Sequel to "A Part Of My Life"
Frog is staring at me, staring at my food. I actually want to eat it.
"Bug off," I tell her. She wags her tail and paws my leg. I weaken
and give her some of the steak. Frog jumps off my bed and goes
under it. Weird dog.
Bored as I am today, I decide to watch Becca, Dad, and Mom drag
my sister's stuff to her car, so it can be driven to her new "home," a
lousy dorm. I'm never leaving my house. Never, ever. Home is home
and nothing else can ever replace home. Unless I fall in love with the
guy of my dreams who drives a yellow convertible and is very rich.
That way he can provide for all my needs.
Yeah right. I'll be staying home forever.
Mom and Becca nearly drop the TV Becca and Dad fought so hard
over. Dad yells nonsense at them. I yell at him to be quiet. He huffs
and stomps inside. Big baby.
When my bum gets cold enough from sitting on the drive, I go inside
to look at Becca's empty room. There's just her computer desk in the
corner. Her bed, wooden chest, posters, lamp, all of her stuff, excluding
her computer desk, are gone. I lean on the doorjamb, surveying the
mess my sister started.
She changed up everything. Now she won't be there to be blamed for
everything and nitpicked by Mom and Dad or to drive the Brat places.
The world's ending. My world, more specifically. I hyperventilate
quietly at this realization.
"I'm OK," I tell myself. Trying to convince myself of something is pretty
easy usually. "I'm all right." You're lying, part of me says. I think I'm
having trouble today. "I'm all right. It'll be fine." A big fat lie, another part
mutters. My skin prickles and I quiver more than shiver. I leave Becca's
"Austin," my name booms through the house. It's Dad. "Get a soft blanket."
He half-orders and half-asks. Becca's computer monitor. The blankets to
cover the computer screen, so it hopefully doesn't get scratched. I snatched
a blanket from the growing pile of laundry in the living room. Thank God
Frog hasn't decided to use it as a bathroom yet.
I nearly trip stopping at the front door. I run back and grab my bandana from
the pile. I was wondering where it went. Outside, I give Dad the blanket and
tie my fading bandana around my wrist. Becca leans close.
"You still have that thing?" she asked of my bandana, jabbing a pointy nail in
it's direction. It's a little ragged, faded, holey, so what? "Aren't you going to
buy a new one?" she makes a face with a raised eyebrow and squinched
eye. "Off with the old, old," she changed the quote to refer to my poor
bandana, "and in with something newer and less like that." She points at my
bandana. She smacks me heartily on the back.
She touched me. I fume a bit. I hate being touched for the most part. I don't
like being told what to do and people telling me not to do. Her telling me to
throw away my bandana calls for revenge and retribution. What to do to her?
What to do?
Mom and Dad wave toward the street. "Bye, Becca," they call. "Don't ever
come home again!" Dad yells and laughs, thinking his joke was funny. Mom
ignores him. I guess I can't get revenge. Darn. I wave to Becca as she finishes
backing out of the drive. She waves and honks, then laughs like a hyena. I
shudder. Her laugh is scary. I can't hear her, but I know what she sounds like.
The Brat runs out the front door and waves madly. I get bored with the whole
thing and go inside. I play a video game. Halo, I think. The aliens giggle and laugh,
making me grin. I vaguely wonder if Becca is sort of right about being "in with
something newer and less like that." That referring to the way I'm thinking about
her being gone. Maybe I should be happy about it?
Mom comes out of my room, causing my anger to flicker at her trespassing.
"Austin." So, it begins. I am now to be nitpicked. "Your room smells. Take out
your trash." Not too bad. She didn't bug me about all my walls being completely
covered in papers of drawings and bubble words. All of my art truly, well, sucks
and sucks badly.
I take out my trash, which does smell, and dump it in the big can outside. I twitch.
I swirl around on my heel to go inside. "Crappy crap, CRAP!" I mutter viciously to
myself. Becca is such a dork. She's right, and I know it. Ripping off my old
bandana, I toss it at the trashcan. It misses. I snatch it up and chunk it inside.
I am never, ever telling Becca that she was right. Ever.
SEE! I do finish what I start. It just takes awhile. Three months isn't too bad. Some people never update or don't update for years. So, what didja think of my prettiful writing? Not that sentence. It's full of errors. Just my story.
I'm happy. I hope you are all happy. If you aren't, then I pity you. Now send $15 to my email account through Paypal for reading my story. Credit cards only. Just kidding.