That I Would Be Good

Chapter Two

“Where Thou art –that—is Home.” –Emily Dickinson, Poem

     Speeding onto the driveway and slamming the breaks, I cut the engine. I sat in my truck for a little bit, staring at the perfectly normal brown-bricked house with white shutters and a welcoming dark-blue front door.

      In the house I could picture my mom in the kitchen making some type of cookie or baked-good. My dad was most likely still at his nine-to-five job. And my one and only brother was miles away at college having the time of his life, I guessed.

    Then there was me, the youngest in this family and the one with the shortest temper, smartest mouth and least likable personality.  I was convinced I was adopted. I didn’t fit into this family at all. I even asked my parents when I began my rebellious phase if I was adopted, even though I looked just like my mom. Of course they said I wasn’t. I knew that even before I asked, but I hoped maybe I was. It would help explain a lot.

    Taking a deep breath I opened the car door, hearing the all too familiar squeak. The door hinges needed to be oiled and I kept asking my dad when he’d do it, but he always said “next weekend”, which never happened.

     I walked up the front path it was lined with red and yellow marigolds my favorite. My mom and I had gone out early summer to buy flowers for our front path. This was one of the only things I did with my mom; pick out the flowers for our front path. We had been doing this since I was little and I still enjoyed doing it with her, unlike so many other things.

     When we went to the local green house, the humid air and smell of flowers mixed with wet soil made me feel calm. I could spend hours in there, and usually did. I looked at every flower and read the little facts about them that they posted on the cards underneath. It read how long they lasted, if they needed a lot or a little sun, how much watering was required. I read every little detail. My mom did too.

     This was the one thing my mom and I shared. We loved planting and gardening. It was this single link that kept our relationship going. It was the only thing keeping me from shutting her out completely, like I did everyone else.

     Walking into the house I was met by the smell of chocolate-chocolate chip cookies. The best cookies ever made. I strolled into the kitchen, and saw my mom taking cookies off the tray, her beat to death apron wrapped around her waist. Her golden hair pulled into a messy pony tail, her bangs hanging limply in her face.

     “Hey Mom,” I said, walking over and taking a cookie. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and took a bite of the delicious cookie.

    “Hey sweetie,” she said, giving me a kiss back on the cheek. Now that the cookies were off the tray she began putting neat little balls of the dough on the tray. Three across and four down, it was the way she always did it.

     “The cookies are good,” I mumbled between a mouthful of my second cookie.

     “They should be. I made them,” she laughed. Turning around and putting the tray of cookies in the oven. Then she dusted her hands off on her apron, set the timer, and wiped her bangs out of her face only to have them fall back into her eyes.

    I hopped up on the counter and pulled out a spoonsful worth of a cookie-dough and ate it. Most people say that cookie dough is better than the actual cookie, but I honestly can’t decide what I like better. They both taste really good to me.

     “I got another letter from the school today,” she started, in that cautious tone whenever she brought up school. “They said you’ve missed almost all of your classes since the first day. I thought we talked about this…”