Magnetic

Chapter Three

I hated talking or even thinking, about it, but there were always times where I was almost forced into thinking about the accident.

    September 25th. It should have just been any other day.

    I was playing outside during recess with my fifth grade class, seeing who could land the farthest off the swings with my friends Griffin and Jessie. Jessie had fallen on her arm—twice—and was temporarily done with the game, allowing Griffin and I to finish up the competition.

    Griffin, on the other hand, wasn't one to let injuries stop him; he was so competitive that he could've broken both arms and would want to keep going to test how long it'd take before both legs were damaged as well.

    My teacher, a small dark-haired woman with Harry Potter glasses named Mrs. Winslow, started walking up to us. At the sight of her, Griffin and I stopped the launching—we knew it was against the playground rules to be "horse-playing and putting others in danger".

    Mrs. Winslow took my arm softly. I'm sure I had the most terrified look on my face. Even as a child, I was always a stickler for the rules; every time I'd get in trouble, I'd bawl my little brown eyes out.

    "Nicki," she said softly, not looking down to me, "you're needed in the principal's office."

    Those were some of the scariest six words that a teacher could possibly say to a goody-two-shoes like me. I had known that jumping off of the swings was probably considered horse-playing and was dangerous, but I didn't think it was that bad. Not bad enough to get the principal involved.

    So, of course, I walked through the tiny, overpopulated school towards the principal's office, sobbing loudly and violently the whole way there.

    When I finally reached the office, one of the front desk ladies pulled out a tissue box. When I tried to take only one tissue, she handed over the whole thing.

    "You need it more than we do, honey. I'm so sorry," she cooed, frowning at me. "I know how hard it is. But it'll get better. It won't hurt as much a while from now."

    I just looked at her and furrowed my brows. Won't hurt as much? "What?"

    She covered her mouth, as if she said something that she wasn't supposed to. "Nothing. Principal Ballard will be out momentarily."

    As if she was waiting for her name to be spoken, Mrs. Ballard's head popped around the corner of the hallway. "Nicki Watson? Can you come back here to my office?"

    At the sound of her voice, I cried harder—much harder, to the point that I couldn't breathe and my chest heaved. My biggest fear was getting in trouble, and now I thought I was living it.

    Mrs. Ballard walked with me, one of her hands resting on my shoulder, guiding me to her office that I had never been in before.

    When we reached her office, my dad was already there, his eyes stained red and the skin around them puffy. I sat in the empty chair beside him.

    I'm such a disappointment. I disappointed him so much, were the only things that ran through my head as I rubbed my eyes with my fifth or sixth soaked tissue. Then, I had a realization. Why wasn't Griffin in trouble? He should be in just as much trouble as I was. After all, it hadn't even been my idea.

    "From the looks of your crying, you seem to know why you're here," Mrs. Ballard said, rolling her big office chair to the edge of her desk. She leaned against the desk, her arms crossed. "Can you tell me why?"

    I nodded, trying to stop crying in order to speak clearly, but didn't succeed much. "I disobeyed the rules. I'm sorry," I sobbed, deciding to own up to my mistake.

    My father and Mrs. Ballard exchanged a confused glance.

    "You disobeyed the rules?" Mrs. Ballard asked, raising her eyebrows.

    I barely nodded, not looking up from my Kleenex box. "I jumped off the swings. It was against the rules, I know. And I'm sorry."

    "Nicki," Dad sniffled, placing a large hand on my arm, "that isn't why you're here."

    I looked up to his bloodshot eyes. Normally, they were a pretty chocolate color, with bright golden specks. Now, they just looked dull and pained. I caught my breath, relieved for just a moment. "Then why am I here?"

    My father inhaled deeply, and then exhaled shakily. "Your mother was in a car accident."

    The tears that had stopped temporarily started developing again. "When?"

    "This morning, after she dropped you off for school."

    "Is she okay?"

    "No, Nicki," my dad said, quietly enough for only me to hear, taking my hand and enveloping it into his, "she's not."

    I crumbled out of my seat and down onto the floor. I'm quite sure that I curled into the fetal position, crying so hard that my head pounded and my eyes felt sore, unable to catch my breath.

    All I remember afterwords is waking up in my tiny twin-sized bed, my dad on the floor next to it to make sure that I would be okay throughout the night, silently sobbing himself to sleep.

    My father would always try to be both parents throughout the rest of my childhood. He did pretty well, despite the circumstances.

    Every day after school, I'd come home to a babysitter—Jacie. She had waist length brown hair that I was forever envious of. Usually, she'd come over smelling of beer or wine, but my father never seemed to mind it too much, although he'd wince whenever he caught a strong whiff of it. Both of us despised alcohol; we thought it was dangerous.

    I think he didn't care because we both knew that I needed a babysitter so he could go to work to support us, and he didn't want to spend time finding a new one.

    When I grew too old to have a babysitter, I would come home after school and wait for my father to get back home.

    Usually, he'd would come back home right before dinner and try to prepare something extremely quickly before any of his nightly TV shows came on. Eventually, I grew tired of the dinners that he'd cook—an array of frozen meals that could be cooked by two minutes on high in a microwave—and learned how to cook for myself. I'd make my own dinner and would sometimes have food already out and ready for him when he came home.

    He'd always appreciate it and tell me he was proud of me for it, something that meant a lot. Proud was probably my favorite word; I always loved it when people would tell me they were proud of me. It made me feel like I was doing something right in life, and other people noticed it.

    Eventually, he started coming home later after working extra hours to get more time in. After school, I'd let myself into the house, spend a few hours alone doing homework or watching television, and then cook myself dinner. He'd come home, exhausted, and would make a beeline toward his armchair, ready to collapse in it, watch his shows, and go to bed. During that part of our lives, lasting about five months, we didn't talk much, only the occasional "hi" and "bye" when passing each other on the stairs or hallways and when one of us would leave the house. Now, we'd never really bring up anything about that time, because we both knew we could've handled our sides of the situation better. In a way, we were still mourning and hadn't yet gotten used to the fact that my mother was no longer there.

    Because of all the work my dad put in during that time, he was offered a promotion, changing his hours and allowing him to get home earlier. Like before, I'd cook dinner for the both of us and we grew closer again. Eventually, he became willing to take me out to a restaurant—something we didn't do often, because of our previous lack of time and money—or to the grocery store to pick out ingredients for meals whenever he'd have free time.

    When my father had felt the urge to move, he had talked to the business he worked for before the decision was set in stone. It turned out that they had a firm in Monraville, so they promised him an office manager position if we decided to move there. That offer was what really made up my father's mind; he hadn't even been office manager in New York. That day was the day he told me that my life was going to completely change in a mere two months.