Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
* * *
Weston
Arriving home after a shitty afternoon practice, I bust through the laundry room door and let my hockey gear fall to the ground with a clamorous thud, and it unceremoniously hits the wall. I kick my athletic flip-flops off and throw my hoodie onto a wall hook.
It misses and lands in a heap on the floor.
Wincing when I accidentally smash my shoulder on the doorjamb, I’m rubbing it as I walk into the kitchen, surprised to see my dad standing at the refrigerator. He looks up from digging. “What the hell’s with all the ruckus? If you put a dent in the drywall from banging all your shit around, Mom’s going to be pissed.”
“What are you doing home?” I ask, ignoring his statement. I swing open a cupboard door to grab a glass, filling it with the orange juice my dad has set out on the counter.
“Mom has a dentist appointment, so I grabbed Kendall from school.” He looks me over before continuing. “How was practice?”
“Fine. Same shit, different day.” Downing the OJ, I’m irritated and he can tell.
“Well that’s the winning attitude your mom and I like to see.” He rips open a yogurt and throws the top in the trash. “What crawled up your ass?”
Instead of answering, I refill my glass and take another swig.
“Are you going to tell me what happened at practice, or do we have to stand here all day bullshitting each other?”
“Jeez, does everyone have to ride my nuts?” My dad just stares at me undeterred. He isn’t going to let this go. I slouch against the counter, letting my body sag from exhaustion. “It was just a scrimmage, but you know, it was with Whitnall, and they can be real bastards, so we spent the whole damn game fending off high sticks and, as usual, Danberry picked a few fights after someone checked him into the rails.”
Again, Dad stares at me. “So I’m gonna ask you again: what is your real problem? And don’t tell me it was practice. Is it more shit with that Wakefield girl? Because you know better than to go moping around this house like a goddamn pussy because you let some girl get into your head…”
I slam down my glass, thankful it doesn’t break, and storm out of the kitchen.
“Don’t you walk away from me, god dammit. Get your ass back here now so we can talk about this,” my dad bellows, his deep baritone voice vibrating through the first floor of the house. From upstairs I can hear a bedroom door open, and Kendall’s head appears from around the banister railing.
“Oooh, oooh, you are in troublllle…” she sings in a loud whisper. I roll my eyes, pivoting to stalk back into the kitchen for a confrontation.
The temptation to punch a wall is overwhelming, but instead I lean lazily against the counter, crossing my arms and projecting an I don’t give a shit what you’re about to say attitude.
My dad points an index finger at me. “Look, I don’t give a shit if you’re going to date or not”—I snort when he says this—“but once you let it affect your schoolwork or your game, you’re done.”
Now I’m rolling my eyes.
“Don’t fucking stand there and roll your eyes at me, and don’t tell me this girl hasn’t gotten into your head. Since when do you come home throwing shit around the house and being disrespectful? Huh?”
“Big deal if I tossed my shit down. I had a shitty day, what do you care?”
My dad studies me for a while without responding, and it finally makes me so uncomfortable, I cross and uncross my arms a few times while I’m standing there in defense mode.
My dad continues, “You’re going to stand there and ask why I care? Who do you think paid for all those hockey lessons and ran you to practice? Do you think that was a goddamn cake walk?” He pauses. “Now, without getting all pissed off, tell me what’s really going on with you.” He leans back against the fridge and crosses his arms so he’s mirroring me, and I can’t help but feel like I’m looking into my own future. I actually find myself wondering if someday I’ll be lecturing my own kid about the same stupid crap.
Running my palm down the front of my face, I have no actual idea where to start, so I say, “This actually has nothing to do with…” Oh Christ, why is it so hard to say her name? “Molly. It mostly has to do with, I don’t know…other people giving me shit about her. Hockey. School.” Dad is nodding his head slowly and not saying anything, so I take this as a good sign and continue. “So, I always have all these girls after me, right, which has always driven me crazy, nothing new there, but now that I’ve gone out with someone and we really hit it off…and all these other girls haven’t gone away…and my friends are such assholes. It’s just…” I let out a loud, frustrated “Gruuuhhh!” that actually comes out sounding like a grunt and a scream.