Author’s note: My last post was a three part series written in 99 words. This is Part 1, an expanded version of that post. I found it a challenge to write only in 99 words and wanted to delve into my characters a little more. Be sure to subscribe if you want to see how the rest of the story plays out with Parts 2 and 3 in future posts. I love writing young adult (YA) and wanted to get into and stay in my main characters head with this story written in first person, present tense. Enjoy!
Relentless - Part 1
My eyes shift from reading the notes of music to the clock above the piano. It’s 4:30—time to start dinner. Mom’s note rests on the kitchen counter. I’m used to the scrawl of her detailed dinner instructions as I’ve been reading them since I was twelve. Now that I know how to cook, she only provides me with meal basics.
Peel six potatoes … check.
Frozen corn … check.
Pork chops go in the oven at 375º… check.
She’ll want a salad too. I take lettuce, tomato, and cucumber out of the fridge and place it next to the potatoes I had grabbed earlier.
The echo of a car door slams against the back door. The potato peeler in my hand jerks, and I almost skin my knuckle with the blade. I glance out of the kitchen window, watching Dad wander up the walkway. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, but I worry what kind of mood he’s in, knowing it could be a real crap shoot.
At least I practice before he comes home. I prefer to play the piano without him around. Otherwise, I get; oops, there’s a mistake or, uh-oh, another one.
The best of them all—why the hell am I paying for piano lessons if you keep making mistakes?
Dad never quite gets that they call it practice for a reason.
When he walks through the door, I nod and skin a potato with gusto, then run it under cold water.
Dad returns my nod as he drops his toolbox, leaving finger dust imprints on the red handle. He kicks one foot out of his unlaced work boot, then the other. After shrugging out of his lumberjack coat, which begs to be retired, he flings it against the wall where it lands and straightens on a hook. As a kid, I used to marvel how his coat found its home every time.
“Did you get your practice done?” His chin shifts toward the living room where the piano sits, silent now from the pounding I gave it earlier.
“Sure did,” I say, smiling through tight lips.
Dad’s eyes search my face as he washes his hands. He’s seeking a lie, I’m sure, but can’t see one. While he runs his palms across a tea towel, he stands at my shoulder.
“Sure did,” a whiny snarl erupts from his mouth.
I hold my breath for a sec.
“Yeah, I did. I always do.” I bite back my snotty tone. Dad’s still fuming at me. The rock concert on Saturday night was a blast. But Matt, my boyfriend, ran out of gas, and I didn’t get home until two in the morning. That sure didn’t fly.
What was it Dad had said the next morning? Oh yeah, “That’s quite the story. Not!”
Now he believes nothing I say.
“Did you get your homework done?” He places the tea towel over the sink. When it falls, he grunts as he picks it up and tries again.
I run the peeler down a second potato. “Not yet. I’ll do it after supper.” I dread the biology assignment I have to get done by tomorrow.
“You better.”
I try hard not to roll my eyes toward the ceiling.
Like yeah, I won’t do my homework and end up failing grade eleven. Then you’ll sure have something to say about it.
It’s like Dad needs to always pick at me for something—anything. I prefer the days when he comes home, grunts at me, grabs a soda and heads downstairs to watch TV. I check the clock on the stove when I turn the dial to three hundred and seventy-five degrees. Mom won’t be home yet for another half hour. She knows how to be a buffer against his attitude with us kids, and can change his focus.
Dad bends up from rooting in the fridge, a soda in hand.
His glare makes my heartbeat tick like a metronome set too fast.
Let’s see what he throws at me now.
“Did you get a job?”
Ah, there it is.
We’re back to that again. Last week, he asked me the same question. My brother Evan has been working part time for weeks. Dad compares us to each other. I know it’s a twin thing, but it gets old.
I chew on my bottom lip and grab the last potato.
“Well Emma? Have you even been out to look?” A bit of Dad’s spittle lands close to my hand.
Ugh! I grab the dish rag and swipe it away.
“Not recently.” I grind out with a tight jaw. Squeezing the potatoes hard, I quarter them, then reach around him and grab a pot out of the cupboard.
“When I was your age, I was out of the house at seventeen,” he says, puffing out his chest. “Earning a living and sending my pay back home.”
Must have been back in the stone age.
“It’s time you had a job.” He needles away at me.
I’m only sixteen.
A silent scream settles in my chest. I stare out of the window at the flowers in Mom’s garden, noticing their blooms close when there’s no sunlight.
He shoves his shoulder against mine, making my feet adjust sideways.
“Freeloader!”
The sour smell of his breath strikes my nose, and I twist my head away.
I’m not a freeloader.
The grate on the stove bangs when I plop the potato pot down.
This is my home.
My throat closes, leaving words frozen in a hollow, deep in my being. I let the tears slide down my face. They burn a trail of shame along my skin, as I don’t have the guts to talk back to him.
His eyes bore into mine before he stalks away. “Must be your time of the month,” he says, looking back.
My shoulders round as I fold my arms around my waist, fists clenched. Dad is never the bad guy when he’s riling me up.
How stupid.
He figures I’m on the rag.
I mean, why else am I so emotional?
With only a few words you painted such a picture of the father. I could feel my skin crawl.
I agree with Judy - man, that father! You sure wrote a character that makes you want to hate him! And you sure created a great character to care about and root for!