16 - Football Quizzz?

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I'm sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo so so soooo SORRY!!! I don't exactly have any excuse except that I've been pretty busy lately, and I shouldn't be giving excuses anyway!! I did spent a while on this chapter trying to retype some stuff cuz it wasn't coming out how it was supposed to (characters like to write themselvs, lemme tall ya) Anyhoo, thanks so much for being patient with me and reading!! Here it is!! Chapter 16!! Vote and comment and all that jazz, I love ya for it!!! <3

Chapter 16: Football Quizzz?

I pull into my drive, my van wheezing and chugging like its battling with Death and getting its ass kicked. “Piece of clunky shit…” I grumble as I hit the garage opener and pull the stupid piece of poop up beside my dad’s ’06 Chevrolet impala. My mom’s ’04 Pontiac is always parked outside, because she leaves earlier than both my Dad and I.

Sighing, I look at the polished gleam of Dad’s silver impala, wishing it was mine. Or mom’s Pontiac, easily. White’s more of a pain in the butt to wash, but hell, I’d trade this piece of crap van for anything. This thing is from 1995. It’s practically my age.

Parking the thing and jerking the keys from the ignition, I grumble incomprehensibly. I’ll probably have to drive this thing during college!! Uck! Everyone’s gonna think I’m a soccer mom at first, then just think I’m a poor creeper kid. It’s gonna be just fucking fantastic, I can see it now–

The door in the garage that opens to the house suddenly shoots open, a stretch of light spilling over all the crap in the front of the garage. I squint and realize my mom’s the door-opener. Marvelous.

I open my car door, grabbing my bags as I go. Mom’s hand is still on the door, and she’s leaning almost partially out of it, like she’s trying to see in the van. Why? She think I get in an accident or something? When I’m about four feet from the door she suddenly turns on me.

“And where have you been?!” She spits, her voice lashing out like a whip.

I stop dead in my tracks, almost dropping everything, including my jaw. Excuse me?

“Walmart?” I say incredulously, holding up the Walmart sack in my hand (I’d bought some more shampoos and stuff).

This seems to backtrack my mom, as she blinks spastically at the plastic bag like she’d never seen anything like it. Might as well start apologizing now, try and rack up some brownie points… “I’m sorry I was so late Mom. I stopped to get some gas, then went to Walmart to get more shampoo.”

Her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s eyeing me shrewdly. “How come it took so long?”

Oh fuck. How to explain it without explaining it? Hmm…

Using my explicitly existential plethora of vocabulary words and deep cunning and understanding of the English language, while also inferring the exact reaction in which my mother would counter, I fashioned an ideal and utterly remarkable excuse.

“I…got…sidetracked…?”

By the look that my mom gave me, you’d think I’d just told her I was pregnant with quintuplets with my Trigonometry teacher. Who’s a woman.

Her entire body went slack with shock, except her eyebrows, that were pushed down over her ridiculously wide eyes. Did she think I said something other than sidetracked? Sidetracked doesn’t sound anything like ‘raped’ or ‘mugged’ or ‘chased’ or ‘stoned’ or ‘pregnant’. Did sidetracked mean something else in her day? What in the hell?!

“Rodney!” My mother suddenly hissed, whipping around and back into the lightened hallway. She had to hiss Dad’s name again before he responded.

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