Dissonance | ✓

09 | Typical McLaren

     Fat drops of rain hit the window, as I rode on a bus bound for McLaren. The fall break had just started and I still had unresolved issues with my Pretenders' crew. They shunned me every time I made an attempt to patch things up. It made crossing their paths like walking on a tight rope; one wrong step and I would have plunged into permanent isolation.

     Saying I was ecstatic to go home was a major overstatement, and I knew my family would have said the same thing. Mentally, I began listing what would have kept me busy from the Bakers for a week. Parties, homework, art exhibitions: anything that distanced me, really. I interpreted this break as more of a chore than a vacation.

     The bus came to a halt at the main bus terminal. Everybody hopped off. Some people went to the train station adjacent, others getting into cars in the parking lot. I moved down the sidewalk and waited at a bus shelter, for a bus that would take me close enough to my neighborhood, before I would journey on in a taxi.

     In the air, the nauseating smell of cigarette smoke was pungent. I pivoted my head to the parking lot where a shaggy man held a cigarette between his teeth. He leaned out the window of an older model BMW—the kind that looked boxy—that was so rusted, somebody could have thought the burnt orange was the original color. When the man saw me glaring, he winked. I winced. Typical McLaren guys.

     My stomach churned with fear as my home came into view. The taxi pulled up to the gate. I paid the fair, but the driver's arm remained extended. I dug into my bag for a tip and slapped it into his hand. Outside, the gate guard welcomed me. Walking up the path, I was fraught with anxiety, however I pushed it away and gathered the courage to ring the bell. A few clicks on the floor from inside, and my mother opened the door. She must have seen the taxi from a window, because on any normal occasion our maid would have answered.

     "You know, it feels like only yesterday you left," mom said after I entered, aiding me with my bag.

     "I'm going to pretend you missed me," I mumbled.

     "Well, your father is not coming home until Thursday: he's on a business trip. Why don't you go get yourself sorted? Dinner will be served at its usual time." She strode out of the foyer and into the study. I took in my surroundings. No preeminent changes were made, barring the additions mom made to her porcelain figurine collection and the fall-themed decorations. It truly was as if I only left yesterday.

     It was relieving to see that my room had not been transformed in the mere weeks I was gone. In fact, nothing had been touched. My bay window was still open a crack, though I wished somebody had come in to close it; dry leaves lined the inside of the the window sill.

     I brushed the leaves away and sat by the window. In that very spot was where I passed many evenings drawing my interpretation of the view or weaving it into words. Most instances, it was a poem. The disparity between all the works was enthralling, with them being illustrations and descriptions of the same scene. Emotion played a key role in my perspective of it. Many sketches cast a heavy shadow over the neighborhood in graphite, while some acrylic work depicted it as warm and homely.

     An hour and forty-two minutes into being home, I nearly finished a colored pencil sketch of outside my window. The picture urged melancholia to consume any person who took a glance at it. It was surely having that effect on me. As the pale sun disappeared beyond the horizon, I organized my clothes from the suitcase into my closets and drawers. A familiar voice then chimed: "Need any help?" I looked to the door and saw Juliet letting herself in.

     "Hi!" I spoke as cheerfully as possible, trying to forget how unenthusiastic she was when I told her I was visiting for the break. She held out her arms. I brought her into a tight hug.

     I let go after three seconds sharp. "How are you?"

     "Oh, I'm fine. How is Riverdale? I haven't heard amazing things about it. I hope you found it bearable."

     This was just one of Juliet's ploys to make my life inferior in comparison to hers. I turned the tables on her.

      "No! Actually I met this super cute star basketballer—Mason. You've probably heard of him. Everybody's scared of the Barracudas because of him. He adores me, I'm the talk of the school, and the campus is amazing." Even though I was the topic infamously, I still had to rub that into her face. For the icing on the cake, I added: "I'm not running it yet, but Ximena, the it-girl, just had a falling out with her best friend. By the looks of things, I will be filling that vacancy very soon."

     I flashed a plastic smile and continued unpacking. That sort of struggle for social-acceptance and being at the top of the high school food chain was exactly what I despised most, but if that was what it took to get under Jules' skin, so was it.

     "Oh," Juliet uttered. She did not have anything more to say for the rest of the time she helped me unpack. I was not a bragger, nor did I enjoy bringing other people down, but if she were way too high on a pedestal, I had to–as any sister would–guide her back down to earth.

     After unpacking, I rushed downstairs for dinner. Juliet followed calmly.

     "You could learn a few things about etiquette from your sister, dear," mother called from the table. Maybe if she were starving on a bus for so long, her stomach acid burning through the mucus layer and beginning at her stomach lining, Juliet, too, would have charged.

     Drool practically poured from the corners of my mouth at the sight of what I missed the most: the food. I was unsure of how I managed without it.

     "So, how long are you here for, exactly?" My mother started, as I settled into a seat. The table had been laid with Amara fall collection cutlery. It was always important to mother that the house matched the season. Even the candles that scented the bathrooms were pumpkin-spice. I would of thought the house would have been in a Halloween spirit, but mother regarded the holiday as an 'excuse to divulge in sugar'.

     "Until Saturday, then I'll go back. Pass the beans, please?"

     Juliet lifted the beans and handed it to me. I took a heaping serving spoonful and pigged out on my plate.

     "So, I hope you are learning your lesson at Riverdale, correct?"

     I held back a laugh. "Okay. Sure." With a pair of tongs, I slapped two steak slices onto the plate. This isn't a feast vacation, remember that," scoffed Juliet. "Speaking of vacation, shouldn't you take a break from all the attention seeking?" I riposted with a smile.

     My mother gave Juliet a sharp look before she tried to say anything more. A pregnant pause followed. Only the scrapes of forks and knives against the plates sounded. I dashed black pepper over my plate. It may have been too much, owing to the fact that I simultaneously sneezed and coughed when I shoved a slice of baked potato in my mouth. Mother pursed her lips and my sister's cheeks were bright red. I covered my mouth with a napkin. All of that did nothing to stop us from bursting into laughter.

     "Okay, Colleen," Mother flicked away the tear drop at the corner of her eye after the bout of laughter. "Thank you for lightening up the mood." I pretended to bow.

     Was it not strange, how I dreaded going home, yet on my first evening back things were looking up? I certainly did not envisage that. Against my previous thoughts, that break was going well. 

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