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I handed him the mug. “I just want to be with someone who will challenge me. I mean, doesn’t Mom challenge you?” I didn’t bother trying to hide my smirk.
Dad rolled his eyes. “In more ways than you know.”
I chuckled and went back to the apple. “I’m not looking for anything serious, but if I recall correctly, you’re the one who told me dating should be like the interview process.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “You’re too literal.”
“Well, I’m still looking for the ideal candidate.” But that image of a girl with untamed, dark brown hair and fire in her eyes was all I could picture.
She wouldn’t look at me once in class that following Monday. Not a single glance in my direction. She’d never responded to my texts either.
But I didn’t see her in class on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. And I found myself restless, wanting nothing more than another look into those flame-filled eyes.
5
ELIZA
The next week was a blur. I made it toEthics of Argument(on time) and actually managed to pay attention. I ignored Trask (and everyone else) and managed to get some business things done during the lecture. I had a few contracts to sign; it sounded so official, but it was literally just an e-signature stating I wouldn’t republish my short story for six months. As soon as it was sent, I received a receipt for one hundred and twenty dollars that went straight into my account. That was my other stream of income, which was slowly growing more profitable: Writing and selling short fiction.
And when Professor Whats-His_name finished his lecture, I made my way to my next class, which was significantly less enjoyable. I hated math. Always had, always would. It was just so definite, with no room for error, no explaining your way out with words. You either had the right answer or you didn’t. And lately, I’d been getting them all wrong.
I reread the terms of my scholarship and probation agreement and I had to pass with a C, but my scholarship would love it if I got a B. It would give me more flexibility with the GPA requirements. When the first quiz was entered into the grade book, I was sitting at a solid forty percent. My stomach clenched. I spent the remainder of my time after my classes downloading YouTube videos onto an external hard drive so I could watch them at home without needing the internet. So far, I had remedial algebra lessons and other problem breakdowns ready to teach me what my teacher couldn’t. Hell, I even downloaded a video tutorial showing me how those fancy graphing calculators worked. I still had mine from high school, I’d stolen it junior year.
Despite the struggle with math, everything else was fine. I was on top of the essays or my business. I had my homework all done for the week (except that damned math class) and I felt good about it. I think it’s because I was excited and I wanted to be here. I had to fight the rising emotion in me, the urge to be obstinate and ruin this opportunity before someone else could. Shayna and I talked about that, how self-sabotage was a cheater’s way out.
Instead, when I got home, I laid across my bed and plugged in my headphones to my laptop, listening to my favorite song, daydreaming about how this could be my new thing. Eliza Walsh: writer, reader, and excellent student.
I fell asleep thinking that this was something I could do, something I could stick out, a ticket out of this place.
Then I woke up, and it all went to shit. My door was locked from the outside and Grandpa was hollering at Grandma for something. I banged on the door. “Let me out, I have school.”
“You’re done,” Grandpa called. “Tired of you wasting all our money and time on that load of shit.”
Even through the walls, I swear I could smell the fumes of alcohol. I could have lit a match and I was certain this place would blow sky-high. I gritted my teeth and changed into clean clothes and checked the time. I could swing by a grocery store or something and use the bathroom there and brush my teeth. But when I went to the window, my usual escape, my blood ran cold. I hadn’t noticed it last night since I’d slipped in the backdoor, but two old boards had been screwed into the wall from outside. Makeshift jail bars, blocking me from getting in and out.
“Shit,” I whispered.
I laced up my boots, time for Plan B. “Grandma,” I yelled through the door, pounding on it. “Hey, I gotta take a piss!”
“You’ll be alright,” Grandpa bellowed. He was a big man. He was easily three hundred pounds and a lot of that was muscle concealed under layers of fat and his overalls. It was always a risk. I was faster than him, especially after he fell and twisted his knee, but despite his size, he was quicker than the average man. I was only in danger if I was within arm’s reach. But the man had a grip like the jaws of life. He could snap my bones with just a harsh squeeze, and today sounded like he might do it.
“Please,” I yelled again. “Just let me use the bathroom.” The door swung open, and he grabbed me by the arm, pulled me a few steps down the hall, and shoved me in.
“Do your business, then we will have a little chat.”
I used the restroom, brushed my teeth, gargled mouthwash, anything to prolong opening the door. I knew he was standing out there. I knew he was waiting. I had my phone in my pocket and I contemplated calling someone. Calling Shayna, the cops, or Rosalie. But they couldn’t do anything. Actually, they could, and that was the worst part. If I called Shayna or the cops, this stupid, stinking house would be declared unfit for me, despite the fact that I wasn’t a minor anymore. But I needed to be in the custody ofsomeone. I needed permanent housing, according to the stipulations of my probation. The cops and Shayna would both declare this place unfit. Then what? I didn’t have the money to rent anything. I didn’t have a job to pay for that, not when the bulk of my time was at that blasted school. I could live in my car. I’d done it for weeks at a time when things got really bad. Living with Rosalie wouldn’t get approved because of her own history. I shoved the phone back into my pocket and opened the bathroom door.
Grandpa took up the whole hallway with his body. “You’re just like your mother.” He grabbed my arm and threw me back into my room. He locked it behind me. My arm throbbed, and I’d have a handprint bruise on my upper arm, but all things considered, not too bad.
The crashing of dishes was quickly followed by screams. Grandma was throwing a drunken fit about something and Grandpa decided to join in. I took this as an opportunity to finish that math homework because there was no way I was gonna be able to leave the house today.
I spent the day trying to glean any information from those stupid videos and was left feeling more confused than before. The teachers talked too fast, and even with the ability to pause and rewind, their words felt like some foreign language.What the hell is a parabola?
I cleaned my room. It was a small space and not much was needed but I made the bed, wiped down all the surfaces with an old t-shirt, and straightened my dresser. I read a book; I wrote a few short stories. Edited a few, and perfected a few I planned to submit to magazines once I had access to the internet again.
I waited. They wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom again so I had to piss in an old water bottle. My stomach growled and turned in on itself and I was thankful I still had my charger with me. That old Chromebook nearly overheated once or twice, but I still managed to write some more short stories that bordered on the line of pure poetry nonsense.
I texted Rosalie. She understood what was going on, and asked if I needed anything, I said no, there was nothing she could do. Of course she knew that. We’d gone around this circle a few times but she never failed to ask.
