For what it's worth

In loving memory of Karin and Elisabeth – you left me way too soon.

”I’ll kill you!”
Don’t you just love when you get woken up to a brand new lovely day by your little angel-like brother? Yeah, I would too.
It was starting off like one of those days, nothing worth a future reflection. It was just going down to history as another dreadful day in my teenage life. And my brother had decided to spoil it for me even before I’d had a chance to get out of bed. Those days usually began with the phrase “Wake up, bitch” the he oh so many times had used when he came in to my room every morning, as his daily routine. As this morning was no exception, I ended up having to chase him out of my room since he started to snoop around my stuff. I’d realized that there was no point in telling mom. She usually came up with excuses for him, for example by trying to explain to me why a little boy found girls’ rooms so interesting. I thought it was more effective to kick him out myself. Sometimes I added threats of killing him and swore about how much I hated him.
“Alright, alright! I’m out.”
Tristan (yes, that’s his name... I feel sorry for him) held up his hands in surrender. He gave me a smirk, standing behind the threshold he knew he wasn’t allowed to pass.
“Man, chill out. I was just waking you up.”
I hated when he did that. Defending the indefensible. All he wanted was to piss me off, which was even more provoking.
“I have an alarm clock, thank you very much. Now get the fuck away from here.”
And as every morning, our conversation ended with me slamming the door shut right in front of his face. I crept back to bed, even though it was just for another five minutes. I’d have to get my ass off to school, be a fairly good girl and do what I was expected to do. Simple, right? Hah. My legs felt heavy just by the thought of getting back up. The sun lighted up my room, reminding me that it needed some proper cleaning. With some groans I heaved myself up from bed again, slithered towards my closet. Fact: I’m not a morning person. I never was and I never will be. Surely, a lot of girls, and even boys, in my age got up early in the mornings to fix their hair, clothes, makeup and everything. But for me – I simply couldn’t be arsed.
And what about the difficult clothes-selection? My closet wasn’t filled with the latest fashion, to tell you the truth. The clothes could easily be taken for a boy’s. I found my worn-out jeans and a hoodie to go with, that was pretty much it. A quick glance at myself in the mirror to be sure that I looked alright. Presentable, I’d say. I was never the one with great complexes because of my looks. Of course I wouldn’t call myself a beauty, but not ugly either. That would suit some others better.
My hair was an easy fix – I had cut it pretty short just the week before, much to my mothers’ dismay. I ruffled it, not caring too much about how it looked, while deciding not to use any makeup. I rarely did anyway.
At last, ready to face a new day in the sunny California – as ready as you can be with a strong desire to go back to bed and piles of homework undone, I flung my bag over my shoulder and marched downstairs.

Mom was up, busy serving Tristan breakfast. She was always up early, fixing everything for the rest of us. Now, my brother and I weren’t necessarily lazy, mom was just a sort of self-proclaimed slave around the house. She didn’t have a job, but still got up earlier than everyone else to make breakfast and stuff.
I felt her observing every inch of me as I went over to a cabinet and took out a glass. Not until I’d poured up some juice, I turned around to meet her eyes. She quickly looked away, and I was really annoyed by her weird behaviour. She always did that, checking out my every move. All I had to do was to stare back at her, not even having to pronounce a peevish “what?!”, and she turned her head away, still stating her disapproval of my clothing or anything.
I sat down with my glass of juice, not feeling any hunger or appetite. Especially not while watching Tristan gorging himself on icky coco puffs, or whatever original name they have. I never had much for breakfast. Don’t get the wrong idea, don’t even think about the word anorectic. I could stuff myself with food, just not for breakfast. Thankfully, my mom had stopped nagging about it. Still, there was always something worrying her. As of this morning:
“Maria, why aren’t you talking to us anymore?”
I was puzzled. I looked at her and she tilted her head a bit, looking back at me with concern. Or maybe she was just saying it to avert all anxiety from herself.
“’Cause she’s emo.” Tristan blurted out from where he was sitting beside me.
Emo? I came to think about that guy in my English class. People called him emo. He was a bit weird, always dressed in all black and had a freakish hairstyle. Didn’t say much, kind of a loner.
“What’s emo?” my mom wanted to know.
But mom didn’t get an explanation. She hated when we did that, I know. We shut her out. This was between Tristan and me now. I watched his scornful smile, I was looking indifferent to his mocking. He waited for my comeback.
“Whatever.”
There was no point in arguing with my brother. It always made mom go all nervous… Did I tell you that my mom’s pretty weird?
Mom has always had this vision of the Perfect Family. She’s seen it as her duty to keep the family together with an over-optimistic view at everything. She’s never failed to keep the house clean one day, show up for parents’ meetings at school or have the dinner ready ‘til 5. But it’s a long time ago people stopped calling her “Supermom”. Some used to say that she was a perfectionist, a label she couldn’t determine whether to like or not. She’s a neat woman and responsible mother alright, but the sad truth is that she has always been run over by people. It’s like she’s scared of getting abandoned for standing up for herself. She’s afraid of telling people off. For instance, she has never yelled at my brother and me properly. And she never had the guts to confront dad about him “working overtime” most days, “coincidentally” the same nights as his secretary. It was hard to just watch her at times when she acted as if everything was alright, as if it wasn’t obvious to everyone that things were fucked up.
She was unusually quiet this morning, and seemed to be in deep thoughts. But then, out of the blue, she said:
“Sandra’s getting married.”
Now where had I heard that name before? I had to think for a minute. It didn’t help.
“Who?”
“Your cousin!”
“Oh.”
Mom scowled at me. Well, excuse me. It wasn’t like any of us had much contact with our relatives.
“Right... I knew that.” I defensively snorted back at her.
Tristan was up on his feet now, and I knew I had to get going if I wouldn’t be late for school again. Both of us knew the outcome of this. We kind of hurried to the front door, trying to escape it. But mom wouldn’t let us. She wasn’t finished.
“So we’re going. Tonight actually.”
Heavy sighs. This wasn’t what we wanted to hear. Reluctantly, we turned back to her.
“Where?” I asked.
“To the wedding.”
“No shit.” I grunted, rolling my eyes. “I mean, where is it?”
“Down in Berkeley somewhere. We’ll spend the night there. It’ll be nice.”
I frowned at her statement, defiantly crossing my arms. Going on a stupid ceremony of a cousin I’ve barely ever met will be nice? I beg to differ.
“And you couldn’t have told us this a little bit earlier?” I said, glaring at her.
“I suppose I could. But then you would not have wanted to go anyway, would you?”
Mom always tried to avoid upsetting me, but this was annoying the hell out of me. I didn’t want to spend my weekend in Berkeley. I had better things to do. Like sitting in my room all day and philosophise. Whatever.
A cousin getting married. It couldn’t get much worse than this. Weddings equals family getting together, mingling with people you had the unfortunate to be related to. Not to mention the worst part; dresses. I’m not sure that I ever left the obstinate age, no one has got me into a dress since I was five. One of my aunts was to get married when I was about twelve, though luck must have been on my side back then. That wedding was postponed. Still is by the way...
Now being as old as I am, seventeen, I wasn’t likely to be off the hook this time. There would be a lot swearing and throwing tantrums from my side, and everyone knew it. I wouldn’t give in without a fight. Naturally, my immediate respond was:
“I’m not wearing a dress.”
Mom was well prepared for my contradiction. She simply ignored the argument I was about to instigate.
“I found a nice one the other day. I’ve kept it in my closet. You’ll like it.”
Not only was she telling me that I was forced to wear a dress, she had already got one for me behind my back. I was pretty mad by then.
“Is it pink?” Tristan grinned, whereupon I smacked him on the head.

Off to school we went. Tristan and I both had this stupid habit of pretending that we didn’t know each other when we were out in public. It seems pretty lame and sad when I think about it, and I guess it is. What’s even more sad, and lame, is that I don’t know why we did it. Were we embarrassed of each other? I’d like to think we weren’t, but I really don’t know. Either way, it always started as soon as we got out of the house. School was within walking distance for us. We went to different schools, which made it even easier for us to avoid each other. Just down the corner of the street, our paths were separated. We didn’t say goodbye, let alone wish each other a good day. Tristan flipped me off sometimes though, if he was in the mood for that. This morning however, he was kind enough not to do so. He met up with a friend further down the road, and I sauntered the other way. The neighborhood was waking up. As I walked passed the houses, it was the same scene as every morning around this time. Fretful kids were stowed into cars, crying for being dumped at the day-care by their parents. The old, aggravated pit-bull growled behind its fence, though one would’ve thought that it should be familiar with me from all the millions of times I’d walked the same path. Even the postman was right on time, as always, which almost pissed me off. This whole punctual scene could make me crazy.
I desperately wanted out sometimes. I wanted out of Sacramento, my hometown since forever. Where to was the question. I didn’t know. I never knew what I wanted, what I longed for that I didn’t have. Just changes I suppose. Something to break the pattern. Getting away from the same old same old. There were days when I didn’t even get out of bed. Practically didn’t care about the outside world or even if I was dead or alive. Some would say that I was self-absorbed. Well, my parents did when I rejected family dinners for going out with friends. So I chose to have fun instead of doing what people wanted me to do – sue me. Every day was the same as the other, and I was just bored of it all.

Fridays at Valley high - all people did here was to wait for the schooldays to end. I didn’t fancy school at all. Nothing really interested me and perhaps the lack of motivation was what made me a bit irresponsible in my studies. I just couldn’t see the point in doing stupid algebra or have chemistry lessons or whatever if you weren’t interested in it. My grades weren’t that great, though I managed alright. I guess. When I gave it some effort. It happened that teachers caught me sleeping in classes or cheating (once) on a test, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. On occasions I had skipped classes simply because of boredom. I suppose it felt cool the first couple of times, you know, doing things you shouldn’t feels great sometimes. But then I couldn’t see a point in doing that either. I didn’t really do anything anyway so I might at well attend the classes.
It was packed in the corridors this morning as I made my way to my locker. I knew I was late for class, but didn’t exactly feel stressed out. History was on the schedule – not a reason for me to rush. I looked around, and purposely let time pass as I slowly started to rummage my locker for my books. Schoolbooks weren’t the majority of what the locker contained though. It was stacked with old magazines, broken mp3s, old notes that had been passed between friends during dreary lessons... Pretty much anything.
“Hey!” I heard someone behind me.
I spun around, only to realize that I wasn’t being greeted, but a girl a few feet away. With a shrug I returned to the search of my history books.
I was never one of the “popular” girls (or how you want it), but it wasn’t something that bothered me. I don’t know about other girls at my school, but I’ve never had a desire to become a cheerleader or Homecoming Queen. Presumably, many girls in my age had their minds filled with fashion, friends, boys, sex or whatever. I didn’t care too much about anything to be honest. It was not that I was an outsider, I got along with pretty much everyone. I had no enemies. I had few real friends though. There was Rachel, my best friend who was always there and other people who were cool to hang out with sometimes. Other than that I didn’t have much going on.
Finally I found the books I was looking for, carelessly chucked into my locker, hidden under all the junk. I was just about to lock up again, when a sudden bang scared me half to death. For a split second I could discern a bouncing basketball from the corner of my eye. Quickly, I turned around once again to see what was going on.
“Nathan, you jerk!”
“Awe, I’ve missed you too.” he replied, looking guilty with the ball in his hands.
How sick you can get of all the stupid smirks you’re given when you’re having a bad day. He was just standing there, silly as ever.
Nathan is a British “lad” who moved to Sacramento with his father, for what reason I honestly can’t be bothered to remember. I’m not sure why or how he ended up hanging around (with) me and Rachel. It must have been last year when he got here that he joined the two of us. Uninvited at first frankly, but we didn’t mind. Everyone was fond of Nathan, more or less. He could be pretty funny sometimes, either because of the jokes he usually pulled off or the London accent we used to tease him for.
Rachel had claimed that Nathan in fact had a “thing” for me. Whether that was true or not, I didn’t dare to ask him. After hearing that rumour, that probably still was going around, I have to admit that I had started to feel a bit awkward around him. I’m sure he didn’t know what I’d heard. He acted like normal, which itself almost confirmed the rumours. He had always been extra nice to me, even asked me out on weekends. I used to bring more friends along, or “ditch” him for something else. Sometimes I simply tried to avoid him. I didn’t want to ruin a friendship by getting together as a couple. To be honest I couldn’t picture him as a boyfriend and I didn’t like him that way. I’d be glad just to stay friends with him. I won’t deny that it was good for my ego though.
“So how’re you today?” Nathan now asked, trying to keep up with me as I ran down the hall.
I wasn’t paying much attention to him, I must admit that he is a bit persistent at times. I shrugged a little, and snorted as I thought about my mothers’ plans for the weekend.
“Not too good, eh?”
I slowed down the last few steps and let out a sigh.
“Well...” I began, doing my best to imitate his British accent. “Despite the fact that my weekend is ruined because a cousin of mine had to get married tomorrow of all days, that I’m going to spend an hour’s drive in the backseat with my dim-witted brother and, on top of that, I have to wear a bloody dress... I’m smashingly good, thank you.”
He looked at me, still with a grin on his face. I glared back at him, to underscore that it actually was a horrible weekend coming up. But why did I even bother? Why would he understand?
“I’m sure you’ll look fit in a dress.” he said jokingly, but I did notice something dreamy in his eyes.
Nathan had a weird charm that many girls adored, but I never seemed to fall for it. He actually creeped me out at times.
“Shut up.” I snapped, and opened the door to the classroom.
What an entrance. All eyes on me, of course. However, I’m not the type of person who’s bothered by that.
Mr. Robson, the middle-aged history teacher, was a man with pretty slow reaction skills. He was standing at his desk, lecturing a half-sleeping class, and he was the only one who didn’t notice me at first. But then he turned around, staring at me for quite a while. This was where I was expected to whisper an excuse for my late arrival, and quietly sneak over to a seat. I knew everyone waited for it. But that’s not how I do it.
“’Morning.” I said, and curtseyed before sauntering over to a seat in the back beside Rachel.
I was kind of mocking Mr. Robson and I knew it pissed him off. He raised his voice, like he always did when he got irritated, while getting back to ancient epochs and trying to regain the students’ attention. But it was too early in the morning for me to listen to his dull teaching. Hell, it was always either too early, late or uninteresting for me.
Rachel gave me a funny look as I sat down on the chair and heaved my bag onto the desk.
“Congratulations.” she hissed and automatically took out my books to look up the pages we were supposed to read. “This is the fifth day this week you’ve managed to be late. One ought to think that you’re doing it deliberately.”
“What do you take me for?” I snorted, trying to seem offended. “Let’s just say that I don’t bust my ass to come and listen to this shit.”
As you might have figured out, Rachel was at least working a little bit harder in school than I was. It’s still a mystery to me how she managed to get such good results in most subjects. She was always out doing stuff, as she hated staying at home with her mom. Speaking of which…
“I need to talk to you!” Rachel suddenly exclaimed, and Mr. Robson looked around in the classroom, not being able to discern from where this distraction came.
“It’s about mom.” She explained, now in a lowered voice.
Rachel could be a bit impulsive and thereby not always thinking before she acted. She was never to be undervalued though. She was trust, comfort. The most reliable person I ever knew. I’d assume that we clicked sometime back in kindergarten. For as long as I could remember we’d been sharing thoughts, dreams, most things with each other. We were best friends, an unspoken fact that was obvious to anyone. There never were any stupid arguments or bitchy fights between us. Nor were we the giggling, inseparable, girlish brats. We didn’t even see each other every day. Some days we had no contact at all, but it never felt awkward when we met again.
“Right…” I chuckled at her, then nodded meaningly at the clock on the wall. “We’ll be let off in a few.”
And sure enough, Mr. Robson had to let us run off halfway through his jabber, due to the ringing bell, ending the lesson. But before leaving, we were handed back essays from a few days before. As I got mine back, it was decorated with a big red F.
“Damn.” I swore out loud, drawing my friends’ attention to me. “I worked really hard on that essay.”
Rachel’s eyes met mine. She looked at me in disbelief. Everyone knew how little time I spent on homework.
“You know,” I said with a smirk, “searching billions of websites... Pasting the texts all together.”
I can’t say I was particularly surprised by the result, or even that I cared much.
“Oh well…” I sighed with an indifferent shrug, crumpled the paper and tossed it in a trashcan.
Neither Rachel had got a result she was pleased with. She looked truly disappointed and somewhat irritated. With some whispering profanity she glowered at the girls at Mr. Robson’s desk, doing their best to suck up to him and maybe even succeeding to get higher grades.
“We all have our tricks, don’t we?” I let out knowingly.

Rachel and I ended up in the restroom, away from all commotion in the corridors. Apart from us, there was that girl from Rachel’s art class, whose name had completely slipped my mind. Busy checking herself out, she quivered with surprise as she perceived our presence through the mirror. She smiled at us, and Rachel started talking briefly to her. I found her a bit peculiar though. She wouldn’t let her eyes off of her own reflection for long seconds, studying her slim body. It surely took a minute or two before she finally groaned in anguished dissatisfaction.
“Hey guys…” She said, looking at us confidentially. “Am I fat?”
Isn’t that just the stupidest question ever? Do you really need someone else to be the judge of that? I mean, we all know what we’re supposed to answer that, and it’s just so fucking lame. And on the contrary, I would recommend her some weight gaining. She looks like a stick, believe you me.
“What, are you twisted?” I snapped, really annoyed.
Yes, I am a bitch. Be sure to stay out of my way when I’m having a bad day. Clearly insulted, she shot me a sullen glare and trudged outside. I couldn’t help but to sneer a bit to myself. And that was what to do – laugh your head off. Those drama queens could be pretty amusing in their own pathetic ways.
“You have to come tomorrow!” said Rachel, and then expounded after my questioning look: “I’m having my party then.”
“Tomorrow? Why?”
My friend soured once again and gave me an indignant look.
“Because mom and Mr. Dickhead have decided to move on Sunday already.”
Okay, let me give you some background information. Some time ago, Rachel’s mom had found herself a new man, one out of the countless number of men she’s had over the years. Rachel is, as awful as it may sound, a result of a one night stand. Her mom never sticks with a guy long enough for Rachel to get a somewhat of a father figure. Who her real father is, seems to remain unknown. To my knowledge, Rachel didn’t even care much about that anymore. Instead she had her own inventive ideas of how to get rid of all bed buddies of her mothers’. Oh, all those funny stories I’ve heard... This “Mr. Dickhead”, his name’s actually Dick (I’m not kidding), was from what I’d heard a real… well, dick. I had never met him myself, but Rachel hated him with such passion that I had already got a kind of bad impression of him. Whatever he was like, her mom was apparently really in love this time. And for once, it seemed to be a pretty serious relationship. Fact is, they were to buy a house together - in Berkeley, actually, of all places. It sucked to see your best friend move away just like that. We had both been quite upset about it, she was a bit more wound up than me though. Even though I would hate to wander around back home without her, I somehow felt that everything would turn out alright. We had sworn to go and see each other every weekend, and try to talk every day over the phone. I wouldn’t have any doubts about our lasting friendship for a second.
Rachel laid a hand on my shoulder, and exhorted: “You’ll be there, yeah?”
Her face illustrated great disappointment when I shook my head. I told her about the wedding and cursed my family for ruining my weekend. I really did wish that I never woke up that Friday morning.
“I didn’t know you had a cousin.” Rachel said mournfully.
“I know… Surprise, surprise.” I sighed and admitted that I didn’t even know what this Sandra looked like.
Pretty desperate, Rachel began rattling all possible excuses and escapes I could use;
“Tell them you’re really sick.”
“Yeah, like they’re going to fall for that. I’ve already had an outburst this morning. They already know I’m not keen on going so…”
“Run off and hide then? Tell them to leave you alone and let you control your own life?”
I thought for a minute. It did sound reasonable, not to say tempting. Then of course, my dad wasn’t the most tolerant man to walk this earth. If there was anyone throwing worse tantrums than me, it was him.
“I’m not willing to die for it…” I said with some hesitance. “There’s not much I can do, sorry. I really hate to go.”
Rachel almost looked as if she was on the verge of tears, and I silently begged to some higher powers that she wouldn’t start crying. I truly can’t stand crying people, not even my best friends’ weeping. It’s like a phobia or something – I go all panicky, I swear. But Rachel managed to compose herself, knowing how I wasn’t good at comforting people. Actually, I’m more like those retarded ones that pat your back, saying ”there, there”.
With a little smirk, Rachel pulled me into a hug, and whispered into my hair: “I’ll miss you Maria.”
Being me and all, hugs weren’t really my thing either. But, coming from a heartless shit like me, it felt pretty nice. There, I said it!

…

I really did try everything. That afternoon I spent chasing mom around the house with any excuses and pleas I could think of.
“You know, I don’t think they’d even notice if I weren’t there.”
“Why bother anyway? I’ve heard that like 50% of all marriages end in divorce. Is it worth it? They might just as well be signing divorce papers when we’re heading back home!”
“There’s something in the air today, do you feel that too? Maybe there’s a storm coming. Check the forecast…!”
She didn’t even reply to any of it, still she was everywhere to watch over me. If she didn’t have eyes of a hawk I’d be sure to sneak out the door and run away, or slash the car’s tyres with a knife – anything!
There was no use. As dad was being awaited, I stayed in my room. Grumping like a kid, of course, and fixing my eyes on that piece of garbage hanging outside of its dress bag. It wasn’t pink, but in shades of yellow. I tried to picture myself in it, but only came up with the conclusion that I would probably look like a packaged chicken. And for the first time in my life I hoped that I was fat enough for something to not fit my waist. I would rather dress up like a guy and wear a suit.
Letting my eyes wander over the room, I kept thinking about how unfair everything was. I glanced at my acoustic guitar, hanging on the wall. I considered it as the only real valuable thing I had. It was an old Fender I’d found in the attic many years ago. Probably my dads’ but I wouldn’t know for sure. I never asked who it belonged to and no one has ever asked me where I got it. Music was always a beautiful thing I wanted to contribute to. I could play some riffs and at times I wrote short songs and accompanied on the guitar. Though it wasn’t singing I wanted to do. I just played some random melodies. Nothing special. Rachel used to praise me each time I played something for her. But then again she wasn’t musical at all. Sometimes I had been asked to play at parties. That’s as far as it went though, I refused to sing.
I went over to it, fingered on the strings. At times I got this inclination to start a band or something. I knew this cool guy at school, who was a nifty drummer and had contacts with great guitarists. Maybe that was the “big change” I was waiting for. I thought I’d set about it as soon as I got back home.

Dad arrived in the early evening. Carrying his briefcase and loosening his tie, he walked into the hall, meeting an edgy mom. She urged him to hurry up, while almost shoving Tristan and me outside to wait in the car. Dad mumbled something about putting away his briefcase and strolled up the stairs. Disregarding mom’s complaining, I followed him, and attacked:
“Dad, do we really want to go? I mean, really?”
He sighed heavily and grunted at me.
“Please, give me a break. I’m too tired to have this conversation with you. Just be nice, okay? For your mom.”
“Leave him alone, Maria.” I heard mom grumble behind me. “He’s tired from work right now.”
Dad worked downtown at a business services company. What he actually did over there I never really knew. But whatever it was, he made some good money out of it.
He having an affair was more of a fact to me than a suspicion. I can’t say I had any proof of it, but it was just too obvious to me. Those little things you perceive weren’t even that little anymore. He didn’t longer care about being home in time, that his lies were getting old and predictable. The sudden arouse he radiated was certainly not because of us at home. His cell phone tinkled constantly and he cracked up in phoney grins over these mysterious text messages or secret phone calls – unlikely to be from his male co-workers.
I’d been meaning to snoop a bit, check his cell phone or e-mail for dirty messages to confirm the suspicions, or fact, once and for all. But I felt that I didn’t care anymore. It wasn’t up to me. On the other hand, mom never got the hang of these technical stuff like computers or cell phones. Tristan and I actually bought her a cheap cell phone for Christmas not long ago. But all we learned from that was that it was a waste of money. She really didn’t know how to use it. Or she just didn’t even care to learn. So dad could easily sneak around with his cell phone without getting caught by mom. I honestly don’t think she had a clue anyway. If she did, she was an expert of hiding it. I knew she was depressed deep down, something wasn’t right under the surface. But she still didn’t see it. Maybe she chose not to. My mom lived in her own dream world. She sometimes chose not to see the reality. She could be very ingratiating to people, simply too nice and friendly. That’s where we were complete opposites. She was a pushover. I would never talk to someone I didn’t like just to be polite, do people stupid favors even though they never expressed appreciation, try to smile infectiously without realizing how it didn’t work – unlike my mother. To me it was just too much fake, she was a wreck anyway. Frankly, I couldn’t help but feeling sympathy for my dad sometimes. I think now, that I actually envied him. It was as if he had two lives; both as a father and husband, residing in a quite nice house, and as a bachelor, going out with women half his age. He just seemed to have more to choose from.
I was disappointed in him this night though. I knew he didn’t want to go either, but for once, mom was in charge.
“Everybody ready?” She said as dad came back, and grabbed my shoulder as if to prevent me from running off.
But I saw my last chance. Quickly, I jostled my way through them all and stopped right in front of the door. Spreading my arms, I tried to barricade it, and let a somber expression cover my face.
“I think I saw something.” I said, motioning them to stay still.
My parents joined each other in a deep sigh. Tristan was cracking up in a grin. Dad took a step forward, starting to get really irritated.
“No, no, seriously! A real mysterious dude, just outside. What if it’s burglar? Wouldn’t it be safer if I stayed here, watching the house?”
Under different circumstances, I think my acting skills would’ve got me pretty far. But I was forced to realize that I couldn’t stop them, they wouldn’t even listen to me. Defeated, and with one hell of a bad mood, I dragged myself out to the car along with my family. I remember thinking, in stupid rage, that I hated them. I hated mom’s excited chatter. Her cheerful voice audible, despite a loud sound of the engine. I hated her for talking all the time. I hated dad for not saying anything. I hated Tristan for not backing me up, and how he kept taunting me.
“You’re wearing a dress!”
“Yeah, well…You’re wearing a fucking suit!”
Oh, sweet malicious delight. I guess it was all we had for each other.
That night it occurred to me that the words “I love you mom” had never slipped past my lips. I recalled something Nathan told me before, something about Americans saying “I love you” a lot to everyone without thinking about it. I’d never thought about the fact that a lot of us do, maybe because we rarely did that in my family. It wasn’t something I missed. I couldn’t ever imagine hearing that from Tristan or dad. Though I remember mom saying she loved me one morning before I went to school. Just before I stepped out on the porch, I heard her say it as she came down the stairs in the hallway.
“I love you Maria.”
It was probably meant as a spontaneous comment, but it came out kind of forced and unnatural. Pretending like I didn’t hear it, I simply walked out and shut the door behind me. And maybe that was the right thing to do. Otherwise I think it would’ve got even more awkward. I’m sure she thought that too. Don’t know why she did it. I guess someone on her precious TV-shows had told her to use that phrase to her loved ones. But it somehow didn’t fit. It wasn’t needed in our family. I never heard her say that again.

Three seconds, I believe. It didn’t take any longer than that. Tristan was laughing, I know that. He was in a pretty good mood, telling jokes. I didn’t listen to what mom was talking about. I glared at them all in silence, angry thoughts were going through my head. Sulking, I was just turning my head. Traffic lights blinded me. It’s weird, really, how I got that feeling a short moment prior to the actual event. The feeling of that something was about to go dreadfully wrong.
There was a deafening honking, within those seconds. There was a horrendous scream as well, coming from my mom. I was hurled forward. Quite instantly, my whole body started aching immensely. The big crash. The awful pain. And the following dead silence. All within those seconds. I can’t describe it, it’s quite impossible. Whatever’s left to remember, I work hard for it to sink into oblivion.

The Sacramento Bee, Breaking news:
SATURDAY, MARCH 1, 2008

“A severe car accident occurred at the intersection on highway 4 out to Antioch, around 8pm yesterday. The four victims are identified as a family from Sacramento, possibly on their way to Berkeley. Two of the victims were declared dead at the scene, while the others were rushed to hospital. The police later reported that one of them died in the ambulance from his severe injuries. The only survivor is now hospitalized, in crucial condition. The cause of the accident is yet unknown… “