Daughter of a Whore [on hold]

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

 “Don’t get pregnant,” I interrupt.“I know, I know. You’ve been saying that every time you leave for the past two years. I’m not getting pregnant, Mom. Only terribly high and cracked out.”

― Colleen Hoover, Hopeless

The next morning, I am up before my alarm rings. Seeing that it is only 3:47 am, I close my eyes and force myself back to sleep.

“Hey, wake up. Your thing is singing.” I get up to see my mom standing a few inches away from my bed, all dressed with makeup done in full glory. I stretch to turn off the alarm. Maybe I should wait till she leaves, then skip school, the thought crossed my mind.

At school, I tried my best to avoid coming in contact with Alex. We still needed to talk. I sat through English class, studying the facial expressions of the teacher as she confessed her secret relationship with poetry. I don't know, are cats better? What's up with that? After almost a whole period of nonstop talk, she wants us to write a poem that describes who we are.

“Make sure you give it an interesting title that will make me want to read it.” Great. Maybe I will title mine “The Sweet Life of Delta Mendolzia.” No, that’s boring.  Maybe “The Daughter of Angeline,” Do you wanna read mine now?

When I think poetry, I just love haikus; only three lines. And when I think haiku, this is what I end up with:

"I’m a Mendolzia

Mendolzias may be crazy

But man boobs are worse."

That was easy. Done.

History class proved to be even worse than English. Mrs. Tompson needs dressing advice. Who wears neon suit coat over a nineteenth century dress? No wonder her husband ditched her. That was sad, I feel really evil right now...

Before lunch time, I feel myself falling asleep in biology class. I almost kissed the floor in gratitude when the bell rang. I walk over to my locker, and find Jessie, the only “friend” I have in this whole wide school, waiting there for me. She's nothing like me. She has an all-american family, and her hairs, like I would say, is still virgin. Never been touched my color.

“What’s up with you?”  She asks glaring at me.

“Oh, hi to you, too.” I dumped my books in my locker, and mistakenly closed it with too much force.

“Oh See. You’re mad. Is it me?”

“Don’t take yourself too seriously, Jessie.”

“Who, then? Or what?”

“I’m just tried. I wanna go home, I wanna die. Somebody call the polcie." I paused and looked at her wryly, "Why do you care anyway?”

“I’m your friend, Delta. I care.” She nods as I stare at her blankly. “I do.” And why she does, I’m yet to figure out. I treat her like trash, and literally tell her to get away, but she’s still here. I'm horrible at doing the friendship thing, and guess why? I've never had friends, and I have this thing where I think nobody likes me, even when they say they do. Doesn’t she get the point that I’m dangerous? In this small town, everyone knows the history about me and my mom. The Mendolzias. It’s like we are bad news. Almost one year in Greenleaf, and she hasn’t heard of Angeline?

“You’re my ‘friend’,” quotey fingers. I pause, “but I don’t need your pity.”

“This is not about pity. I'm not your friend 'cause I pity you." She's offended I can tell, and now she pissed when she says, "Actually, I do pity you sometimes because if you keep pushing people away, you're gonna die alone. Seriously, stop!” We stare at each other silently after that blunt speech.