Chapter Two: Nobody's Perfect! Well . . . Except . . .
I use my foot to kick the front door closed behind me and sigh as my back slumps against it. It takes my brain a few seconds to finally convince my legs to kick off my maroon high tops, and my arms to hang my bag on the stair banister before I finally trudge further into the house. The smell of pasta sauce tickles my nose and has my stomach grumbling at the thought of a big bowl of spaghetti.
Entering the kitchen, I see my mom sitting at the small, round wooden table furiously typing away on her laptop, and my dad at the other end of the room stirring a pot on the stove.
"Hi, honey. How was school?" my mom asks without looking up from her laptop screen just as my dad glances over his shoulder and sends me a half smile.
"Good," I chirp before shuffling over to our white cabinets to find a snack.
My eyes scan over the few cereal and cracker boxes before I settle on grabbing a granola bar to fill what feels like a gaping hole in my stomach. My grumbling stomach is what has my feet shuffling over to my dad, and I am satisfied to see my senses where right about what he's cooking. As I stand on my tiptoes to inhale a better whiff of the red sauce, my dad leans his head down towards my ear.
"Your mom's on a roll."
I glance back over my shoulder only to find my mom's eyes dancing around her computer screen while her fingers tug at her upper lip.
"I can see that." I smile, and my dad kisses the top of my head before straightening back up to his full height.
Mr. McKinney, or dad as I prefer to call him, is a teacher at a school a few towns over. I wouldn't be embarrassed if he worked at my school, but I'd be lying if I said he didn't fit the part. With a sharp, pointy nose, shiny bald head, and glasses that he either keeps perched on the tip of his nose, or hanging in the pocket of his shirt, he appears to be a stereotypical history teacher. However, even though he's almost fifty, his face looks young, and he's a very upbeat guy, always there to crack a joke no matter how inappropriate the time, or place. He does have his times, though, those times when I believe that guys get PMS as well, but overall, he's a good guy.
My mom, on the other hand, is more level headed out of the two. She's always been there for my sister, Wren, and me for as long as I can remember. She handles all my dramatics. Whether I'm stressing out about who knows what, or just being overdramatic about how much I love the characters in my favorite television shows. Although I love my dad, I'm a definite mommy's girl at heart.
The reason my mom currently has her nose buried in her laptop is because she's a writer. She's been writing ever since she was eighteen, and even though it's a saturated field, and it's very hard to get published, she finally got her big break a few years ago when a publisher finally picked up her first book. So, most days when she's not doing other motherly things, or working her part time job, she tends to have her head buried in her laptop screen. I admire her for that, though, because she's living her dream, and inspires me to one day do the same. I just need to figure out what that dream is first.
"Do you have a lot of homework?" my mom asks, shutting down her laptop, pivoting in the wooden kitchen chair, and giving me her undivided attention.
"Sadly." I sigh as I take slow steps back to exit out of the kitchen.
My mom's lips pull down in a pout as she stands up to meet me half way. "Well, don't stress too much." She rubs my arm as she passes before walking over to my father.
"I'll try," I call over my shoulder before officially exiting the room.
I trot my way upstairs, promptly swiping my bag off the banister and chewing on my granola bar along the way. I don't know if you'd classify our upstairs as an 'upstairs,' considering it only consists of a small hallway with two big bedrooms. One for my parents, and one for Wren and me.
As I walk inside my room, I toss my messenger bag on the floor beside my bed and flop down on it before pulling my phone out of my back pocket. I aimlessly scroll through it for a few minutes before it dings and the word 'Wren' flashes across the top of the screen. I find my lips tipping up at the thought of my older sister, and I glance across the room at her empty blue and green themed bed before clicking on the text.
I think I may have just had an actual conversation with a guy.
Wren's older than me by two years, and this past September she started her first year of college. Even though she's only living in her dorm six hours away, I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her like crazy.
I tap a reply. Did you talk about something other than science?
A few seconds pass before my phone chimes again.
Yes.
I smile.
Then congratulations!
I know my parents love us equally, but Wren, for as long as I can remember, has always been kind of perfect. She graduated high school in the top fifteen of her class and finished every year off on high honor roll with a grade point average ranging around a ninety-eight. While my average normally, and at best, is a solid eighty-eight, but it fluctuates frequently, and not in the direction I'd like. Wren also played on our school's girls varsity volleyball team throughout her four years of high school, and loved it, while I don't have a single athletic bone in my body.
Wren was also graced with not only our mother's chocolate brown hair, but also her luminous light brown eyes. While I, on the other hand, was graced with dark brown eyes and long, pin-straight auburn hair that's more on the brown side. It only appears red in certain lights because our dad apparently used to have red hair before he lost it all, which, if I'm being honest, is hard to picture. I think I prefer him bald even though I know he doesn't.
And although some days I wish I acquired the natural wavy style of Wren's hair, I've never truly been envious of her because, like I said, our parents never gave me a reason to be. That doesn't stop me from wondering what it'd be like to switch places for a day and be eighteen-year-old Wren McKinney. Especially, when I have a calculus exam.
Ha ha thanks.
I smile picturing her deadpanned look from the deliberate spaces she put in between the text laughter.
Well... I begin typing the ultimate question. Did he ask you out?
I smile again as I picture the anxious look she's wearing from her lack of immediate response.
No.
Did you ask him out?
No!
Why not? I immediately text back even though I'm not the least bit surprised by her answer. I don't click a button to stray from the conversation, though, and watch as the little speech bubble pops up, patiently waiting for her reply.
My sister and I have always been inseparable. Growing up, we made friends, but as those friends always seemed to eventually leave us high and dry, we've always had each other to fall back on.
At school, when I reached high school specifically, it was easier to see each other more often. When it came to hanging out in that limbo period of time before the first bell rings in the morning, I'd always go sit with Wren and the people she spoke to at the time instead of the people I'm acquainted with in my grade, and she did the same.
I'd choose her over everybody, and I always will, but now that she graduated I'm discovering some of the bad effects of that arrangement.
Most people at school always thought it was nice that we actually enjoyed each other's company, but at the same time I bet they also found it just a bit peculiar. I shrug those people off, though, not really caring what they think because, at the end of the day, they can think what they want. I'm just grateful to have a sister like Wren. She may seem perfect, but I know her quirks, and I love her for them. Just like I know she tolerates and loves mine.
...We may have only talked about laundry detergent.
I breathe out a laugh and shake my head at my phone screen.
You kill me.
Wren may have academic smarts, but when it comes to talking to boys? Not so much.
Then again, it's not like I'm any better. The last conversation I had with a guy was when I zoned out in the middle of class. Apparently, the kid spent a good five minutes trying to get my attention, and when he finally got it, all he wanted me to do was kick him back the pen that somehow seemed to roll under my desk. Not only was I already embarrassed from being zoned out, but then when I went about kicking the pen back, it rolled only about an inch away from me, leaving the kid to bend over backwards just to pick it up.
Once again, I repeat, I have no athletic ability whatsoever, and I guess no natural boy charm, or even people charm for that matter.
Hey! At least it was a conversation!
Yes, it was. I type back smiling. I'm very proud of you.
She sends me a cross-eyed smiley face with its tongue sticking out and an idea pops into my head.
You know what? You should tell mom about it. She'll probably use it in one of her books.
Instead of focusing all her attention into one book, my mom toggles between a few. The genres she enjoys writing ranges from mystery thriller to romantic comedies, depending on whatever she has inspiration for at the time. She could be writing about a bloody action scene one minute, or an epic romance encounter the next.
I haven't read full versions of her books because they are adult, and I'd prefer not to envision a crazy murder scene in my head, but she does frequently ask all our opinions on what we'd think sound or work better for the general plot.
Haha you're right. I'll call her now.
A few seconds later the house phone rings and I reluctantly sit up to start doing some homework.
"Oh, Wren!" I hear my mom laugh after a few minutes from down stairs and I can't help but smile.
Then glancing back down at the abundance of papers and textbooks sprawled out in front of me, I can't help but silently curse my teachers.
It's Official! Junior year can kiss my ass.