Match of the chapter on side! :) AMAZING match, I absolutely love it >>>>>>>>
Okay, so I feel like an idiot because my friend Kat's DAD is the Hispanic one and not her MOM. I remember her telling me that a while ago, but I guess my brain mixed around the roles. Sorry, Kat! XD Anyways, this chapter is dedicated to her :) Super short, but I couldn't think of ways to make it longer :P
Also, for those of you who have not yet checked out Mortuis Ambulant, I highly recommend it. It'll be updated soon :)
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February 14th, 2012
“The Art of Saying It”
The Dawson Residence (DeKalb, Illinois), front porch, around . . . 7pm
*Kat's POV*
I stood on my Mom's front porch for a good ten minutes, rehearsing the scene in my head about 20 times over. I could see two cars in the dark driveway—one of them presumably my Father's—and my old cat Landon emerging from the shadows. I smiled and knelt down onto one knee, making kissy noises to draw him over.
“Hey, Landon,” I said, holding my and out. He jogged over to me. I decided that he remembered me as he rubbed his chin on my knuckles. He looked so much older than he did last I saw him. “You'll help me through this, won't you? I mean, cats can tell when chicks are pregnant, right?” In reply, he let out a squeaky meow.
He slipped through the doggy door in the front door and I decided that I should get it over with. It was already dark out anyway and I didn't want to be assaulted. Knock. Knock. Knock. I was suddenly very nervous. I twiddled my thumbs as I waited. When I heard footsteps from inside, my heart leaped into my throat.
As the door opened, my Father stood across from me, sharply dressed in gray slacks and a blue dress shirt. He looked at me for a moment before lightly smiling. I could tell he was trying. His hair was grayer than I remember it being.
“Katrina,” he said, looking like he had to hold himself up with the door. I nodded.
“Dad,” I said back. “Can I come in?”
“Of course, yeah,” he said, stepping aside to make room for me.
As I stepped into my childhood home, it looked no different. Nor did it smell differently. It was still scented like Pine-Sol and old carpet. But not in a gross way, in a comforting way. My shoes met brown carpet as I entered the threshold. I heard the sound of drinks being poured from the kitchen.
“I-Is Mom here?” I asked, clutching my clutch bag tightly in my hands.
“Ah-yes,” Dad said. “Rosa! Katrina's here!”
“Dad, my name is Kat, not Katrina,” I said firmly to him. He pulled a trying smile.
My Mom ran out of the kitchen to meet me. She smiled and wrapped her arms around me. I did the same around her slim figure. I actually genuinely smiled. She looked so young still, her features still like how I remember them.
“Hello, Katrina,” she greeted me. I half-expected her to speak Spanish, but she only speaks it to me when we're alone. “How are you?”
“I'm good,” I said, still smiling.
