7
Haven
Fifteen beautifully writtenbooks with thick plots and details that make me believe I am anywhere but here in the damned backyard with nothing but an acre of Bermuda grass, has defined the last four weeks of my summer break. Now that the mosquitos have overpopulated, threatening all of us with the West Nile virus, I've been inside for the final days before the school year starts back up.
I close the final book I intended to read this summer and stand up with a destination in mind. Not that there's much of a choice, but it's either the sitting room or my bedroom. I try to switch it up, so I don't go completely insane.
"Haven," Mom says, joining me on the couch. "The summer fair is tonight. You know we have to be present, and I would really like it if you joined us for this event.” I know they consider me to be an obnoxious teenager with as much as I say no, but I’ve stuck firm to my beliefs.
My automatic response quickly rolls off the tip of my tongue. "I've got plans, plus aren’t we getting a hurricane?"
With a sigh of aggravation, her only reply is, "For crying out loud, do you have plans with your bedroom or something?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact." She finally understands my sarcasm.
"How about a compromise?" she presses. “Remember when you were a little girl and we went to the town fair every summer? You used to love the cotton candy and that magic carpet slide. Oh, and how could I forget the ring toss. You were the only little girl in our county who was able to win her own prize without the help of your daddy.” Her reminiscing pains me with the memories I have tried hard to block out. Doesn’t she understand that while I did have a great childhood, they ruined everything from five years ago up until now?
Refusing to crack and trip with her down memory lane, I push every last word away, focusing on what’s important. "What is the compromise? I can come if I don't say a word?"
She huffs with annoyance as grief settles on her face. She caused this. They caused this. Not me. "Lord almighty, you could start an argument in an empty house, couldn’t you now? I was going to say…you can wear what you want if it's tasteful."
Is this when I'm supposed to say, “I win.”?
"Fine," I tell her. "I'll go with you if we aren’t hit by the hurricane."See how simple that was, Mom? All you had to do was loosen the collar a bit.
"You will?" she asks, clearly elated. “The forecast said the rain isn’t starting until late tonight, if at all, so we should be just fine.”
"I've told you a million times. I refuse to be seen in public wearing the frilly shit you want me to put on. You give a little and get a little, right?” I know my mouth pisses her off as much as my choice of clothing, but she has forgotten the way she and Dad used to talk to each other, back in the day, before we all became something the public wanted to bow down to. Mom had a mouth that only a sailor would be proud of. That's what Dad always told her, anyway. The conversations and arguments I grew up listening to were impressionable, and since moving here, they've expected me to forget all of it. Except, for me, it's been like forgetting the language I spoke while growing up.
"I'm going to ignore the words coming from your dirty mouth and assume you will act appropriately while with us tonight," she responds.
"I'll just speak when spoken to. That should prevent anything foul from coming out of my mouth."
Mom's eyes roll toward the back of her head, and she stands up from our firm, white couch, straightening her daytime dress over her hips. "We're leaving in two hours."
"Mother," I say, forcing her to pause before leaving the room.
"Yes, dear?"
"Why do you dress and act like some 50's housewife? Do you actually think that's what the people in this town want to look up to? I mean, you give the appearance that you actually do housework, but what people don't realize is, you have someone doing all of that work for you." I can see it on her face. She'd like to slap me right now for speaking the truth, but she knows better.
"Why are you always so ungrateful? Have you forgotten what our lives were like five years ago?" she asks, as if I needed the reminder of what we left behind.
With a snicker, I do my best to keep my feelings to myself and offer just a bit of insight in return. "I haven't forgotten my roots. I'm not sure I can say the same for you, however."
Exasperated, she slaps her gloved hands down against her sides and purses her lips with anger. "Haven, be ready in two hours."
As she walks out of the sitting room, her fingers pinch at her right shoulder, a habit she has when she's upset or nervous. I've kept my mouth shut for too long.
I make my way into my bedroom and slip on a pair of jeans without holes, with a white tiered shirt that covers my shoulders. This is my effort, and they can take or leave it.
As I'm tying my hair up into a tight ponytail, Mom walks by my open room, inspecting my clothing option. "Why not let your hair down? A skirt would also look much nicer than denim." She just can't control herself.
"I'm fine the way I am," I tell her.
"Could you at least put on some lip gloss and maybe even a little mascara?" If only she knew the way I dressed for my little night outings, she’d never ask me to put on lip-gloss or mascara again.
"No, I can't," I tell her. She won't say it to my face, but I know exactly what she's thinking. She’s either wondering if this was a big mistake, agreeing to compromise, or she's accepting the fact that she will feel mortified when people look at her unkempt daughter, ultimately judging her for my appearance.
