“Cas! Cassie get up now! We are already late!” my mother’s screams pound into my head. Can't she just keep it down for one day? Especially when I’ve got a hangover so terrible I’m pretty sure I was hit by a fucking plane.
“I can't mom! Im sick,” I shout down to her, adding in a couple coughs for effect. I think she’ll buy it.
“Cassandra,” her exasperated tone carries up the stairs. Every time I hear my name I want to stick a knife in my ear, who names their child Cassandra, so old-fashioned, “get down here this instant or you will be grounded for a month!” what a stereotypical mom thing to say.
“Oh what a bummer I won’t get to see any of my friends. All one of them.”
“Now!” and thats the end of it I guess.
Barely able to roll off the bed, and even that was too much effort, I trudge to the bathroom where I know there are piles upon piles of Aspirin here somewhere. I take probably more than I should, but I need the jackhammer in my frontal lobe to be turned off. It is the only way I will possibly be able to function around my family and their clinical insanity. I’m definitely not the one in need of a therapist, they are. Well, okay, maybe I need one a little, but thats beside the point.
I get dressed in my fabulous uniform; a plaid skirt that barely covers everything, white collared blouse that sticks to my body, showing every slight curve, and knee high socks that match my skirt, making me feel way too preppy. At least I can throw on my combat boots to top it all off, feeling much more like myself. They also make it much easier to show my hatred of things by the way they sound when I stomp off. Very satisfying. I am able to relish in this sound as I slowly make my way down the stairs, which may not have been my best idea with the hangover... but it was all worth it when I hear my mother heave a sigh of annoyance, “Car, now.”
“But breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” I look up at her with the same eyes I used as a kid. Sadly, nothing.
Following my mom into the car, I see my two brothers “fighting” in the back seat, which isn’t actually fighting considering all they do is shove each other and pull on their long dark hair. If they would just get freaking haircuts this would not be a problem.
I am greeted by a not so sweet surprise when I open the passenger door. A spiral bound notebook sits on the seat. My eyes follow the patterns of blue and green over the black surface, swirling and twisting until it just looks like a jumbled mess. Hey, just like my thoughts. It is actually kind of an interesting notebook, so if I have to use one, at least my mom found one appealing to the eye.
I snatch up the notebook and sit in the seat, my mother’s eyes following me. I can see the question regarding my feelings towards the notebook in them, but I choose to ignore it.
“Are we going to go, or are you going to continue stare at me until the principal calls yet again?” with that she looks at the road and we start the short three mile car ride to the school. Lord knows why I couldn’t drive, because my mother surely doesn't know how to. It takes us fifteen minutes just to reach the street St. Augustine is on, and another five to actually make it to the school. I don't mind the drive so much as the constant bickering between my brothers, back and forth, never stopping. Im pretty sure they don't even breathe between insults. My mother can't even shut them up, “Michael, Jordan! Enough already you’re giving the whole city a headache.”
“Wow mom, way to put your food down. They’ll definitely stop now.”
“Well you definitely aren't helping now are you, with your sarcastic interjections.”
“Those ‘sarcastic interjections’ put everyone in their place and off their high horse. Lord knows each and every one of you needs it.”
“Yeah, we are the ones who need to get off our high horses, but of course not you. Because you’re little miss perfect.”
“Thats right. In the dictionary, if you look up perfect there will be a picture of me. You should look it up, then maybe flip through the pages and learn a little something,” she just rolls her eyes, pulling into the parking lot and practically shoves me out the door into yet another day in hell. And this time, I have a notebook that my therapist told me to write in. As if people didn't already think I was nuts.
