You Belong To Me
We stood in silence, two teenagers forced to pretend to be happy about the arrangement.
We stared each other down, neither of us willing to give.
He was pouting slightly and it really bothered me; he was older than I was, if only by a year or two, but he was acting like the baby.
My dad elbowed me and I gritted my teeth and smiled.
"Bonjour, Je m'appelle Adamé," I said, as politely as I could through my teeth.
That boy just stared at me until his mom cleared her throat.
"Speak proper English, yeah?" he said bitterly.
"You don't even speak proper English!" I snarled.
There was a short, if loud, argument, both our parents tried to calm us down, he stalked off to his room and a distant door slam followed.
I, of course, would have run off to my room too, if I would have known where it was.
Instead, I stood awkwardly between my dad and Carol and turned completely red.
"Just give it time," Carol insisted, frowning and sighing to herself, "He seems a little brusque now, but he just needs to get used to it."
That was three weeks ago.
Nothing had progressed.
Don't get me wrong, Carol was wonderful and she made my dad so ridiculously happy, but that little punk of hers was 3 steps from Satan.
He was 19 years old and covered in tattoos all down his neck and arms, his hair was always in his eyes and he was always either pouting or scowling.
I'd only seen his friends and bandmates a few times in the house, but they looked just as messy as he was, and they were always going out somewhere.
When he was home, he was holed up in his room, blasting music all the way down the hall to my room.
Occasionally, Carol would come up, knock his door, he'd hand her a box and she would leave.
I found it weird but I kept quiet about it nonetheless.
This whole arrangement was weird.
I didn't quite call it home, but the plaque above the front door called it just what it was, "The Sykes-Deaucoup family."
We stared each other down, neither of us willing to give.
He was pouting slightly and it really bothered me; he was older than I was, if only by a year or two, but he was acting like the baby.
My dad elbowed me and I gritted my teeth and smiled.
"Bonjour, Je m'appelle Adamé," I said, as politely as I could through my teeth.
That boy just stared at me until his mom cleared her throat.
"Speak proper English, yeah?" he said bitterly.
"You don't even speak proper English!" I snarled.
There was a short, if loud, argument, both our parents tried to calm us down, he stalked off to his room and a distant door slam followed.
I, of course, would have run off to my room too, if I would have known where it was.
Instead, I stood awkwardly between my dad and Carol and turned completely red.
"Just give it time," Carol insisted, frowning and sighing to herself, "He seems a little brusque now, but he just needs to get used to it."
That was three weeks ago.
Nothing had progressed.
Don't get me wrong, Carol was wonderful and she made my dad so ridiculously happy, but that little punk of hers was 3 steps from Satan.
He was 19 years old and covered in tattoos all down his neck and arms, his hair was always in his eyes and he was always either pouting or scowling.
I'd only seen his friends and bandmates a few times in the house, but they looked just as messy as he was, and they were always going out somewhere.
When he was home, he was holed up in his room, blasting music all the way down the hall to my room.
Occasionally, Carol would come up, knock his door, he'd hand her a box and she would leave.
I found it weird but I kept quiet about it nonetheless.
This whole arrangement was weird.
I didn't quite call it home, but the plaque above the front door called it just what it was, "The Sykes-Deaucoup family."