I don’t think I can even remember a time when flour wasn’t engraved into my hair. The bakery smells of baked toast and fresh donuts, which I guess is a perk for your personal scent. It has an average amount of costumers on a daily basis, and considering I can’t bake or cook for my life, I’m strictly on cashier and cleaning duty.
“Service with a smile, Theo, service with a smile!” My manager repeats, chanting that same aggravating line almost ten times every day. I fake a clumsy grin to satisfy her needs, to which she promptly winks at and scurries off to boost some other poor employee’s morale. Once she’s out of sight I let out a deep breath and give my mouth muscles some relaxing time. I greet the next costumer dully.
“Hi, will this be all today?” I ask politely as I take the white, paper bag from the woman’s hands.
“Um, no, get me a slice of caramel cheesecake, please.” I automatically reach for the boxed slice under the counter when I notice the voice wasn’t female at all. When I duck down to reach for the order, I see a boy around my age through the see-through glass. He seems to be on a wheelchair, which is the first thing I notice about him. Then I notice his eyes, which glance from the cake to me and smile. Startled, I grab the box and add it to his order quickly. After exchanging currency and a polite “thank you” he’s out of the shop.
“Poor guy,” Linda—my manager—suddenly says beside me, “Really reminds you how gracious God is for blessing us.”
Fuck off, Linda I find myself thinking, but instead just politely nod.
After another hour of forced smiles and jelly-filled customers, I’m out the door like a motherfucking fox. It’s almost seven and I want to get on my laptop as soon as possible so I can quickly update and then watch prank videos with my cat, Casper. This has basically been my routine this whole summer so far, and it will probably continue for the next two months. I don’t exactly like it, but it’s not like I want to do something about it either.
I’m welcomed home by a “THE NEIGHBORS HAVE BETTER STUFF” welcome mat (my idea, dad’s credit card) and my pacing mom. She’s chewing on her plastic nails while the phone is firmly grasped in her hand. I know the gentleman thing to do is to ask what’s wrong, but my parents have an internet time lock, and it ended in approximately three hours. I was not wasting time.
“Theo!” My mom calls as she hears my footsteps running up the stairs. I cringe harshly and immaturely stomp my way down the steps. I say as many swear words I can under my breath without my mother noticing before I finally make it to the kitchen where she’s currently situated.
My mom doesn’t speak very fluent English, so she usually sticks with Spanish whenever she’s around us. I’ll just translate this whole conversation to make it easier.
Mom: Do you see how your dad is? He tells me I can’t leave for ONE hour to go to a dinner with my friends from work, but he leaves without telling me and goes God-knows-where for three hours! Three! Do you see how your dad is, Theo? Do you?!
I nod.
Mom: All of this—just watch—all of this, for one single hour I went out with my FEMALE coworkers! He thinks I went out with my manager! Can you believe that? I swear Theo, this has just gotten worse since I left my job. Be grateful you have papers, Theo, be grateful you were born in this country, God, just be grateful you still have a chance. Your dad… he’s just… suffocating.
I nod.
Mom: You should try calling him later, because he won’t answer any of my calls. Okay?
I nod.
Mom: Okay, thank you.
I don’t like taking sides. I’m Sweden when in this household, and I like to maintain it that way. Do I agree with my dad completely isolating my mom from human interaction? No. Do I agree with my mom lying and sneaking out to meet up with her friends? No. In the end, they’re both just as fucked up, but I’m the glue that keeps them together; that and my mother’s lack of documents.
After my mom’s made it clear I am free to go, I bound up the stairs and into my bedroom. I lock the door behind me, turn off the lights and turn on the fan to keep it cool. The only generated heat I need right now is through my computer’s motherboard. I don’t even bother changing out of my uniform as I plot myself at my desk and start up the screen. My immediate internet routine starts off by checking my notifications on a site called Wattpad, check Tumblr, then check Wattpad again. But today, I just want to write.
Wattpad is a writing and reading website, you see, for amateur writers or dedicated readers to enjoy the wonders of books. It’s been my addiction for almost a year now and I’ve managed to build a profile.
I mostly stick to Teen Fiction and Humor as both my writing and reading material; I find these two genres are my comfort zone. My profile isn’t all that serious, more anonymous than anything. My picture is of a drawn cat, my background is a basic blue, and my username is cleverly named after two of my favorite things; cancer stories and diabetes-prone appetizers.
I’m a typical Teen Fiction writer on this website, and I’m seen as one too.
My followers are on the brink of hitting one hundred, my most successful book has around 2,000 reads and 300 votes. All in all, I’m comfortable in my ranking; I’m not very popular, but I’m not necessarily kicked out into the curb either. Even if I was, popularity isn’t what I strive for.
Today I’m especially excited as well because the same website is hosting their annual Watty Awards but with a twist this year. All who participate will be randomly selected into a team of two and must complete a short story by the end of the summer to win the grand prize. The grand prize has always been the same; a feature on the front page and newsletter, but rumor has it that this year will be a bit different.
It’s my first time entering and I’m both excited and nervous; excited because dude, I wanna win but also nervous because dude, I suck at collabs. Nevertheless, I raced home to see the pairings, and I wasn’t about to back down now.
As I’m waiting for the pairings to be uploaded, I decide to edit my latest chapter and start the next one on my current story “How I Paid For College” (Don’t worry, the protagonist does far more interesting things than working a job he’s allergic to). After editing and writing, I check back onto the website and see that the pairings have been posted. Taking a deep breath, I click the link and eagerly scroll through the usernames until I see mine. Slowly but surely, I glance to the right to see who I got.
LetsGoCommando
Jesus fucking Christ.
YOU ARE READING
weak wi-fi
Teen Fiction❝are your parents mean?❞ ❝there are mean parents and then there are parents who turn off the wi-fi at night.❞ ❝damn, poor you.❞ ✎ ✎ ✎ a short story following two polar opposite amateur autho...
