working after school, I try to tidy up the kitchen a bit before she gets home, but more often than not she gets home to a complete mess.
Which brings me to how I picture my dad in my head. About a year ago, I got home from school, hot and sweaty from touch football, and dived into the shower. It was the first time in ages that Dad had been home when I got home from school. He was back in Sydney and preparing to cast a new show. I was in my room drying off and getting dressed when there was a sharp knock on the door and my name was barked out imperiously. I pulled on the last of my clothing and opened the door. Dad informed me I was to “put away the breakfast and lunch things” in the kitchen before Mum got home. Then he disappeared in the direction of his tiny study at the back of the house. Breakfast and lunch things? I thought. It was after 4 p.m. I toweled off my hair and slouched downto the kitchen. The sight that greeted me immediately clarified my orders.
On the kitchen table were the remnants of his breakfast and lunch. There were several dirty plates, a teapot filled with sodden tea leaves, a tea strainer bleeding brown into the pale wood, crumbs everywhere, some raw bacon rind, a heap of apple peelings, a dirty cutting board, a bread knife and the honey jar. The griller was open and displayed a layer of dirty congealed fat. In the sink were the three bowls that Mum, Jess and I had had our cereal in that morning, rinsed and neatly stacked where I had left them. I stood there, tasting my anger and outrage with an open mouth, wondering why on earth he hadn’t as much as thrown out the scraps. Where the hell did he get off thinking that the women of the house existed to clean up after him? I leapt down the stairs two at a time and knocked on the door of his study.
When I was bidden to enter, I demanded to know why he hadn’t cleaned up after not one but two of his meals, and why I should do it for him. My father is extremely quick to anger. His anger is one of the things on this earth that I really fear. It leaves me in no doubt of how powerless I really am. A minute later I was back in the kitchen, disposing of foodscraps, rinsing crockery, wiping crumbs and oozing those familiar tears of impotent rage. That is the image of my father that dominates at the moment. Between that and my mother’s despair, what do you do?
Thanks for listening. I feel like I could tell you anything. And everything.
Amelia
I debate whether to add a row of x ’s under my signature and decide against it.
Eighth and final period is math with Penny. The worst time to have math. Penny proofreads my letter for me.
“You know,” she says, handing it back, “I can’t remember what we used to talk about before you met this guy.”
“Hmmm.” I stuff the letter into my backpack.
After final bell, I get changed into my work uniform and hurry out to the bus stop with Penny. My bus has already pulled up.
“See ya,” I call over my shoulder, running toward the throng. “Movies on Saturday night?”
“Um, I don’t think I can this week. I’ve got a thing. Family …”
“Okay.” I wave goodbye.
I squeeze onto the bus and ride to work, marveling that the aroma of teenage boy remains so pungent even though the weather is turning cold.
Chris is already on the register next to mine when I get to work.
“Check it out, y’all”—he punches the air in greeting—“Amelia Hayes is in da house!”
Bolstered by the warmth of his greeting, I walk, maybe evenstrut, with uncharacteristic daring around to his side of the register and pull my letter out of my pocket.
“You requested a letter, Mr. Harvey,” I say, “and I done brung.” I slide it into the side pocket of his black cargo pants. Whillikers! I just pulled a move straight out of Street Cred Donna’s book!
Chris stops scanning groceries for a moment and faces me. He smiles. It is a special, never-before-seen version of his usual winning smile. He fishes out some folded
Which brings me to how I picture my dad in my head. About a year ago, I got home from school, hot and sweaty from touch football, and dived into the shower. It was the first time in ages that Dad had been home when I got home from school. He was back in Sydney and preparing to cast a new show. I was in my room drying off and getting dressed when there was a sharp knock on the door and my name was barked out imperiously. I pulled on the last of my clothing and opened the door. Dad informed me I was to “put away the breakfast and lunch things” in the kitchen before Mum got home. Then he disappeared in the direction of his tiny study at the back of the house. Breakfast and lunch things? I thought. It was after 4 p.m. I toweled off my hair and slouched downto the kitchen. The sight that greeted me immediately clarified my orders.
On the kitchen table were the remnants of his breakfast and lunch. There were several dirty plates, a teapot filled with sodden tea leaves, a tea strainer bleeding brown into the pale wood, crumbs everywhere, some raw bacon rind, a heap of apple peelings, a dirty cutting board, a bread knife and the honey jar. The griller was open and displayed a layer of dirty congealed fat. In the sink were the three bowls that Mum, Jess and I had had our cereal in that morning, rinsed and neatly stacked where I had left them. I stood there, tasting my anger and outrage with an open mouth, wondering why on earth he hadn’t as much as thrown out the scraps. Where the hell did he get off thinking that the women of the house existed to clean up after him? I leapt down the stairs two at a time and knocked on the door of his study.
When I was bidden to enter, I demanded to know why he hadn’t cleaned up after not one but two of his meals, and why I should do it for him. My father is extremely quick to anger. His anger is one of the things on this earth that I really fear. It leaves me in no doubt of how powerless I really am. A minute later I was back in the kitchen, disposing of foodscraps, rinsing crockery, wiping crumbs and oozing those familiar tears of impotent rage. That is the image of my father that dominates at the moment. Between that and my mother’s despair, what do you do?
Thanks for listening. I feel like I could tell you anything. And everything.
Amelia
I debate whether to add a row of x ’s under my signature and decide against it.
Eighth and final period is math with Penny. The worst time to have math. Penny proofreads my letter for me.
“You know,” she says, handing it back, “I can’t remember what we used to talk about before you met this guy.”
“Hmmm.” I stuff the letter into my backpack.
After final bell, I get changed into my work uniform and hurry out to the bus stop with Penny. My bus has already pulled up.
“See ya,” I call over my shoulder, running toward the throng. “Movies on Saturday night?”
“Um, I don’t think I can this week. I’ve got a thing. Family …”
“Okay.” I wave goodbye.
I squeeze onto the bus and ride to work, marveling that the aroma of teenage boy remains so pungent even though the weather is turning cold.
Chris is already on the register next to mine when I get to work.
“Check it out, y’all”—he punches the air in greeting—“Amelia Hayes is in da house!”
Bolstered by the warmth of his greeting, I walk, maybe evenstrut, with uncharacteristic daring around to his side of the register and pull my letter out of my pocket.
“You requested a letter, Mr. Harvey,” I say, “and I done brung.” I slide it into the side pocket of his black cargo pants. Whillikers! I just pulled a move straight out of Street Cred Donna’s book!
Chris stops scanning groceries for a moment and faces me. He smiles. It is a special, never-before-seen version of his usual winning smile. He fishes out some folded
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