No Time Like Now (Lesbian)

Chapter Twelve

"Let me get this straight," Aspen says with a hand up. "You were ranting about running away, apparently to England, and now you're doing college research based in England because you were ranting about it?"

"Yeah." There isn't much I can say to that.

"Why didn't you tell the counselor it was a misunderstanding?"

"Can you imagine your counselor going deep into foreign colleges and finding all sorts of information and shedding blood, sweat, and tears through it all just to be told it was a misunderstanding?"

She crosses her legs and leans back, confused. "I mean, you were ranting about it at some point. You could have said the rant wasn't that serious because you just needed to get it out."

I... damn. Maybe I should have met her before. About time I need a common sense filter. 

The timer Aspen turned on earlier buzzes as a reminder for her to kick me out. Without help I get up and walk towards the door. Aspen stands up as well. 

"Hey, you have your phone on you?" she says out of the blue.

I pull it out and show her. 

She extends a hand. "You mind if I...?" I put the phone on her palm. "Thanks."

I stand there like an idiot as she taps a few times on the screen. She then gives it back. 

"Your friend mentioned you wanting my number," Aspen says. She points at the device. "Now you don't have to use a middle man to contact me."

Oh thank God. I know for a fact Jeremiah would fuck it up later on.

With a small smile, I say my good-bye and exit her apartment. My feet nearly trip me up as I get to the car. 

A text appears on my phone while I'm strapping myself in the seat. Maybe Aspen had something she forgot to tell me before I left?

To my disappointment, it's from Mom. Again with the demand that I be home within the next twenty minutes. Little does she know I'm not about to be grounded, not if I can help it.

__________

I regret my previous statement; I'd much rather be grounded for life than deal with Dad right now.

"...and as Picasso once said, 'The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.' We should all keep this in mind as the museum displays every work of his for us to observe. Admire. Question his state of sanity while he was painting whatever piece is hung in front of you."

Dad stops and stares at me. Apparently, the last line was supposed to be funny. I give out a fake laugh that sounds more of a wheeze. 

He continues, to my horror.

"As we show off the Blue Period, the Rose Period, African-influenced, Analytic and Synthetic Cubism periods of his work, I encourage you to not only look at them, but to be informed of what was happening in his life as he created those masterpieces. I encourage you..." Dad takes a dramatic pause, "... to be welcomed in Brook Towne Museum's new Picasso Exhibit."

He pauses, staring at me again. I clap not at all enthusiastically. This was the fourth run through of Dad's speech he's supposed to give in two nights. And I'll be there at the museum exhibit opening. Listening to his speech one more time.

"What did you think, Niamh?" Dad asks, shuffling his index cards in order again. 

"It sounds good," I say. "Can I go now?"

He pretends not to hear me. "I don't like the way I phrased the middle part of my speech," he says to himself. 

"Then change it until you do like it," I suggest quickly, before I have to hear Dad's speech again. "I'm going to my room."

Mom, who hasn't said anything the whole time, turns the next page in her book. "You're staying here until Dad's finished his speech," she orders.

"He did. Four times. I have stuff to do."

This time she looks up and stares at me. Unlike Dad's expectant stare, hers is straight up "do what I say or else". Whatever punishment she comes up with varies, so I can't really predict what she might go with.

I bite the inside of my cheek. "Fine."

So I listen to Dad's speech... for the fifth fucking time. Once he finishes (for the fifth time), I don't even wait for him to ask me for comments. I just book it upstairs, with Mom yelling after me. Whatever she says I don't bother using my ears to understand what she wants this time.

I make a mental reminder to invest in a lock for my bedroom, in case either one of my parents decide to pull some stunt. But for now, my bookshelf would have to fit in the role of door-blocker. And my full hamper. And maybe a lamp, just in case.

The first thing I do is go through my backpack for the papers I printed out from the school library. The second thing I do is sprawl out on the bed and go through every college I picked and review their benefits for attending there. 

There's also a FAFSA application I need to fill out, since I know for a fact tuition is not at all cheap.  Also from the look of it, I need parental involvement. So... that's gonna be great.

Keeping FAFSA in the back burner, I continue with my research. Surprisingly, Mom hasn't banged on the door in the ten minutes I've been in my room. Her book must have been too interesting to put down.

Fine by me.

Page after page of the English colleges leads me into a daydream where I, an independent adult with killer winter boots, am already a college student enjoying the English life. I have a schedule opened up, where a lot of the things I wrote down are easy-to-do assignments for classes and meal dates with really cool people I meet through my experiences of whatever college reality me's looking at. 

Of course, like any other daydreams, mine has to end with a rude interruption. My phone was the messenger.

Annoyed to be plucked out of Imaginary England, I pick the phone up. Ikra, instead of sending me a private text, sends a group pic of her enthusiastically holding up a bottle of Jack and Absolut.

The next text comes in:

Come on guys, take a break from whatever you're doing and have a drink with me! 😊

Even if I was interested in getting drunk, there's no way I'm getting out of my room and risking either a lecture or a grounding from my parents, depending on their mood. 

Sorry, got shit to do. Tomorrow?

Jeremiah chimes in. 

Yeah, I got some chores to do, and then write an essay for math class.

I respond quickly:

You sure you mean English class?

Seconds later:

Nope, math. Pissed off Mr. Hankey by sleeping in his class again. Decided to make me write a 2,500 word essay about the importance of math over sleep.

No, the teacher doesn't have the same name as the one from South Park. However, they're both pieces of shit, so the nickname suits him just fine. At least that's what Jeremiah says, since he's the only one in our group to have that particular teacher.

Ikra sends a sad emoji over the declined invitations. 

We can do this tomorrow night, I add. Making Ikra sad is the last thing I want to do.

Immediately I'm spammed with love. Heart eye emojis, hearts by themselves, and such. I even got the kissy emoji, which I'm not sure why. Ikra doesn't do hugs and kisses.

Hmmm, I wonder if Aspen's the same as Ikra on affection. Should I just ask her the next time I want to see her?

Why am I thinking about this? 

Too late, I don't want to know.