"Stuffing your things in a backpack, hopping on a bus, heading somewhere far, far away? Just to see what happens?
At your age, I often felt like that."
Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.
I read and re-read the same four sentences, a grin spreading across my face.
Dad gets me. Like, truly gets me.
"April?" My mom's intrusive voice buzzes around me like a nagging mosquito.
I look up in annoyance. "What?"
"Don't you take that tone with me," disapproving lines are etched around her icy-blue eyes.
I loathe when she looks at me that way.
"Fine. Sorry. What?" I bite into my lower lip, trying very hard not to explode.
For a few tense moments, all that's heard is an annoyed hum of our impossibly tiny, ancient refrigerator.
"You didn't even touch your food."
I scrunch my nose at the smelly stuff sitting on my plate. A boxed mix of Mac and Cheese she whipped up for the third night in a row.
Does she really want me to eat that again? If so, she's trippin'.
"Not hungry."
I miss Dad's golden brown Pizza Pockets so much. Crescent dough, mozzarella cheese, my favorite toppings, and I was good to go.
But I'm not about to say that out loud.
"Won't you at least have a bite?"
"Sheesh, Mom. I already told you I wasn't hungry. Just leave me alone."
I can literally feel the weight of her gaze, heavy and scrutinizing, even if she isn't looking directly at me.
She clears her throat. "Want some tea?"
"No." I stand up, my chair harshly scraping against the scuffed orange linoleum floor. "I'm going to my room."
"At this hour? It's barely eight p.m."
"I'm tired." And she's suffocating me. "Plus, I have to pack for the graduation trip tomorrow."
"Family Ties will be on soon. We always watch it together." Her massive figure adopts a hands-on-hips pose, and bars me from accessing the rickety wooden stairs.
Family Ties. How ironic. And it's something we used to watch as a family. Together. Without Dad to laugh along, it's just lame.
"God, Marjorie, which part of I'm tired wasn't clear to you? Dad would understand."
Mom rocks back and forth on her sensible worn-out flats. I hate how she's always prioritized comfort and practicality over style.
Her gaze suddenly snaps to the floor and my breath catches in my throat. I know exactly what she sees. Dad's letter.
She runs her hands once, then twice across her hair. The mousy brown mop perched atop her head is pulled as tight in a bun as the gingham print apron is tied around her waist.
"Is that from your father?" Her voice shakes, but then she looks at me with a smile. "I'm glad he took the time to write to you."
I watch, frozen, as she unfolds the letter. It's private, rests at the tip of my tongue, but she wouldn't understand. Or care. She never respected my personal space.
"February 25, 1986." Mom reads the date out loud, her shoulders squared. "This is from several months ago."
"Um... So?" I gulp and raise a single eyebrow. "I like re-reading them."
It's the only thing I have left of him, because we're too poor to even afford a damn telephone, is what I think, but I say this instead: "You got a problem with that?"
"Of course not. I wish he would write to you more often. It's the least he can do to . . . stay in touch." She yanks on the toaster cable with an unnecessary force, and unplugs it from the wall. The chipped thing lets out a sad, fading chirp, its levers and knobs slightly askew.
"Right."
"You know, April, I thought..." Mom tosses a few mismatched cups and glasses into the rusty sink with a loud clang, cluttering it even more. "You'd focus on your university goals a bit more."
It's always like this with her. Go chase this goal, April! Then that goal, and then the next one. My uptight mother never stops to rest, to enjoy life, to appreciate the moment.
The worst part of it all – she's got me on the same high-speed racing track to success. God forbid I get off it. All hell would break loose.
"What university goals? I already sent out three application letters in January: to Rhode Island School of Design, Maryland Institute College of Arts and California Institute of Arts. Haven't heard back from any of them yet."
"When Dad was still here, we never had to have this type of conversation. You were focused on school, on your future. Now you just let everything slip."
I groan. "I just graduated from high school. I was top of my class! I need a break."
"You can have a break when you are standing on your own two feet."
"What about the graduation trip tomorrow? I bet you expect me not to go, so I can focus on more important things."
"I'm not saying that you don't deserve a little bit of down time, it's just..." Mom scrunches her nostrils as if something just died under her nose.
"We talked about this before. Stop pressuring me. Stop fussing over me. Let me have fun once in a while. I haven't seen Dad in so long."
"You simply have to be patient, April. You know we'll be together again soon. Probably before college starts. That's just a few months. Both Dad and I know how important this is for you, but you also need to understand that he needs time in his new job to establish himself. We can't move until his probationary period is done and we have saved up enough money to move into a bigger house in L.A."
I roll my eyes. Excuses, excuses. If she only put in a little bit of effort, they could make it work. "I don't want to wait anymore."
"Hey, it has been only, what, four months?"
"Five." I bark at her.
Five months. Ten letters he's sent me so far. And I know them all by heart.
"He's still getting settled in Los Angeles in his new office. It's an important newspaper, and he has to give his all as their newly hired journalist," Mom parrots the same string of words. I'm so sick of them.
"You know what?" My foot is already on the lower stair. "I don't get it. How can you be so calm? You work, cook, clean, go about your day as if nothing has happened. You barely even talk about Dad. It's like you don't even miss him!"
Tears stinging my eyes, I snatch the precious paper from her cold grasp and bolt upstairs. Each step up the creaky staircase echoes the thudding of my heart.
"Of course I miss him," she yells after me. "I just chose to make the best out of the situation. Life doesn't get easier, April! You just get stronger."
I don't linger to hear what else Marjorie's saying.
The hallway suffocates me, the walls closing in like the pages of a slammed book. Every picture frame with the three of us, the way we used to be, mocks me, making a point it's not the same as it was.
Mom keeps promising we'll have it again soon. That I only have to be patient. But a few months is just too far away.
When I step into the bedroom, my breath is already coming in ragged gasps, fueled by longing so raw it scrapes against my throat.
How I wish you were here, Dad.
I slam the door shut, and the white wood with peeling paint shudders in fear. Collapsing on my red waterbed, the most luxurious thing I own, which came with my May envelope, I clutch the precious letter to my chest.
Everything in this room reminds me of Dad. The sunshine yellow wallpapers, two Duran Duran posters he bought for me, and a dusty, comfy neon-green beanbag chair.
I get up and pace the cramped space, but it's not until my gaze falls on the Mr. Potatohead when my tears finally spill over, hot and heavy. I hastily remove the paper before it can get stained with salty tracks.
Why did Dad leave? Why did he have to take our happiness with him? Sure, the job offer was way better than what he had in Poughkeepsie, but still.
I hate it here without him. Every day is the same. I wake up, I cook breakfast, and when I come home from school I do all the household chores. Marjorie either sleeps all day or she's gone somewhere. She barely makes me dinner. The cycle repeats itself again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
I'm a walking robot at this point.
I glance at the letter holding a piece of my dad, a whisper of the past. A reason to keep hoping.
"April: do be in love with your life. Every minute of it. Life is a series of small events. You have to make sure to enjoy each and every one of them. Don't get burdened by what ifs. If you hold on to the past too strongly, you'll miss the beauty of the world around you. Live in the now."
The anger slowly ebbs, retreating before these comforting words. It's replaced by a quiet ache, a dull throb in the center of my being.
Yes. Live in the now. Maybe Dad's not here with me, but that doesn't mean I can't go to him. Living with him beats living with Marjorie anytime. Living with anyone, really, would beat living with my grouchy, control freak mother.
I pat the nine p.m. Greyhound Poughkeepsie to L.A. bus ticket safely resting in the back pocket of my pants. While the rest of my class will be on the seven-day grad trip starting tomorrow morning, I'll be on my way to see my dad. Just three more days and I'll be in Los Angeles. I'll feel his warm, comforting embrace wrap around me like a protective cocoon. Telling me everything's going to be a-okay.
Grabbing the yellow backpack, I shove all kinds of essentials in it: trail mix and bottle of water to keep me going for the first couple of hours, before the bus makes a stop. Shampoo and soap I stole from the bathroom earlier, toothbrush, tooth paste, more basic toiletries, and some sunscreen. I place all ten letters that Dad has sent me for the past months in a special compartment, taking great care not to crumple them.
Rummaging through my drawers, I extract some undies, spare basic tees, leg warmers, red jelly shoes, a pair of jeans, and after some thought, a comfy black skirt. Dad'll get me more stuff once I'm in L.A.
When my wristwatch informs me it's eight forty-five p.m., I approach the window, open it and take a deep breath. The last rays of sunlight have long bled from the sky, and the solitary street light lamp casts shadows across my room. The sound of Family Ties coming from downstairs tells me Marjorie is watching the show: she won't hear me sneak out.
It's funny but I'm not scared. Just excited. My heart is beating like crazy as I pull on my crimson Converse sneakers. Glancing at the polaroid snapshot of me and my dad beaming at the beach, I dump a hastily hand-scribbled note for Marjorie on the nightstand beside it.
"Gone to the bus stop early in the morning. See you in a week,
April"
Once I'm in L.A. with Dad, safe and sound, I'll just send her a letter that I'm staying with him until she finally gets there. She'll have to accept it. I'm of age, and I can choose to live with whomever the hell I want. I place the red Sony Walkman around my neck, with the only, coveted cassette tape I own: an awesome mix Dad made for me.
The cold night air hits me like a slap. The world outside seems so vast and silent. I lower myself with a catlike agility, my fingers scraping against the rough brick.
"Damn it." A muffled curse escapes my lips as a loose pebble tumbles down. I pause, but it doesn't seem like Marjorie's heard me. Family Ties full-on blast volume to the rescue.
Landing silently on the ground, I straighten up, my senses on high alert. Luckily, all the nosy neighbors seem to be in their homes too. The moon is the only watchful eye in the sky, and he won't tell on me. Taking a deep breath, I slip into the inky darkness, navigating the maze of bushes in our backyard, every rustle sending a jolt of adrenaline through me until I reach the main road.
I'm surprised how easy the act of leaving is, how good it feels. The world is suddenly rich with possibility. My life is a vast, glowing empty page and I can do anything I want.
I look back, taking one final glance at the house that was my home for eighteen years.
It's just a pile of bricks, I tell myself. All houses are. Just an unmoving object full of other objects that gather dust. I need to make new memories. I need to be away. I need to be on the move.
The bass throbs through my chest, Bon Jovi's voice urging me on as I shove the earbuds deeper in. "She's a little runaway," he sings, and he is absolutely right. Tonight's the night I break free.
I take a deep breath and step off the curb. The asphalt is hard beneath my sneakers. It feels like a new beginning.
Suddenly, a blinding flash cuts through the darkness. Panic surges, choking the lyrics in my throat. The screech of tires tears through the night, and I freeze like a deer in headlights.