The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

       “Elizabeth!” my mom called.

       “Yes?” I groaned, steps away from exiting the house.

       “Where are you going?” she asked, placing her manicured hands on her hips.

       “Running,” I replied simply.

       “Fine. Keep your phone on you at all times, and no talking to strangers,” she warned, flipping her blonde hair that I had somehow inherited over her shoulder.

       My mom and I pretty much looked exactly the same. We both had the same, sun-kissed skin tone, bright yellow hair, and crystal blue eyes. If it wasn’t for the age difference, and the major height difference, we could have almost passsed for twins. Almost. I was pretty tall, and she, well, she wasn’t. Our personalities on the other hand, weren’t even from the same planet. She was what I would call a “girly girl”, and I, well, I wasn’t.

       I had to hand it to her, though, when I was younger, and just learning how to play basketball and other various sports involving balls and nets, she stuck with me like any good parent, chasing after my rebounds, and encouraging me to do better. I do think it was hard for her, having a little girl who wanted to do anything but “normal” little girl things. While all the other three year olds were talking about princesses, fairytales, and Barbies, I was talking to the boys about superheroes and baseball players.

       Growing up without a father figure was never a struggle for me, but I think it was tough for my mom. The story of my dad wasn’t a very interesting one. It wasn’t like in one of those stupid, unrealistic teen fiction stories I never got around to reading where one of the parents died, and it added drama or suspense to the plot—no, this was my life.

       My parents were divorced. My dad had his own family, and we never talked. He wasn’t around when I was growing up, and left us when I was born. He knew I existed, but, the way I looked at it was that if he didn’t want to make the effort to try and have a relationship with me, I wasn’t going to try to do the same with him. So, that was my dad’s story.

       “Mom, I’m seventeen, I think I have pretty good judgment,” I said, rolling my eyes.

       “I know you do. Now, before you go, I have to ask— why the outfit?” So, now she didn’t approve of my choice of attire. Typical.

       “Because this was the only clean pair of clothes I had that wasn’t hidden in a box,” I said. Orange shorts and white T-shirt; what was so wrong with that?

       “Fine, but, please, take the shoes off, they’re so old and tattered!” she complained.

       “I’m keeping the Jordans,” I said firmly.

       “Alright! Go! I don’t want to view this fashion disaster any longer!” She shuddered. My mom had the mentality that she was some sort of an “expert” when it came to fashion. To be fair, she kind of was, but that didn’t mean I had to listen to her. Sure, I took advice from her occasionally, but only when I absolutely needed it.

       “Bye,” I said, quickly leaving the house before any more conversing could take place.

       My eyes opened up to the natural light, still not fully up yet. It was only about 8:00 AM, so that was understandable. Eight o’clock, in the morning, on a Sunday, and I was up, about to go “running.” Truthfully, I wasn’t really running; I was more exploring the neighborhood, and seeing where it took me, without bumping into anyone with whom I would have to potentially socialize.