiar voice shouted. I gulped, turning in my seat to face the wrath of the voice. It was my mother.

      She was storming towards my table as customers stepped out of her way. They knew not to mess with an angry predator. She got to my table and threw something down. Two somethings. The first thing was my phone. A text from Zach blared on the screen, making my tears fall harder:

     "Sry but i cant go 2 Charlie's 2night,"

        I had been stood up!

        The second thing was my quiz from earlier that day, the F still there, adding to the sting of the experience.

      "You are grounded, young lady! Do you want to explain these?" My mother exclaimed furiously.

       "I-I-" I stopped short.

       "Salome found them in your room when she was cleaning and brought them to me." My mother snapped sharply. "Well, are you just going to stare at me?"

      "I'm sorry!" I stuttered, tears falling, streaking my carefully applied makeup down my pink face.

      "Sorry doesn't cut it! First, you get an 'F' and don't tell us, then you lie to us, then you sneak away to go on a date with some guy! Where is he anyway? I'd like to have some words with the young man." Mother glared at me.

     "He-he didn't show up," I muttered, face red, mascara running down my face leaving inky trails. Her hand found my shoulder.

     "We're going home." She said, voice stern, if slightly softer than before. I complied without argument, heartbroken, and soul shattered.

      ***************************

     Staring numbly out the window, I desperately tried to control my eyes, which seem to have sprung a leak. I wiped and dabbed at them with the hem of my shirt, which turned out to be not the best idea because when I dropped the soft purple material, black mascara streaks blotted the bottom.

     This made me cry harder, just the weight of everything piling and piling. Before I knew it, my chest was heaving. Up and down, up and down. My breath became more ragged, and it seemed like my throat was closing torturously slow. I thought of how this one reckless day had spun way out of control. This day may be the reason I don't get into college. My hands clutched my throat and I struggled to keep quiet, for I was afraid Mother would yell at me.

     I should've taken my pills.

**************************

     By the time we got home, the side effects wore off, leaving my hands clammy, throat dry and scratchy, and my mental state a reck. Mother had kept to her self the ride home, which was surprising. Scolding on the spot is how she raised me.

     Exhibit A: I tried to steal a cookie from the jar when I was six, earning me a 20-minute lecture on the importance of a good diet.

     Exhibit B: I was caught looking at my mother's expensive handbags in the closet when I was 11, 45-minute stern talking to about privacy and the value of it as well as the value of objects.

     Exhibit C: I wandered off in the store by myself at 14 to find the restroom, 10-minute whisper- shouting 'conversation' in the back of the grocery store. I don't think any more examples are necessary.

     I hoped Mother already told Dad. He's normally a kind and soft person, but when he's angry, he's a whole other person. Sometimes I don't even recognize him. If my mother goes to tactic two, ("Now you go in there and tell your Father what you've done!") this will be a lot worse. The look of disappointment in his eyes, the way his brows drift down, as if they were sad all on their own, how his permanently soft smile droops like a wilted flower. I don't think I could take it.

     I slowly stand, legs weak and shakey, open my door, and climb, with loose footing, out of the car, out of the stagnant air, out of the hideous silence that comes only when you do something seriously messed up. I reach back in the god-forsaken car to grab my clutch, only to realize I left it, and my wallet with enough money to cover two whole meals plus dessert and drinks, back at Charlie's amidst the chaos. Mentally slapping myself, I make a note to go back and look for it as soon as this is over.

     I lean back out of the car, a 2018 Toyota Hybrid, and nervously slip next to my mother, who is halfway to the door.

     She struts slowly, with a purposeful pace, and a small hip-swing due to her five-inch professional stilettos. Mother dresses to be ready for the office at any time, with a spare outfit for every occasion in the trunk of her car and in her closet, just in case. 

     My mother strutted to the door, and my heart begins pumping, her hand searches for her house key in the 3,000 dollar purse that hung from her arm. My throat started to close as the purple house key found its way to the magnificent lock in the door. My tongue swelled as the door unlocked, making my breathing shallow. Mother's beautiful, slender hand reached for the knob. I could feel my pulse pumping in my wrists. The door opened with a low click, causing my lungs to fail me; lifeless breaths escaped my open mouth. Mother walked inside without turning her head to face her pitiful daughter before slamming the door in my face. I can hear the soft click-clacking of her heels on the linoleum floor as she struts away.

     My breath hitched in my throat. This was it. She was so ashamed of me and what I had done. A cool breeze ran through my hair. No sign of life passed by the windows, nor opened the door to find me.

     I walked over to the car that had carried me to my end. A tear glided down my cheek as I sunk slowly to the ground. I buried my head in my hands. I was alone now.

     What could I possibly do now?