Carry On
One
"What's the point of having a bed if you're not going to fucking use it?" Was the first thing I heard in the morning. I sat up after feeling Dad's foot gently prodding my ribs. I looked up at him and watched as he looked around, "This room's a complete mess. Come home right after school. You need to clean this up before this weekend."
This weekend? Of course. The barbecue. Once a month Dad and his band of immature adults decided to have a barbecue. A day to eat and drink all day whilst making fun of each other and discussing the new album before they would pass out on the floor. It was hosted at a different house each month. This time it was our turn. I would have a lot of cleaning to do on Sunday when everyone would go home.
"I have practice after school," I muttered and I could see this discontent on his face. His jaw tensed and his eyes went a darker shade of brown.
"When does practice end?" He asked.
Six.
"Eight," I lied.
He sighed again in frustration, "Jesus Christ," He muttered, turning on his heels to leave my room.
"You're the one who wanted me to do it!" I exclaimed, tossing my arms in the air. He shook his head.
"Clean when you get home."
"I have homework you know," I retorted.
"Jesus, Liza. You're a fucking senior. It can't be that hard," He said before his voice drifted down the stairs, still probably complaining about me. I huffed, standing up to stretch before hopping over to my closet.
I walked into my closet, flipping on the light before looking around. I dug through my jeans before finding a pair of white and black horizontal stripes. I grabbed a black button-up sheer top before tossing both on, tucking in only have of the shirt. I had to, or else it would be too baggy. Tuck in both sides and I look like a square. I added a skinny black belt before adding a few silver necklaces and a thick black bangle. I slipped on my black ankle boots before walking to the mirror. Makeup wasn't that hard for me. I got my good skin from my mother, so I never had to cake on the foundation. I used a little powder, because I absolutely hated my nose being shiny. I did my typical liquid eyeliner, winging the tips so I had cat eyes before finishing with mascara and a deep red lipstick. The last thing I did was run a brush through my hair. It used to be a dark brown like my father's. After a sudden itch of rebellion in seventh grade, I died it behind his back. It became bright blonde, and I thought it suited me well. He hated it the first two weeks.
"Do you plan on being on time today!?" He called from downstairs and I rolled my eyes. I grabbed the work I had, by some miracle, finished, and made my way downstairs. Dad was at the bottom of the stairs, my keys in his hand. I reached up and snatched them before turning on my heels and walking out the door.
-
"Today you'll be filling out some practice applications for college. Please take as many as you need. Be sure to fill out the top and underline the college you're applying for," Mrs. Johnson announced. I inwardly groaned before slouching in my chair.
"Where you applying, Liz?" Amanda asked beside me. She was on of my two closest friends, having met in band our freshman year. Like me, her parents had pressured her into the boring activity. Amanda was a beautiful natural blonde with bright blue eyes and wide hips. She was mostly a singer, although she played piano as well, and was usually busy with choir practice and musical theater auditions. She was smart, but she had known from a young age she wanted to be a performer.
"I don't know," I muttered before grabbing one application sheet and setting it on my desk, handing the rest of the stack to the person behind me.
"I'm applying for UCLA's performance conservatory," She smiled excitedly and I smiled. I knew she would get in, and I was happy for her.
The class sat in silence for a full fifteen minutes, busy filling in college names, addresses, and test scores. I had taken the SAT early last year, and had scored high enough to manage. I was smart, unlike my father. "Miss Haner, do you plan on filling that out any time soon?" Mrs. Johnson asked, standing right beside my desk. My pencil wasn't even in my hand, and I was just staring at the blank board in front of me.
"Not really," I muttered and she raised an eyebrow.
"Unsure of where you're going yet? Or your major?" She questioned before sliding a piece of paper on my desk, "This is a list of the Ivy Leagues and the top colleges in the country. I'm sure you'll find one you like."
"I don't want to go to college," I responded and she froze. I could feel the class around me freeze. Why wouldn't they? Elizabeth Haner, ranked second in the entire school. The only person who had better grades than me was the foreign exchange student from Russia. He was a full point ahead of my 4.40 GPA. I had taken every honors class and every advanced placement class, and I wasn't going to college?
"Liza, I'm sure you want to go to college. You just can't find the right one," She smiled nervously, pointing to the page in front of me. Harvard, Princeton, Stanford.
Sigh.
"No, Mrs. Johnson. I just don't want to go to college."
"What do you plan to do for the rest of your life then, Liza?" She asked, mouth setting into a hard line. I was pissing her off now.
Die.
"I don't know. Find a job. A minimal life, if you will. Maybe backpack across the country until I find a band of hippies to join," I stated. Now I was just being a sarcastic asshole, and she didn't like it one bit. Before she had a chance to retaliate, the bell for class rang, and I was off to practice. My blank application still sitting on my desk.
"I can't believe you don't want to go to college. What are you going to tell your dad?" Amanda asked and I rolled my eyes.
"I'll figure it out when he notices I haven't submitted anything," I replied and she sighed a heavy sigh. She obviously didn't approve of my decision, but she didn't have a say in anything. I guess that's why I loved my friends so much. They knew when to shut up.
We walked into the music room. For ten thousand a year my father sent me to an academic and performing arts school. Our music room was state of the art, and everyone was extremely talented. Amanda mostly stuck to the piano, splitting parts and songs with a few other players. For being a senior she got priority over most. I, yeah you guess it, play guitar. Dad started teaching me as soon as I was big enough to hold his guitar.
He'd sit beside me, arms around me to make sure I wouldn't drop it. Not like it mattered. He has ten of them on a wall that he never even plays. I started with the basics. AC/DC and moved on to Led Zeppelin and eventually Metallica. He was very adamant that I practice often. My grandfather, Papa Gates we called him, was also persisent in my guitar education. My practices started with one half hour every day, then went on to an hour, then two. Now I practice whenever I can. I promise Dad that I practice at school, when I really don't.
"Please take out the first concerto. We're performing it in exactly one week," Doug, our director announced. Doug was cool for the most part. His blood pressure is probably really high because of me. I obviously never cared about anything we did in music, but he did his best to make it worth while. I was allowed to change my parts whenever I pleased. He didn't mind if I left class early and he didn't notice when I stopped playing. I was just there, and I only had nine months until graduation.
I had completely forgotten about the concert next week, to be honest. And I wasn't looking forward to it. All it meant was that I would sit upon a stage for an hour performing with the rest of the band, play a solo, and hear criticism when I got home from Dad. It happened every time we had a concert. It was Dad's time to let me know just how much of a failure I really was.
I became numb to it after freshman year.
This weekend? Of course. The barbecue. Once a month Dad and his band of immature adults decided to have a barbecue. A day to eat and drink all day whilst making fun of each other and discussing the new album before they would pass out on the floor. It was hosted at a different house each month. This time it was our turn. I would have a lot of cleaning to do on Sunday when everyone would go home.
"I have practice after school," I muttered and I could see this discontent on his face. His jaw tensed and his eyes went a darker shade of brown.
"When does practice end?" He asked.
Six.
"Eight," I lied.
He sighed again in frustration, "Jesus Christ," He muttered, turning on his heels to leave my room.
"You're the one who wanted me to do it!" I exclaimed, tossing my arms in the air. He shook his head.
"Clean when you get home."
"I have homework you know," I retorted.
"Jesus, Liza. You're a fucking senior. It can't be that hard," He said before his voice drifted down the stairs, still probably complaining about me. I huffed, standing up to stretch before hopping over to my closet.
I walked into my closet, flipping on the light before looking around. I dug through my jeans before finding a pair of white and black horizontal stripes. I grabbed a black button-up sheer top before tossing both on, tucking in only have of the shirt. I had to, or else it would be too baggy. Tuck in both sides and I look like a square. I added a skinny black belt before adding a few silver necklaces and a thick black bangle. I slipped on my black ankle boots before walking to the mirror. Makeup wasn't that hard for me. I got my good skin from my mother, so I never had to cake on the foundation. I used a little powder, because I absolutely hated my nose being shiny. I did my typical liquid eyeliner, winging the tips so I had cat eyes before finishing with mascara and a deep red lipstick. The last thing I did was run a brush through my hair. It used to be a dark brown like my father's. After a sudden itch of rebellion in seventh grade, I died it behind his back. It became bright blonde, and I thought it suited me well. He hated it the first two weeks.
"Do you plan on being on time today!?" He called from downstairs and I rolled my eyes. I grabbed the work I had, by some miracle, finished, and made my way downstairs. Dad was at the bottom of the stairs, my keys in his hand. I reached up and snatched them before turning on my heels and walking out the door.
-
"Today you'll be filling out some practice applications for college. Please take as many as you need. Be sure to fill out the top and underline the college you're applying for," Mrs. Johnson announced. I inwardly groaned before slouching in my chair.
"Where you applying, Liz?" Amanda asked beside me. She was on of my two closest friends, having met in band our freshman year. Like me, her parents had pressured her into the boring activity. Amanda was a beautiful natural blonde with bright blue eyes and wide hips. She was mostly a singer, although she played piano as well, and was usually busy with choir practice and musical theater auditions. She was smart, but she had known from a young age she wanted to be a performer.
"I don't know," I muttered before grabbing one application sheet and setting it on my desk, handing the rest of the stack to the person behind me.
"I'm applying for UCLA's performance conservatory," She smiled excitedly and I smiled. I knew she would get in, and I was happy for her.
The class sat in silence for a full fifteen minutes, busy filling in college names, addresses, and test scores. I had taken the SAT early last year, and had scored high enough to manage. I was smart, unlike my father. "Miss Haner, do you plan on filling that out any time soon?" Mrs. Johnson asked, standing right beside my desk. My pencil wasn't even in my hand, and I was just staring at the blank board in front of me.
"Not really," I muttered and she raised an eyebrow.
"Unsure of where you're going yet? Or your major?" She questioned before sliding a piece of paper on my desk, "This is a list of the Ivy Leagues and the top colleges in the country. I'm sure you'll find one you like."
"I don't want to go to college," I responded and she froze. I could feel the class around me freeze. Why wouldn't they? Elizabeth Haner, ranked second in the entire school. The only person who had better grades than me was the foreign exchange student from Russia. He was a full point ahead of my 4.40 GPA. I had taken every honors class and every advanced placement class, and I wasn't going to college?
"Liza, I'm sure you want to go to college. You just can't find the right one," She smiled nervously, pointing to the page in front of me. Harvard, Princeton, Stanford.
Sigh.
"No, Mrs. Johnson. I just don't want to go to college."
"What do you plan to do for the rest of your life then, Liza?" She asked, mouth setting into a hard line. I was pissing her off now.
Die.
"I don't know. Find a job. A minimal life, if you will. Maybe backpack across the country until I find a band of hippies to join," I stated. Now I was just being a sarcastic asshole, and she didn't like it one bit. Before she had a chance to retaliate, the bell for class rang, and I was off to practice. My blank application still sitting on my desk.
"I can't believe you don't want to go to college. What are you going to tell your dad?" Amanda asked and I rolled my eyes.
"I'll figure it out when he notices I haven't submitted anything," I replied and she sighed a heavy sigh. She obviously didn't approve of my decision, but she didn't have a say in anything. I guess that's why I loved my friends so much. They knew when to shut up.
We walked into the music room. For ten thousand a year my father sent me to an academic and performing arts school. Our music room was state of the art, and everyone was extremely talented. Amanda mostly stuck to the piano, splitting parts and songs with a few other players. For being a senior she got priority over most. I, yeah you guess it, play guitar. Dad started teaching me as soon as I was big enough to hold his guitar.
He'd sit beside me, arms around me to make sure I wouldn't drop it. Not like it mattered. He has ten of them on a wall that he never even plays. I started with the basics. AC/DC and moved on to Led Zeppelin and eventually Metallica. He was very adamant that I practice often. My grandfather, Papa Gates we called him, was also persisent in my guitar education. My practices started with one half hour every day, then went on to an hour, then two. Now I practice whenever I can. I promise Dad that I practice at school, when I really don't.
"Please take out the first concerto. We're performing it in exactly one week," Doug, our director announced. Doug was cool for the most part. His blood pressure is probably really high because of me. I obviously never cared about anything we did in music, but he did his best to make it worth while. I was allowed to change my parts whenever I pleased. He didn't mind if I left class early and he didn't notice when I stopped playing. I was just there, and I only had nine months until graduation.
I had completely forgotten about the concert next week, to be honest. And I wasn't looking forward to it. All it meant was that I would sit upon a stage for an hour performing with the rest of the band, play a solo, and hear criticism when I got home from Dad. It happened every time we had a concert. It was Dad's time to let me know just how much of a failure I really was.
I became numb to it after freshman year.