Twenty days of friendship. That's all that high school senior, Quinn Reid's ex boyfriend wants and then he promises to leave her alone forever. After some initial hesitation, she agrees to be his friend in exchange for her solitude when the twenty...
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If my life had a soundtrack, I'd like to think it'd be Carry on Wayward Son. If you've never heard it, I suggest that you get right on that.
It's the song that's been playing on repeat all day. My mom has already yelled at me twice to "turn that nonsense down!" I don't though. Instead, I belt out the chorus with more intensity each time it comes around. "Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no moreeee," I sing at the top of my lungs and stomp around my room.
A loud crash from downstairs makes me stop singing. Reverently I turn the music off and call out for my mom. I know that I've really done it this time if she's throwing shit. I so got my temper from her.
Soon I discover that the plate that was thrown across the kitchen had nothing to do with my loud music and everything to do with the man standing by the fridge looking completely out of his element.
My father tries to force a smile when I walk into the kitchen, but his eyes soon revert to my mother's frosty stare. She looks livid. He's the only one who can ever anger her so much. If I didn't know better, I'd say that it was passion. Good thing I know better.
"What's going on?" I ask my mother. She looks at me and points to my father, so I turn to him. "What are you doing here?"
He clears his throat and his eyes when he looks at me, are pleading. I hate those eyes. They always mean trouble. "I was asking your mom to have you this weekend."
I raise my brow at my mom as if to say that's it? but she shakes her head, so I know that he's leaving the important part out. "And what about it?"
"He." she says it as though it takes everything in her to even acknowledge him. "Wants to fight me for custody."
I snort. "Dad, come on. You cannot be serious."
"Not full custody," he says defensively. "Just a few days a month." He turns to my mother. "It's a reasonable request and it doesn't warrant you throwing a plate at my head."
"I'll throw more than a plate if you don't get the hell out of my house!" My mom storms towards him and I quickly jump between them. "Move," she orders me.
I shake my head. "That's a bad idea. You know he'll press charges if you touch him." He won't. I'm just saying it to scare my mom and also hurt him a little. Can't help myself.
I try to block out their many fights from my memory, but at times like this I remember the important pieces. The broken dishes. The slashed tires. The jewelry flushed down the toilet and once, the broken car windows. The car windows had been the final straw, I think.
"You're being ridiculous, Jules," my father says in a calm voice. "I really don't see why it's a bad thing to want to spend time with my daughter."
"Because I don't want to spend time with you," I tell him. I'm facing my mother, so I don't miss the way that she instantly relaxes. I'm on her side. Of course, I'm on her side.
