Fiction/Young Adult/Drama
Assumptions — Senior Year — Chapter Seven
Tabby Faber
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High School (n) — where self-esteem, innocence, and dreams go to die (unknown)
I tiptoed down the hallway. I heard Mom in the kitchen fixing breakfast for my younger sister, Emma. I wasn’t sure where Aiden, my younger brother, was. Most likely, he was still asleep and would be late for the first day of his sophomore year.
‘I can’t believe I made it to senior year. It’s a freakin miracle.’
A few more steps and I would be home free from going through the typical first day of school routine.
The pictures.
Kisses on the cheek.
And did you pack everything?
But the walls in our trailer were paper-thin, and the creak with the last step out of the hallway was a dead giveaway someone was walking. No matter how softly I put my foot down, it would make the dreaded sound and alert the household that I was awake.
Creak.
Damn it.
I finished putting my foot down the whole way. It was inevitable. In
Three.
Two.
One.
“Tabby, is that you?”
Ugh!
“Yep, just heading out to meet Brady. He’s picking me up soon.”
Mom swung around the corner, holding a spoon filled with peanut butter. She and I look almost identical, well, when she was my age: long blond hair, blue eyes, petite, no curves or boobs. I mean, seriously, like none at all. Mom looked great for her age, she was only eighteen years older than me, making her thirty-six. She had me right after she and my dad graduated high school.
Mom put the spoon on the stand beside the kitchen entrance. “You know I have to get pictures, Tabby. It’s tradition. Especially now, this is your senior year.” She pulled a cell phone out of the back pocket of her faded, worn jeans. “Okay, look a little excited.” Mom snapped a few pictures.
“Mama, me too.” Emma ran over to me, hugging my legs and smiling big for the camera. She’s three years old but has the attitude of someone five times her age. I swear she acted more like a teenager than I did most days, always wanting selfies and pictures of everything she did.
I stooped low enough so we would be cheek-to-cheek. Emma was such a contrast to my appearance. She had tan skin, dark curly hair, and the deepest brown eyes I’d ever seen. She takes after my dad, who is almost three-fourths Hispanic.
“Smile, pretty, beautiful girl.” I kissed her on the cheek as Mom snapped the picture.
I stood back up and picked up my worn, torn backpack from last year. I was lucky we had a little money left over from the previous month, and I did a few small babysitting jobs in the trailer park. Not that they paid well, but it got me some newer clothes from the second-hand shop down on the corner.
I patted Emma on the head, and she ran back to the kitchen.
“Time to go. Brady will be honking his horn, waking the community up.”
“Tabby,” Mom called before I exited. “Did you pack everything?”
I kept my focus straight ahead. “Yes. How could I ever forget? There’s a constant reminder every day.”
I heard Mom sigh. “We all just want you to stay healthy. I know how difficult this is for you.” There was a pause. “No, I can’t even imagine how difficult this is. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Mom got all choked up with words.
I glanced back over my shoulder. Mom looked so frail. So tired. So worn out after everything that had been happening for all these years. I felt the same way, too. Sometimes, I wanted to give up, but I didn’t. I kept on fighting.
“I want to enjoy my senior year. Do everything. Experience everything. Can I be just a normal teen for once?”
Mom offered a smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes like she was happy. “Have a great day. Love you.”
“Love you too, mom. Make sure Aiden gets up soon.”
Mom’s eyes widen. She looked panicked, like she totally forgot about him needing to get up. She gave a quick wave and hurried back down the short hallway to his bedroom, right as I closed the front door behind me.
Brady, whose brown hair ruffled like he just got out of bed two minutes ago, sat in his beaten-down, two-decade-old car. It was all his. He was waiting for me. And at the moment, that was all that mattered.
