The Cassidy Boys

Chapter Two: Nobody's perfect! Well . . . except . . .

Chapter Two: Nobody's Perfect! Well . . . Except . . .

I use my foot to kick the front door closed behind me and sigh as my back slumps against it. It takes my brain a few seconds to finally convince my legs to kick off my maroon high tops, and my arms to hang my bag on the stair banister before I finally trudge further into the house. The smell of pasta sauce tickles my nose and has my stomach grumbling at the thought of a big bowl of spaghetti.

Entering the kitchen, I see my mom sitting at the small, round wooden table furiously typing away on her laptop, and my dad at the other end of the room stirring a pot on the stove.

"Hi, honey. How was school?" my mom asks without looking up from her laptop screen just as my dad glances over his shoulder and sends me a half smile.

"Good," I chirp before shuffling over to our white cabinets to find a snack.

My eyes scan over the few cereal and cracker boxes before I settle on grabbing a granola bar to fill what feels like a gaping hole in my stomach. My grumbling stomach is what has my feet shuffling over to my dad, and I am satisfied to see my senses where right about what he's cooking. As I stand on my tiptoes to inhale a better whiff of the red sauce, my dad leans his head down towards my ear.

"Your mom's on a roll."

I glance back over my shoulder only to find my mom's eyes dancing around her computer screen while her fingers tug at her upper lip.

"I can see that." I smile, and my dad kisses the top of my head before straightening back up to his full height.

Mr. McKinney, or dad as I prefer to call him, is a teacher at a school a few towns over. I wouldn't be embarrassed if he worked at my school, but I'd be lying if I said he didn't fit the part. With a sharp, pointy nose, shiny bald head, and glasses that he either keeps perched on the tip of his nose, or hanging in the pocket of his shirt, he appears to be a stereotypical history teacher. However, even though he's almost fifty, his face looks young, and he's a very upbeat guy, always there to crack a joke no matter how inappropriate the time, or place. He does have his times, though, those times when I believe that guys get PMS as well, but overall, he's a good guy.

My mom, on the other hand, is more level headed out of the two. She's always been there for my sister, Wren, and me for as long as I can remember. She handles all my dramatics. Whether I'm stressing out about who knows what, or just being overdramatic about how much I love the characters in my favorite television shows. Although I love my dad, I'm a definite mommy's girl at heart.

The reason my mom currently has her nose buried in her laptop is because she's a writer. She's been writing ever since she was eighteen, and even though it's a saturated field, and it's very hard to get published, she finally got her big break a few years ago when a publisher finally picked up her first book. So, most days when she's not doing other motherly things, or working her part time job, she tends to have her head buried in her laptop screen. I admire her for that, though, because she's living her dream, and inspires me to one day do the same. I just need to figure out what that dream is first.

"Do you have a lot of homework?" my mom asks, shutting down her laptop, pivoting in the wooden kitchen chair, and giving me her undivided attention.

"Sadly." I sigh as I take slow steps back to exit out of the kitchen.

My mom's lips pull down in a pout as she stands up to meet me half way. "Well, don't stress too much." She rubs my arm as she passes before walking over to my father.

"I'll try," I call over my shoulder before officially exiting the room.

I trot my way upstairs, promptly swiping my bag off the banister and chewing on my granola bar along the way. I don't know if you'd classify our upstairs as an 'upstairs,' considering it only consists of a small hallway with two big bedrooms. One for my parents, and one for Wren and me.