How to Avoid Everything

One.

I was born on January 1, 1996 thirty-six seconds after midnight. I later found out that I was only conceived because my parents wanted a cash prize. They were broke and on the verge of losing the house, so they had a baby.

Sara Michaels was bored thirty-four seconds after midnight.

My mother was a traditional woman; she worked as a nurse until having to give up her career to take care of me. Growing up if I misbehaved I would sleep in the lawn or bathe in ice. She called it "tough love", but having your face submurged in ice water is hardly what love is supposed to feel like. My father was an alcoholic and instead of telling my mother cigarette burns weren't the proper punishment for not putting the dishes away, he was busy downing his third bottle of tequila.

Needless to say my family life sucked. And things weren't much different when I walked three blocks to school.

I didn't really have many friends, but then again who wants to be friends with the gawky kid who wore jeans four inches too short and had hair four inches too long. However, I never really found solitude to be problematic: I always had time study, I had a ton of money saved up from work, and besides, I never really liked any of the kids at school. Except for Billy. He was fat and has asthma, so he made me feel better about myself.

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"Hey!" my father barked, his breath flushed with alcohol. I was steps from the front door, steps from freedom, but his tolerance to the drug left his senses top-notch even after a full bottle of vodka. With a sigh I returned to the living room. It reeked of the intoxicating liquid and cat urine, which was strange considering the fact we didn't have a cat, but I would not be surprised if one had crawled in through the hole in the kitchen my father had made when he threw the microwave against the wall.

"What now, dad?" I groaned, leaning my arm against the wall.

"Don't use that tone with me young man!" he scolded before placing an unlit cigarette between his lips. We stared at one another for a couple of seconds, contemplating who would be the next one to speak. My father was never really a bad man, he just had a problem. I'm not exactly sure when it started, but whenever I asked he always responded the same way "how old are you again?". I guess I should be offended, but honestly I can't help but feel bad for the guy. I mean he's had the same routine for a majority of his life: wake up, drink, go to work, smoke, drink, come home, watch M*A*S*H, drink, sleep. repeat. "Go out to the liqour store and get me some whiskey," he demanded.

"No."

"What did you just say to your father?" my mother yelled, emerging from the kitchen with a splintering wooden spoon.

"Ma, I'm not old enough to buy alcohol," I attempted to explain.

"Well you know what," she growled, "your father and I were not old enough to lose our house and we were not old enough to lose our jobs, but we did. And you know why?"

"Because of me," I answered her question with an annoyed tone, rolling my eyes in the process.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" She came storming towards me, her plump hands gripped onto the spoon with all her might as she winded it up and smacked me against the face. "You can sleep elsewhere," SMACK!, "until you're ready to appreciate all we have done for you!" SMACK! I didn't even have time to grab a jacket before she had chased me from the house into the middle of the freezing January air.

I began walking through the frigid night towards Billy's house. It was Friday so that meant Shabbat for them and brisket for me. It took exactly 1153 steps to get to BIlly's driveway from mine, 6 less than last time. Almost every light was on in their two story brick mansion, well, maybe it wasn't a mansion, but it was more than thrice the size of my shack of a home. Needless to say, there were a lot of lights on, which I thought was a waste. So I stood on the bench-swing-thing and unscrewed the light bulb on the porch light before ringing the doorbell.

Mrs. Meyer's smile dropped when she saw me on the other side of the storm door. "Harris," she said bitterly, "what on earth are you doing here?"

She knew the answer.

"Mary Sue kicked me out again," I said calmly. This wasn't an uncommon event; for the past two years, whenever my mother would kick me out I would just sleep at Billy's for the night. As much as Mr. and Mrs. Meyer's didn't like my influence on their golden boy, they couldn't help but sympathsize with my shitty home life. "You have too many lights on in your house," I continued, offering her the light bulb from their porch light. "Your electricity bill is going to cause your house to forclose."

She let out a sharp breath before taking the light bulb from my hand and pushing the storm door open for me to sneak through. Billy and his father sat at the dining room table with their plates piled high with challah, potatoe pancakes, brisket, and green beans. The sight of the two plump boys with an exorbant amount of food scattered across the dark mahogany table made me a little uneasy whenever I saw it. In a jealous way, I guess. I mean, my family had canned tuna or spam for dinner most nights whereas Billy and his father were packing on the pounds with food that costs more than the shoes I was wearing. Mr. Meyers was some hot shot divorce lawyer or whatever, which is probably how he got out of his first marriage without having to send alimony checks, and Mrs. Meyers was bred to be apart of the upper middle class.

Billy was lucky. He never had to work for anything in his life: he was wealthy, he was smart, and he had me, so it's safe to say he had a pretty good life. Sure girls didn't talk to him, or even acknowledge his existance, but he was Billy and I don't think those things really mattered to him. He wore the same transition glasses he's had since he moved to Hinsdale Park five years ago and his hair always seems to be a greasy mess. Sometimes I think he actually puts the grease in there himself(he has a poster of John Travolta hung up in his room).

A/N This chapter is not yet finished!!! I just wanted to get something published first. I will be completing it this week.