Fiction/Young Adult/Drama
Assumptions — Senior Year — Chapter Twelve
Ayma Kuntz
High School (n) — where self-esteem, innocence, and dreams go to die (unknown)
“Maybe drop me off at the parking lot. It’s a nice day. I can walk up to the school from there.”
Mother drove down the tree-lined entryway leading to the main campus. Several other buildings were on the premises, mainly for janitors, sports teams, and an agricultural classroom. She did a side glance snare at me, which was one of the more pleasant expressions she usually offered. “As much as you need the walk, I’ll take you to the front entrance. I want to make sure you make it to school.”
Except for the one time I walked over to the beach without asking when I was twelve years old, I never gave her a reason not to trust me. I’ve never skipped. I never got in trouble. I never hung out with my friends. In fact, my mother forbade me from attending any school function or activity. Friends weren’t allowed over at our house, and vice versa.
“Yes, ma’am.” I watched as we passed the student parking lot. Several students were hanging out, talking, texting, and taking selfies with one another—you know, the kind of stuff ordinary teens do.
I didn’t have a car to drive.
License, yes.
Mother allowing me to drive, no.
She hired someone to teach me, then took me for my license, and that was it. Anywhere I wanted or needed to go, which was rarely anywhere, my mother took me or got me an Uber to make sure I didn’t deviate from my intended travel plans.
A girl dressed in a short skirt and t-shirt that read BayShore Cheer stepped off the curb and onto the pedestrian crossing without looking where she was going. Mother had to stop the car abruptly so she wouldn’t run her over. The girl waved and offered a friendly smile, and then she glanced at me in the passenger seat, and the smile turned upside down. It wasn’t like this girl was upset to see me, it was more like disgusted. She was so totally one of Reagan’s followers.
After the rah-rah girl made it across the street, we continued on our way. Mother’s brand new, fully equipped Range Rover slowed and came to a stop right in front of the main entrance gates that led back through the courtyard to the actual main campus itself. She stared straight ahead as she waited for me to exit the vehicle. I knew the routine, which happened every year. Nothing ever changed with my mother.
I opened the door to exit the overly-priced piece of metal and grabbed my backpack off the floor. After one more glance at the stone-faced statue, not seeing any life or hint of parental love, I closed the door carefully so I wouldn’t be reprimanded later about abusing her baby.
The Range Rover’s tires squealed as it seemed Mother couldn’t get away fast enough from me.
