That Awkward Moment Between Your Birth And Your Death
Lucky and Unlucky Days
August 25
The first week of school was, in a word, mundane. It seems that I’m still in a hateful relationship with Chamberlain High School.
Nina still hasn’t spoken to me. She’s in my lunch period. She and her friends sit at the picnic tables on the opposite side of the courtyard. I send her accusing glances every once in a while. Sometimes she looks back in a disdainful, stop-that-already kind of way but I’m not giving up. If I do one thing before I graduate, it’ll be to find out what happened in her head to make her not want to be my friend anymore.
The only reprieve from gray walls and monotone teachers talking about things I don’t care about is art class with Mr. Avon. He is amazing. The brooding kid from lunch transferred into the class on the second day of school which made me slightly uncomfortable but he’s never speaks so the tension was gone by the end of the week.
We have only one assignment a week in the class and they’re assigned on Monday and due the following Monday. Our first assignment was a self portrait that depicts only our physical features. We weren’t allowed to throw in clues about our personality. I decided to paint my self portrait and ended up having to take my canvas home over the weekend.
Saturday is the day of the athlete at the Whitmaker household. All day my parents are out carting this one and that one to a soccer game or a softball game or a whatever game. All of my siblings participate in a sport of some kind so there is never a free second on Saturday for anything other than sports. When I was younger my parents would make me come with them to the games, but now that I’m at an age where the threats of me setting the house on fire or accidentally drowning myself in the pool are not a concern they leave me at home.
So, every Saturday since I was maybe 13, I wake up around 10, open the balcony door in my room, blast music, and paint and reflect on the nonsense of the previous week until my family comes home for dinner.
This Saturday I worked on my self-portrait and listened to Circa Survive’s Blue Sky Noise on repeat.
I finished my painting around 5 then watched TV until around 6 when my family got home with Chinese take-out in hand. I tried to take my share of the chicken chow mein up to my room but my mother stopped me and insisted that I sit at the kitchen table with the family because we are, in fact, a family.
Thanks, Mom.
Despite thinking that my mother’s idea of quality time is complete bullshit, I ate dinner with the family with only the small protest of a dissatisfied grunt. My mother chattered happily on and on about which siblings won a game or made a good effort or scored a goal. I didn’t listen and just stared at my noodles and wonder if my chicken was actually cat meat. I don’t like to listen to my mother talk because I tend to get really annoyed with her. I took a glance at my dad, and saw that he wasn’t paying attention to her either. When everyone was done eating and my mother was done talking about sports, she said the impossible, “Zola, you‘ve been home all day, you should do the dishes.”
To which I responded, without skipping a beat, “No, thanks.”
My mother likes to laugh at me whenever I say something with the intention of being a pain in the ass. So, she did that then said, “Oh, Zola, you are just so funny. Come on now, clear the table and wash the dishes.”
I got up from the table and started walking away. “I wasn‘t trying to be funny. You should do the dishes, mother.”
My mother was instantly outraged and said what every stereotypical parent of a teenager says. “When you get a job and start contributing to this household, then you can start telling me what to do!”
That’s a really funny thing for my mom to say considering she doesn’t have a job herself but nevertheless, on Sunday I borrowed my brother’s car and went job hunting. What I found was that options are very limited for a 16 year old. The only place that was hiring as well as accepting applications from minors was a little bookstore, that was actually called The Little Bookstore, a few streets away from my school. I applied there then returned home a little sad that I wouldn’t get to see my mothers face when I told her I had a job and could now boss her around because she doesn‘t think before she speaks.
I love my mom, I really do. But most of the time she is so superficial and her personality is so contrived that I can’t stand her. She is the epitome of a social climber. She plays tennis at a country club and invites people to our house for cocktails. We have a second living room in our house that none of the kids are allowed to step foot in because it’s for ‘entertaining’. She’s the president of the PTA and acts likes it’s a very important position even though I have never heard of the PTA actually doing something other than existing. She drives a mini-van because she thinks it makes her look like a good mom. She’s self-important and it pisses me off. And that’s why I give her a hard time.
When I got home from my job hunting expedition, I went straight up to my room and starting getting stuff ready for school the next day. I had been home for maybe one hour when the house phone rang. One of my sisters called me downstairs and said the call was for me. It was the manager from the bookstore calling to say that I’d gotten the job and asking if I could start the next day. I said yes but that I have school until 2:30. He asked me to be at the store at 4.
“Who was that on the phone?” My mom asked me after I hung up.
“My new boss. I got a job at The Little Bookstore on 5th Street. Go do the dishes, Mom.” I spoke in a flippant voice even though I was jumping for joy inside.
The combination of shock and irritation on my mother’s face was as sweet as I thought it would be.
--
August 27
I think I hate Mr. Avon a little bit now.
Everyone in the class handed in their projects as they walked into his class. We piled them on a desk near the door . There was a list on the board, with a column A and a column B and names written under each. He asked everyone in column A to sit on the left side of the room and everyone in column B to sit on the right side. I was in column A.
“You all are going to have partners for a few projects this year. Your partner will be the same person for all of those projects. Now, I know some of you are friends with each other so we‘re going to leave the partner choosing up to fate.” He motioned to a glass bowl sitting on his desk that had white slips of paper in them.
“Everyone in column A‘s name is in this bowl. Everyone in column B will choose a slip of paper. No whining, no trading. If any of you guys hate me for this, too bad! Alright, let’s do this. Sit next to your partner when they call your name.” He picked up the bowl and started walking around the right side of the room.
The first person to pick was an Asian girl named Mary who loves using charcoal in her work. She left class on Friday with a charcoal handprint on her cheek. She didn’t pick me.
Then was Derek. He loves manga and likes to draw almost everything in that style. He had a really hard time making his self-portrait look like himself. He didn’t pick me.
Then was Caleb. I can actually tolerate him. He always wears this denim jacket that has a patch from that band AFI on the left shoulder. He didn’t pick me.
Then was Taylor. She slept in class everyday but she did turn in a project today so I guess she just does her work at home. I’m glad she didn’t pick me.
Well, I was glad until I saw who was last.
Brooding kid from lunch was the only person left to pick.
Even though he really didn’t need to, he reached in the bowl and pull out the single slip of paper inside.
“Whitmaker.”
Well, shit.
The first week of school was, in a word, mundane. It seems that I’m still in a hateful relationship with Chamberlain High School.
Nina still hasn’t spoken to me. She’s in my lunch period. She and her friends sit at the picnic tables on the opposite side of the courtyard. I send her accusing glances every once in a while. Sometimes she looks back in a disdainful, stop-that-already kind of way but I’m not giving up. If I do one thing before I graduate, it’ll be to find out what happened in her head to make her not want to be my friend anymore.
The only reprieve from gray walls and monotone teachers talking about things I don’t care about is art class with Mr. Avon. He is amazing. The brooding kid from lunch transferred into the class on the second day of school which made me slightly uncomfortable but he’s never speaks so the tension was gone by the end of the week.
We have only one assignment a week in the class and they’re assigned on Monday and due the following Monday. Our first assignment was a self portrait that depicts only our physical features. We weren’t allowed to throw in clues about our personality. I decided to paint my self portrait and ended up having to take my canvas home over the weekend.
Saturday is the day of the athlete at the Whitmaker household. All day my parents are out carting this one and that one to a soccer game or a softball game or a whatever game. All of my siblings participate in a sport of some kind so there is never a free second on Saturday for anything other than sports. When I was younger my parents would make me come with them to the games, but now that I’m at an age where the threats of me setting the house on fire or accidentally drowning myself in the pool are not a concern they leave me at home.
So, every Saturday since I was maybe 13, I wake up around 10, open the balcony door in my room, blast music, and paint and reflect on the nonsense of the previous week until my family comes home for dinner.
This Saturday I worked on my self-portrait and listened to Circa Survive’s Blue Sky Noise on repeat.
I finished my painting around 5 then watched TV until around 6 when my family got home with Chinese take-out in hand. I tried to take my share of the chicken chow mein up to my room but my mother stopped me and insisted that I sit at the kitchen table with the family because we are, in fact, a family.
Thanks, Mom.
Despite thinking that my mother’s idea of quality time is complete bullshit, I ate dinner with the family with only the small protest of a dissatisfied grunt. My mother chattered happily on and on about which siblings won a game or made a good effort or scored a goal. I didn’t listen and just stared at my noodles and wonder if my chicken was actually cat meat. I don’t like to listen to my mother talk because I tend to get really annoyed with her. I took a glance at my dad, and saw that he wasn’t paying attention to her either. When everyone was done eating and my mother was done talking about sports, she said the impossible, “Zola, you‘ve been home all day, you should do the dishes.”
To which I responded, without skipping a beat, “No, thanks.”
My mother likes to laugh at me whenever I say something with the intention of being a pain in the ass. So, she did that then said, “Oh, Zola, you are just so funny. Come on now, clear the table and wash the dishes.”
I got up from the table and started walking away. “I wasn‘t trying to be funny. You should do the dishes, mother.”
My mother was instantly outraged and said what every stereotypical parent of a teenager says. “When you get a job and start contributing to this household, then you can start telling me what to do!”
That’s a really funny thing for my mom to say considering she doesn’t have a job herself but nevertheless, on Sunday I borrowed my brother’s car and went job hunting. What I found was that options are very limited for a 16 year old. The only place that was hiring as well as accepting applications from minors was a little bookstore, that was actually called The Little Bookstore, a few streets away from my school. I applied there then returned home a little sad that I wouldn’t get to see my mothers face when I told her I had a job and could now boss her around because she doesn‘t think before she speaks.
I love my mom, I really do. But most of the time she is so superficial and her personality is so contrived that I can’t stand her. She is the epitome of a social climber. She plays tennis at a country club and invites people to our house for cocktails. We have a second living room in our house that none of the kids are allowed to step foot in because it’s for ‘entertaining’. She’s the president of the PTA and acts likes it’s a very important position even though I have never heard of the PTA actually doing something other than existing. She drives a mini-van because she thinks it makes her look like a good mom. She’s self-important and it pisses me off. And that’s why I give her a hard time.
When I got home from my job hunting expedition, I went straight up to my room and starting getting stuff ready for school the next day. I had been home for maybe one hour when the house phone rang. One of my sisters called me downstairs and said the call was for me. It was the manager from the bookstore calling to say that I’d gotten the job and asking if I could start the next day. I said yes but that I have school until 2:30. He asked me to be at the store at 4.
“Who was that on the phone?” My mom asked me after I hung up.
“My new boss. I got a job at The Little Bookstore on 5th Street. Go do the dishes, Mom.” I spoke in a flippant voice even though I was jumping for joy inside.
The combination of shock and irritation on my mother’s face was as sweet as I thought it would be.
--
August 27
I think I hate Mr. Avon a little bit now.
Everyone in the class handed in their projects as they walked into his class. We piled them on a desk near the door . There was a list on the board, with a column A and a column B and names written under each. He asked everyone in column A to sit on the left side of the room and everyone in column B to sit on the right side. I was in column A.
“You all are going to have partners for a few projects this year. Your partner will be the same person for all of those projects. Now, I know some of you are friends with each other so we‘re going to leave the partner choosing up to fate.” He motioned to a glass bowl sitting on his desk that had white slips of paper in them.
“Everyone in column A‘s name is in this bowl. Everyone in column B will choose a slip of paper. No whining, no trading. If any of you guys hate me for this, too bad! Alright, let’s do this. Sit next to your partner when they call your name.” He picked up the bowl and started walking around the right side of the room.
The first person to pick was an Asian girl named Mary who loves using charcoal in her work. She left class on Friday with a charcoal handprint on her cheek. She didn’t pick me.
Then was Derek. He loves manga and likes to draw almost everything in that style. He had a really hard time making his self-portrait look like himself. He didn’t pick me.
Then was Caleb. I can actually tolerate him. He always wears this denim jacket that has a patch from that band AFI on the left shoulder. He didn’t pick me.
Then was Taylor. She slept in class everyday but she did turn in a project today so I guess she just does her work at home. I’m glad she didn’t pick me.
Well, I was glad until I saw who was last.
Brooding kid from lunch was the only person left to pick.
Even though he really didn’t need to, he reached in the bowl and pull out the single slip of paper inside.
“Whitmaker.”
Well, shit.