Entertainment Teens September 2017

My biological mother was surprised. Her plucked eyebrows disappeared
into her bangs, and her pink lipstick made an O-shape. She offered me a bowl
of raisins. I loved raisins. She put on Looney Tunes. I loved Looney Tunes. We
were happy that night.
The happiness quickly degenerated, at least on her part. “Go back to your
father,” she shrieked, two weeks later. I cried a lot, but I had no fight. I let her
open the door, I willingly walked out, and I let her lock the door behind me.
Since I wasn’t about to be evicted again, I begged my babysitter for shelter.
Mrs. W. didn’t know what to make of this. The hairy mole in her left eyebrow
jerked up and down. Was this a game between my mother and me? What sort
of mother would play such a game with her daughter? She could not
understand, and neither could I.
Just then a knock came on the door. “I’m not here,” I mouthed to Mrs. W.
Expertly, rapidly, and spurred by panic, I slid under the bed. Please, please,
please, don’t let her find me.
My mother drags me out from under the bed. She’s not pleased. I’m terrified.
Locking my wrist in an iron grip, she leads me to my father’s apartment
building. As I crawl up the stairs, a miserable little maggot, she does not
follow. I do not look back.
I am back in the dark corridor again, back in front of the bright white line.
The light sears my retinas, but I am transfixed. I do not knock, I do not cry. My
mother’s heels click, click, and fade.
Why didn’t I push back? Why did I let them close doors in my face? Why
didn’t I stand up for myself? Say something, d*** it. You’re five. They’re your
parents. Lonely nocturnal trips and bright white lines, those shouldn’t happen.
Stand up for yourself. Fight.
I wasn’t a fighter, but I am now. When no one is looking out for you, look
out for yourself. Happiness doesn’t fall out of the sky. You have to work for it.
Squeeze out every drop of sweetness, because a lemon doesn’t juice itself.
The second time I left home, I was sixteen. Perhaps I was too much for them;
perhaps they were too much for me. But this time, it was my choice, and on
my terms. No bright white lines, no closing doors, and no fading heels. Just
snow, wind, and a breath of lemon-scented air.