Loving Me

The Accident

3 months ago

"But I love him, dad!" I shouted, angrily.

"No, you don't know what love is," my dad retorted, "that boy is no good for you. He's poor and he's using you for his own good."

"I know you're trying to protect me, but I can't stop myself from feeling this way," I cried helplessly.

"That's what you think, but if I hadn't stepped into the house at the time that I did, you'd have regretted it," my dad explained.

"We we're just kissing!" I argued, "Nothing else happened!"

"So you've never thought about it yet?" dad questioned suspiciously, "Not even a little? You've never gotten close to it or even done it?"

"Why don't you ever listen to me?!" I screamed at him, "Nothing happened!"

"I still don't believe you,"my dad sighed while shaking his head.

Tears rolled down my eyes as I watched his tall frame exit my room and shut the door. It was only when I heard the roar of the car's ignition that I knew he had left.

I sobbed on my pillow, wondering why had the universe allowed my dad to walk in on Josh and I. Why couldn't we had just done it months ago when Josh had first brought it up? Why was I so scared of it and why did my dad hate him so much? Why did my dad have to ruin everything? Sometimes I wish he didn't even exist.

Present Day
I wiped away a tear as I gazed around my new neighborhood. My blood boiled in frustration and my heart ached in guilt. The pain was too much and ate at me like an angry eagle as I remembered the last words I said to my dad. Those words were now a meaningless jumble.

I looked at our new garage, expecting to see dad's beloved 1943 Ford there, but instead there's my mom's old and beat 1939 Ford. Dad had promised her a new car because he had finally saved enough money, but that was before the accident.

I  will never forget the time, place or location that it happened. Or how he died. I hate myself for it because I know it was my fault. It had happened after my dad and I had gotten in a fight about my ex boyfriend, Josh. My dad had angrily went for a drive afterwards.  His death was why we were here, in little Reddle, CA.

Another tear dropped from my eyes as I spot a tall redheaded boy staring at me from across the street.

"Excuse me, is this the Brioku house?" he asked, oblivious to my tears. He casted his eyes away from mine as if he'd been intruding a sacred moment.

I nodded, anticipating a package or letter delivery, but he simply stayed away from me. I was not shocked, however, I remembered that Dad always said white people in the south weren't like the white people up north.

"Are you scared of me?" I asked him, with curiosity. I seldom dealt with guys who didn't approve of black people. I thought it would be wrong to blame him for what he'd been taught.

He nodded yes before he sputtering, "I mean no."

I stared him down accusingly. It was so obvious that he was lying.

"Honest," he said, "I love black people and all types of folks."

His thick voice masked an accent only noticeable behind his pronunciation  of "black."

"Are you an immigrant?" I questioned him, wondering where his accent was from.

He shook his head no. Then nodded and shook his head no again. Great, he lied again.