Ninety Four

Part of my final portfolio for class.

Ninety Four

                Johns Hopkins University?

                The school’s guidance counselor flipped through my academic portfolio. I watched as the condensation from her Rally’s cup drifted closer to the file folder.

                I have the grades, do I not? I kept staring at the stream of water. Johns Hopkins would not accept me if I had a water stained folder. I tore my eyes away from the blatant attack on my academic career. Ms. Johnson had tissues on the right corner of her desk. Grabbing a few, I picked up her cup and wiped the water underneath and placed the cup on top of the tissues to prevent further damage.

                Y-yes, you definitely have the grades.

                And I am the secretary of student council and the president of Key Club. I have the organization and precision to become a world class surgeon.

                Yes, but�"

                But? Mrs. Johnson’s hands grasped my folder tightly. Was she always so sweaty? She needed to let go of the paper before it absorbed the sweat and was crinkled by her gorilla hands. She shouldn’t have become a counselor if she was going to be so careless. I crossed my ankles slowly and waited for her to gain control.

                The tuition for Johns Hopkins is fifty thousand. That’s not including room and board. Your family isn’t we�"

                So you will set up a school tour for winter break? How thoughtful of you. I exhaled loudly and pushed myself up from the thinly cushioned chair.

                I want you to think about this more. I won’t set one up. I’ll see you in a week and we’ll discuss it then.

                The answer will be the same.

 

 

                Quietly, I closed the door behind me. A thick wave of coffee and booze scents wafted towards me, making my nose scrunch up in distaste. I placed my backpack at a 45 degree angle in its usual spot: the small, rose painted bench by the door. My foot crushed an innocent truffle wrapper as I took a step further into the wasteland of my home. The floor was a minefield of beer cans and candy wrappers. If my mother didn’t clutch her coffee cup like Linus’ blanket, that would be tossed carelessly on the ground as well.

                Speaking of my mother, I knew that she was in here somewhere, probably asleep under a blanket of discarded goodies.

                I huffed as I peeled the sticky wrapper off of my right flat. I would wear the sole down with scrubbing later. Right now, I needed to make the place more presentable.

 

 

                I flipped to the pink bookmark in my French book: the imperfect. It’s used with conditions, feelings and describing past habits, I recited to myself. So if she was beautiful yesterday, is that a condition? No, no. That isn’t right. On the other hand, the sentence is purely for one day, which wouldn’t make it something habitual, so is it passé compose? I flipped back to the baby blue bookmark wedged in the pages. Adjusting it back to a 90 degree angle, I skimmed what the book had to say about passé compose. It is used to narrate specific events that have already taken place. What a lot of help this is.

                Are you talking to yourself again, Anna? I looked towards the door where my mother stood at her glorious 5 feet, 9 and ¾ inches, still in her pajamas. The corners of her thin lips were curved downwards in a frown; her near black eyes were slightly closed. She was bored and that was when most of our fights started. She ran her fingers nonchalantly through her hair, pulling her thin fingers through the knots.

                It helps me study, I muttered. I did not have time for her games right now. So I told her exactly that.

Midterms are tomorrow. I really need to study. She ran her bare foot over the vacuuming line on my carpet, smudging it into one solid color of off-white.

                Oh, well, good luck. With that, she turned back into the hallway, her long brown hair trailing freely behind her. I tried to turn back to my book, but my eyes would not leave the smudged vacuum line on the floor. I heard the click of the front door’s lock. Exhaling, I stood up and walked to the hallway.

                She stopped in front of the wide open door staring into the hallway. I folded my arms and watched as she froze. What was she doing? She never tries to go outside. I could almost feel her shaking from so far away. She couldn’t even walk into the hallway?

                What do you need? I said massaging the back of my neck.

                You forgot the paper. I nodded, heading towards the door to grab my jacket.

                What are you going to do when I leave?

 

 

                “It’s summer, Anna. Why are we going to the library?” Mel had said, pulling her soggy curls into a ponytail. “We could be going to the beach or something.”

                I wrinkled my nose. “I’ll pass.” The thought of ship polluted waters raised goose bumps on my arms despite the blistering heat.

                “Going to the library instead of going to the beach. You’re insane.”

“You can go if you like.”

                “Are you sure?” She bit her lip nervously.

                “Yeah.” I shrugged. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. I grit my teeth, refraining from saying something about her sweat being soaked up with my shirt. This was supposed to be endearing.

                I left her at the subway station and ambled to the air-conditioned library. Was she right? Am I insane? Mom was diagnosed with her mental illness five years ago. Was I just like her? Would I end up alone like her?

                Cool air brushed against my face as I pushed through the revolving door. But mother wasn’t alone, was she? I was still there. I climbed the steps and headed towards the medical reference section of the library. I knew what I was looking for.

                The DSM-IV-TR was a thick gray book. One that held all the answers I was looking for; a bible for psychologists and those who depend on them. I sat on the floor and opened to the index. Each disorder separated into subgroups rather than in numerical order. The doctors were just as disorganized as the patient. I ran my index finger down the lists. Anxiety disorders: Panic Disorder with Agoraphobia and Agoraphobia without History of Panic Disorder.

                I scratched the back of my neck. Does she have panic disorder? I thought of her bored expressions and her lazy attitude. No, definitely not. I opened to the code 300.22. Anxiety about being in places or situations from which escape might be difficult.

                I closed the book and went home.

               

 

                A 3.9 GPA. The black numbers stood out against the bleached paper. They were typed in Gill Sans MT, 12 point. They switched over from Courier New (Also, 12 point.), which was a mistake from the start. The change was too drastic: serif to sans. Almost unheard of. The same went for my grade point average. How was I supposed to get into Johns Hopkins with this on my academic record? Father was going to be so disappointed.

                Of course I blamed my mother. I never met a woman so infuriating in my life. Everything went downhill from when she smudged the carpet line. She knew that it would bother me, and she knew that I would wait until she passed out on the couch to vacuum the floor again. By then, I was exhausted. I still had to read a chapter from War and Peace before going to sleep.

                Maybe I should cut my nightly readings on nights that mother decides to destroy everything I care about, I looked at the thick book edged at the bottom right corner of my bedside table. It seemed rather silly to throw off my habits now.

 

                I sat in the hallway and listened in on the conversation that Mother was having with her psychiatrist. I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. The psychiatrist always talked about me like I was a problem.

                She has Claude’s eyes, Mother said.

                Does it frighten you?

                I didn’t wait for her answer. I stood up and went to my room. I froze in front of the mirror and watched my reflection.

                I wasn’t that scary.

 

 

                You look just like her, Father said. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized me. He looked tired, and I didn’t understand why. He had the perfect life now. That was why he left me. Yet, dark circles traced his eyes and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days. I slid the macchiato across the granite printed counter. I remember you used to ask me if I ran on coffee.

                Now I am convinced that all of New York City is fueled on coffee and bitterness, I replied looking at the long line of customers waiting for me for their next fix.

                You didn’t use any contractions.

                I need to get back to work, I growled, turning back to the espresso machine. His face was unfocused beyond the whistling machine, but I could still tell that he was hurt. He took a sip of the layered drink before walking out of the shop into the crisp autumn air.

                I never liked macchiatos.

 

 

                “When did your father leave?” the psychiatrist had said. He crossed his legs as he inspected me. A soundtrack of a thunderstorm played in the background. It was supposed to be calming, but it sounded as if the room were breathing. I shifted uncomfortably under the pressure of a first impression.

                “Seven years, three months, and thirteen days ago,” I finally said. “December fifteenth of 2004.”

                “Does it strike you as odd that you remember the exact number of days?”

                “No. Odd would be knowing the exact number of minutes.”

                “Do you know the number of minutes it’s been?”

 I glanced at the clock. Three million, three hundred and three thousand, four hundred and eight minutes. “No,” I lied.

 He scratched in the little black spiral notepad.

 “Are we done?”

                “We have fifteen more minutes.” He didn’t look up from what he was writing. “Is there anything else you would like to talk about? School? Work? Home?”

                “I must not have very many problems if you can keep them contained in that little notebook,” I commented. He smiled softly.

                “I write in shorthand,” he said. I never went back.

 

                I had rubbed my eyes as I stumbled into the hallway. Two black suitcases stood by the door begging to get out. My father started to slip on his jacket. He never put his jacket on inside. “Where are you going?” I said as I moved in closer to inspect the scene.

                “I’m going on a little vacation.” He smiled down at me. Slowly he buttoned his tan jacket from the bottom up.

                “Can I go?” I bounced on the balls of my feet excitedly.

                “Not this time, Anna.” He straightened out his collar. “Maybe next time.” He reached for the door handle.

                “Will you be home for Christmas?” He froze. His hands not yet grasping the bronzed knob. Smiling, he turned around and ruffled my hair.

                “Of course.” He pulled the two suitcases out the door. He jingled the handle twice to make sure the door was locked.

                He lied.

 

 

                I don’t even think you’re sick. It’s just laziness. Have you even seen my report card? I was one tenth away from a perfect grade point average! It’s all your fault. If you hadn’t smudged the damn carpet, I trailed off throwing an empty can into the small white trash bag I was holding. Mother laid snoring on the couch. I needed to shampoo the carpet this weekend. I really didn’t have the time for it, but I could not have the carpet smelling like stale beer all next week. There are twenty four usable hours in a day. I would find time to do it.

                I’m leaving for college in two years, you need to learn how to take care of yourself, I whispered softly. I can’t stay here.

Were you saying something? Her eyes opened, and she immediately grabbed for the blood red coffee cup on the end table. It’s empty. Be a doll and make more. I tied the bag tightly before heading into the kitchen.

                Lazy b***h.

 

 

                “Let go of me!” she had pleaded from the other room. His hand was clamped tightly around her wrist. I sat on the couch watching the scene with my legs folded as if it were story time in kindergarten.

                “Lazy b***h,” he muttered. “You stay home all day, and you can’t even vacuum the floor?” She jerked her arms away and stumbled back. Taking the white coffee cup off the table, she threw it at him. The dark water ran down the walls and was absorbed by the bleached carpet.

His chest rose and fell dangerously. “I need to get a carpet shampooer so this doesn’t stain. Anna, will you clean this up?”

I nodded from the safety of the couch.

                He slammed the door behind him, locking the door and jingling the handle twice. I glanced at my shivering mother. “Do you want me to turn up the thermostat?” I asked. She didn’t reply. I hopped off the couch and headed towards the shattered coffee cup. I sunk down to my knees and started to collect the pieces one by one in the palm of my left hand.

                I glanced over at the locked door. “Oh no!” I began to push myself up, glass cutting through my skin, blood tainting the pure porcelain. Mother cradled my bleeding hand. “Dad forgot his jacket! It’s below thirty two today!” I looked down at the red drops staining the carpet. “Dad’s going to be mad, isn’t he?”

                I was six.

 

                You did not go to your appointment yesterday. It was a statement, not a question. I looked at her reflection in the mirror. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed. The only difference between our reflections was our eyes. I had my father’s eyes. I glanced at my cell phone on the sink. 6:42. I ran the brush through my brown hair once more before pulling it up into a ponytail.

                I don’t think I need to go. I’m doing just fine. I turned to leave the bathroom, but she refused to move.

                I already made the coffee. My heart skipped a beat. Now what was I supposed to do for the next three minutes? You need someone to talk to. Since you refuse to talk to me �"

                I’m perfectly fine! I didn’t need to see a therapist. I’m not the crazy one. You are. How about you leave the house and see a doctor?

                My doctor comes to visit me.

                Because you’re lazy. I glanced at the phone in my hand. 6:45. I should be pouring my cup of coffee by now.

                Is there a problem? I pushed past her, ignoring her question. How many inches apart are the vacuum lines, Anna? Ten, but I didn’t dare to say that aloud. How many times do you vacuum a day? Twice, but I didn’t answer. I poured coffee into my white mug. I drank it black, just like her. She taught me if I couldn’t drink coffee plain, then I had no right drinking it at all. One more question, Anna. What did you get on your last French test?

                I’ll go, okay? I took a sip of the coffee. Next time, I’ll go.

 

                I knocked on the door of the guidance counselor’s office. I promised that I’d go.

Author's Note

This was kind of an experimental piece for me. I held back on quotation marks and the order of the story is all Tarantino-ed. I hope that you guys enjoy it! Criticism is always welcomed!

Reviews

[∠( ᐛ 」..]

long, but awesome! :-D
your are very creative and talented in writing. O:-)
keep up the amazing work ;-)

people @ writers cafe are awesome :-D

[Wolfwind]

This was a wonderful and enjoyable read! I liked the style and random bounce of scene, the effect was well woven. The idea of one's life viewed by someone blinking really fast, all in 60 seconds comes to mind with this. Much enjoyed!

Aaron