Dreams of Freedom: VII

This is a continuation of a long project. I’m getting out thoughts in short sections, then I’m going to end up adding a lot of detail and dialogue after a short-ish story is complete. The beginning is here.

We walk in the door and Mom looks mad.

“Samantha, why isn’t your bathroom clean?”

“Because I went to have cookies and milk with Patricia. Also how many times do I have to ask you to call me Sam?”

“Why didn’t you correct me five minutes ago,” Dad asked.

“Because it’s funny when you do the full three names thing when you’re mad.”

Mom was confused. “What three names thing?”

I put my hands on my hips, stuck out my chest and did my best Dad voice. “SAMANTHA. LYNN. KELLER.”

“Right, and what did you do to make your father do … wait, did you say Patricia? You mean Mrs. Baumann? Since when do you call grown-ups by their first name?”

“She asked me to. And I asked Patricia how old she was.”

“That’s so rude. Don’t ask older people their age. Can you clean your bathroom now?”

“Can I just do it tomorrow?”

“Sam, listen to your mother,” Dad butted in with the four most Dad words in the English language.

“Fine. What’s for dinner?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” Dad said, “it’ll be ready by the time you’re done.”

So I turned around and marched down the hallway to the bathroom that I totally am not cleaning right now because I’m just going to do it tomorrow before they get home from work. Right now I’m thinking too much about a song to do chores. Mom and Dad will say I can just think about while I’m cleaning and they don’t have anything to do with each other but I don’t want to do anything else when I have a song in my head.

Patricia made me think about what I’d do if a friend or my parents got really mean. I didn’t get what she said about being taught that you’re supposed to make things work with people who are mean to you. Mean people are the worst. Why would I try to be nice to mean people and make them stop being mean? That’s their problem, not mine. I had some sounds in my head for a song all day and now I want to write lyrics about running away from bad people and I think maybe I can put them together.

I’ve been thinking about this long enough to clean a bathroom, right? Five minutes? Have I been sitting in here for five minutes? Yeah, sure, seems right. They won’t check until tomorrow anyway.

“Kate, can you grab plates?”

“Yep. Hey Sam, bathroom clean?”

“You bet!” I’m a good liar. Is that bad?

“So, what did you and Mrs. Baumann talk about,” Dad asked as he brought a serving dish full of spaghetti and meatballs to the dining room table.

I don’t know how to answer that. Patricia didn’t say that our talk was a secret but I kind of think it was. I don’t think she wants me telling my parents about her husband being a jerk and drinking a lot. Time to use those good liar skills.

“I asked her about Mr. Baumann and how she was feeling but she didn’t want to talk about that. She mostly asked me about school and I told her that my favorite class is music.” I wish I would have gotten to talk to Patricia about that. I probably would have if dad didn’t drag me away.

“I’m not surprised she didn’t want to talk about her husband,” said Mom as she set plates in front of us. “I can’t believe it. 54, was he?”

“Yeah, 54,” Dad replied, scooping dinner onto my plate. “Liver problems. I think he got sick about 10 years ago and was lucky to hang on as long as he did. Awful for Patricia, losing her husband so young.”

“She says thanks for the cookies by the way.”

“Well I was planning on taking them over with both of you after dinner,” mom said while staring into my eyes, “but I guess that’s not happening now. I don’t want to bother her twice in the same night, I’ll grab a bottle of wine or something at the store and go see her tomorrow night.”

“How was school kiddo?” I roll my eyes every time Dad said “kiddo.”

“Fine.”

“Any homework?”

“Yeah, math, but I did it on the bus.”

“Really?” Dad is always like this. “When I was a kid I never got anything done on the school bus. That was always peak goofing off time.”

“Well all of my friends are on the other bus unfortunately. I don’t know most of the kids on my bus and some of the ones I do know don’t like me so I do homework on there a lot.” This time I wasn’t lying. I want them to get to grown-up conversation that doesn’t have anything to do with me so I can just eat and get to messing around on my keyboard.

“Oh, Kate, remember that account…”

Jackpot. Tuning out. Eating fast.

“Honey, you just have to tell him…”

Chomp chomp chomp.

“But if I do that…”

Chomp chomp chomp done.

“I’m done, can I go to my room?”

“Well that was fast. If you cleaned the bathroom and your homework is done, yes, you can go to your room,” Mom replied.

I remember something I wanted to ask as I walked away from the table.

“Oh Mom, can I dye my hair with purple Kool-Aid?”

Dad chimed in before she could answer. “HELL no.”

“Brian.”

“What?”

Mom gave him her best mean stare.

“…heck no.”

“Sam, I agree with your father.”

I turned around and yelled back while walking away.

“WHATEVER.”

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