taking,” I shrugged. As a matter of fact, I didn’t do drugs, but sometimes they made me want to.
“Your brother never did this to us,” Dad said.
“If only you could be a little more like him,” Mom added.
That did it. If I didn’t get out of there that minute, I’d start yelling. Then I’d break down and cry in front of them. I couldn’t do that, couldn’t let them see they’d gotten to me. I pushed past them and ran upstairs to my room. I slammed the door and locked it — my door-slamming habit started when I was nine. I dove onto my bed and buried my face in my stuffed rabbit. A wild pounding filled my ears, and I counted heartbeats. Slowly my heart grew quiet, and I could hear my parents’ voices blending with the TV.
I was starting to feel guilty about the look on Mom’s face. It was always there these days. It was as if she looked at me and she started to hurt. I didn’t want that. I wanted Mom to see me and smile, but it never seemed to work that way. There was just endless yelling and hurt. Maybe I should have crawled into the nearest Dumpster instead of coming home. Curled up with everyone’s junk where I belonged . That was what I was thinking when I finally fell asleep.
It was late when I woke up the next morning. I was still wearing my Metallica T-shirt from last night, and my hair looked like an old broom. I decided to add some ripped jeans and drag myself down for breakfast. I didn’t bother washing up. That would show them they hadn’t gotten to me. None of their yelling had changed a thing.
As I came downstairs, I could hear Dad’s voice in the kitchen. He was saying, “I tell you, we don’t know what to do with her anymore. It’s as if she wants to hurt us every way she can.”
I stopped and swallowed. Why didn’t they just buy me a T-shirt with Problem Child printed across it? I could put it on every morning when I got up. They wouldn’t have to bother talking to me anymore, and I could wear their opinion wherever I went.
I heard a voice. My brother Darren said, “Give her a break. She’s working things out.”
“You were never like that,” Mom said.
“What’s that got to do with it?” Darren asked.
“We just want her to succeed in life. Right now, she’s a failure at everything,” said Dad.
I went stiff. I wasn’t even in the same room with them yet, and I was ready to yell.
“Dime is not a failure. She’s just a little different than I am,” said Darren.
“That’s the problem,” said Dad.
I’d heard enough. I walked in, running a hand through my hair. Last month I’d dyed part of it pink. It looked good with my green eyes. Since my hair is so short, it sticks up in the morning until I wet it down. My parents thought I had a Mohawk.
I made my voice very loud and said, “Morning, Darren.”
“Morning, Sis,” he said.
There was only silence from my parents. Their mouths had died. Well, that was fine with me. I picked up Darren’s toast and took a bite, then gave him a jam kiss on his cheek.
“New chair? You get the Rick Hansen model?” I asked. Darren had been a quad forabout three years. He’d broken his neck when he was eighteen.
Darren grinned and said, “Around the world in forty days.”
Darren’s chair may have been cool, but his matching sweatshirt and pants were definitely a problem. They were almost as bad as the sweat suits my parents had on. Darren was an okay guy, but he needed fashion advice really bad. He was twenty-one going on fifty.
I dropped some bread into the toaster. Then I poured a coffee and took a loud slurp. I looked at Darren and said, “Gabe’s teaching me to drive his Ninja. When I turn sixteen in June, I’m going to get my license.”
Mom dropped her fork. Dad pushed back his chair. I knew this would set them off, but I figured Darren would protect me from the fireworks. Dad went straight into a dead roar.
“I won’t allow it!” he shouted.
“Oh Dime, what next?” Mom groaned.
I shrugged and
“Your brother never did this to us,” Dad said.
“If only you could be a little more like him,” Mom added.
That did it. If I didn’t get out of there that minute, I’d start yelling. Then I’d break down and cry in front of them. I couldn’t do that, couldn’t let them see they’d gotten to me. I pushed past them and ran upstairs to my room. I slammed the door and locked it — my door-slamming habit started when I was nine. I dove onto my bed and buried my face in my stuffed rabbit. A wild pounding filled my ears, and I counted heartbeats. Slowly my heart grew quiet, and I could hear my parents’ voices blending with the TV.
I was starting to feel guilty about the look on Mom’s face. It was always there these days. It was as if she looked at me and she started to hurt. I didn’t want that. I wanted Mom to see me and smile, but it never seemed to work that way. There was just endless yelling and hurt. Maybe I should have crawled into the nearest Dumpster instead of coming home. Curled up with everyone’s junk where I belonged . That was what I was thinking when I finally fell asleep.
It was late when I woke up the next morning. I was still wearing my Metallica T-shirt from last night, and my hair looked like an old broom. I decided to add some ripped jeans and drag myself down for breakfast. I didn’t bother washing up. That would show them they hadn’t gotten to me. None of their yelling had changed a thing.
As I came downstairs, I could hear Dad’s voice in the kitchen. He was saying, “I tell you, we don’t know what to do with her anymore. It’s as if she wants to hurt us every way she can.”
I stopped and swallowed. Why didn’t they just buy me a T-shirt with Problem Child printed across it? I could put it on every morning when I got up. They wouldn’t have to bother talking to me anymore, and I could wear their opinion wherever I went.
I heard a voice. My brother Darren said, “Give her a break. She’s working things out.”
“You were never like that,” Mom said.
“What’s that got to do with it?” Darren asked.
“We just want her to succeed in life. Right now, she’s a failure at everything,” said Dad.
I went stiff. I wasn’t even in the same room with them yet, and I was ready to yell.
“Dime is not a failure. She’s just a little different than I am,” said Darren.
“That’s the problem,” said Dad.
I’d heard enough. I walked in, running a hand through my hair. Last month I’d dyed part of it pink. It looked good with my green eyes. Since my hair is so short, it sticks up in the morning until I wet it down. My parents thought I had a Mohawk.
I made my voice very loud and said, “Morning, Darren.”
“Morning, Sis,” he said.
There was only silence from my parents. Their mouths had died. Well, that was fine with me. I picked up Darren’s toast and took a bite, then gave him a jam kiss on his cheek.
“New chair? You get the Rick Hansen model?” I asked. Darren had been a quad forabout three years. He’d broken his neck when he was eighteen.
Darren grinned and said, “Around the world in forty days.”
Darren’s chair may have been cool, but his matching sweatshirt and pants were definitely a problem. They were almost as bad as the sweat suits my parents had on. Darren was an okay guy, but he needed fashion advice really bad. He was twenty-one going on fifty.
I dropped some bread into the toaster. Then I poured a coffee and took a loud slurp. I looked at Darren and said, “Gabe’s teaching me to drive his Ninja. When I turn sixteen in June, I’m going to get my license.”
Mom dropped her fork. Dad pushed back his chair. I knew this would set them off, but I figured Darren would protect me from the fireworks. Dad went straight into a dead roar.
“I won’t allow it!” he shouted.
“Oh Dime, what next?” Mom groaned.
I shrugged and
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