“Laurel! Time for dinner!” Mom shouted from the kitchen where the warm, sweet smell of cherry pie filled the air. I could smell the pie she was making from my upstairs bedroom. I love moms cherry pie. There is something about it that makes my heart cheer for joy. I don’t have much of that around here.
My papa is strict, and my mom, well, she does whatever papa says to do. I don’t know why papa is that way. I guess his papa was probably that way too.
Mom and I clean every inch of our home, dust the corners, cook dinner and set the table all before papa gets home from work. Mom and I do this simple routine daily for papa, just so he isn’t in a bad mood when he gets home from work.
Tired, I drug myself downstairs to the dinner table where papa, mom and my younger brother Mark we’re making their plates. Papa says we eat at the dinner table or we don’t eat at all. Seems reasonable but im sure it is nice to venture to the living room every once in a while for dinner. While papa is at work, mom and I eat snacks everywhere other than the the dining room. It still isn’t the same as dinner, though.
Shoveling a forkful of mashed potatoes onto her plate, moms head perks up at me as I walk into the dining room. With a smug look on her face, she asks “why are you late to the table sweetie, your papa has been waiting for you. Our plates are already made up.” I continue to my seat.
Being as I am probably late to the dinner table at least once a week, I stay quiet while pulling out my chair and sitting.
Grabbing the tongs, I pinch a small portion of the Italian salad that mom and Mark made onto my plate.
“Aren’t you going to eat a little less salad this time, Laurel? You forgot your exercises last night remember?” Papa snorts as he takes another bite of his steak. “Late to the dinner table and overeating. What a waste. We can’t have you gaining a single pound before regionals.”
Papa said cheerleading would be great for my athleticism and my posture. That’s all. “Athleticism and great posture will help you all the while. Now do it again. And stand up straight!” He’d repeat to me after every practice.
What papa really has me cheerleading for is money. Cold hard money.
I only learned that last spring when we were at State championships, and I caught Papa nose to nose with one of his agents in the parking lot. The agent didn’t look too pleased, and all I could hear was Papa shouting, “Where is my money? We made a deal! Laurel’s team won, and we made a deal!”
From then on, I know it was about the money. I don’t blame him though. Cheerleading has allowed me to live a pretty good life besides the mental abuse from papa throughout my life.
I realize that there are kids that are worse off than I am. I feel horrible for them, but luckily, my papa only regulates my diet and keeps me at home where he says I’m safe and healthy. I agree to an extent. Being 15 isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
The dinner table is silent for a few minutes while we all chew on our steaks and creek our forks across our plates.
Just as Papa was standing to scoot his chair out, the landline rings. Papa stands all the way up, grabs the phone and puts it to his ear. “Hello, Rook residence.”
I can’t hear the person on the other end of the phone but I assume it can’t be good because papa then grabbed the chair he stood from and threw it across the kitchen without any further word to the person occupying the other end of the phone.
Papa slams the phone down onto the kitchen table. “Margie come with me, _now. _It’s urgent.”
Mom slides her chair out slowly, furrowing her brow and starts to walk towards Papa. “Hustle!” Papa yells, mom hurrying a little faster.
While walking into the den next to living room, papa starts to whisper to mom. I can’t quite make out what he is saying so I decide to eavesdrop.
I stand from the table, my knees slightly wobbling. My papa scares me when he’s this angry. Yelling at mom was never good. That means whatever the problem was, it was our turn next. Me and Mark.
Creeping closer to the doorway of the living room, I hear a faint whimper coming from the den. Was mom crying? What the heck is going on?
Just as I go to walk back to my chair, trying to ignore the whole thing, I hear a loud thud. And then…
“Margie! It was her mother, damnit! Laurels _Mother!” _Papa growls.
I want to heave this entire cherry pie into the toilet. My mother?
