The Summer List

The music was loud in my ears, hurting in the type of way that managed to block everything else out. I felt myself go slowly numb as I became immersed in the lyrics. I had just reached the state of perfect oblivion when something small and hard hit the back of my head. My blood pressure soared, but I nonchalantly removed the headphones from my ears.

Everyone in the room was staring at me expectantly and I shrugged, "What?"

Mrs. Osbourne, the stereotype of an English teacher with her hooked nose and librarian-style glasses, frowned. "Thank you for joining us Charlotte. Now, what was the answer to number four?"

I looked around hastily for help and saw someone mouth the words, "A synonym!"

I looked Mrs. Osbourne in the eye and repeated confidently, "A synonym."

Her eyes narrowed for a moment, "So the Gettysburg Address was written by a synonym. Interesting." I blushed violently and dropped my head as the entire room burst into hysterical laughter. I would never hear the end of this one.

I entered my small house through the front door, dropping my book-bag in its usual place. The TV blared from the living room, although my mom wasn't sprawled out on the couch. I walked into the kitchen, feeling my stomach drop when I saw her holding a cup of coffee in one hand, the phone in her other. "I got a call from school." She spoke after a sip of coffee; I wasn't terribly surprised, Mrs. Osbourne wasn't the type to let anything go. Only fate would play so she would call on the one day my mom wasn't passed-out drunk; and they say God doesn't have a sense of humor.

Now you should know my mom has never taken anything in life seriously, regardless if she's drunk off her butt or not. Needless to say she thought it was absolutely hilarious that I had managed to make a complete idiot of myself in front of the entire class. "You must have gotten that part from your father." She commented absently. I tried to suppress a flinch. It had been almost a year since he'd ran out on us, and while my mom had no issue joking about it, every thought I had of him was like a lemon in a wound that refused to heal. I had always been close to my father, but one day he just packed up and left. No explanation, no mailing address, not even a real goodbye. I was still pulling myself together from it.

My mom looked at me with an expression laced with both pity and resentment; I didn't appreciate her weak attempt at parenting.

I knew she wanted to say more, but instead I walked down the hall to my room. Kicking off my shoes and tossing my unused phone into the nightstand, I was finally able to collapse onto my bed in a flurry of pillows. My collection of pillows rivals the population of people in China--my mom seems to think I have a 'problem'.

I buried my face in an exceptionally soft one, feeling the onset of unconsciousness; I let the haven of sleep envelop me.