On the list of tasks I never wanted to partake in, going to school was at the top. It was a waste of my time; when I was there, I never learned anything because I never paid attention. Over the past few months, I’d worked really hard at shutting off my brain, because I didn’t want to be aware of people staring at me. And people always stared at me.Always.
I didn’t blame them. If the roles were reversed, and they looked like me, I would’ve stared at them, too. Actually, before the car accident, I was known for my ability to stare a little too long at people who looked different than I did. When I was a little girl, Mom used to pinch me gently when I’d do it in church, but I couldn’t help it. I was a stupid kid who didn’t know that people can’t pick and choose what they look like.
Mom couldn’t pinch me anymore, but I didn’t stare at people anymore, either. I was very good at keeping my head down and minding my own business while it seemed as if everyone else was minding my business, too.
Grandma Claire pulled up the car to the curbside of Clover High School, then put it into park. We’d already dropped off my younger sister, Lorelai, at her kindergarten class before Grandma drove me to school. Normally, Lorelai and I had a nanny taking us to school, but my father had an uncannyability to fire nannies for the most absurd reasons. The last one—Heather, or whatever the heck her name had been—was fired because on Spaghetti Monday, she made tacos.
To be fair, I would’ve fired her for the same mistake. Mondays were always for spaghetti. Not lasagna, not Alfredo. Spaghetti.
I was certain Dad had told Heather, or whoever, about Spaghetti Mondays, but she thought it would be cute to make tacos.
So she was fired.
The one before her was fired because she put the toilet paper roll on the wrong way. Grandma Claire said the way toilet paper went on the roll didn’t matter, but it drove Dad mad seeing it go under and not over. Then again, everything seemed to keep Dad on edge. My father was coldhearted.
I wished I could say he was always that way—it would’ve made it easier for me to hate him—but he was never cold or distant before ten months ago, before the accident. If anything, my father was my hero. He was the one who took me to ballet classes from a young age. He’d gone as far as performing in a tutu on stage with me for the “father-daughter” performances. He’d also fly us out to New York City every Christmas to seeThe Nutcracker. I used to want to be a ballerina.
Now I wanted to be nothing other than left alone.
I had a feeling Dad and I had that in common.
My long, dark-brown hair danced across the back of my neck. It was still a little wet from my shower that morning, but I didn’t care. Maybe having wet hair would give me a nice case of pneumonia and I’d have to miss a few weeks of school. That would be such a bummer.
Grandma Claire turned around to look my way and pushed out a bright smile. “You should have a new nanny to take youand your sister to school soon. Your father is interviewing a few new individuals today.”
“Lovely,” I sneered with an attitude that Grandma Claire didn’t deserve. I didn’t look at her, because she looked a little too much like Mom. I wondered if that was also why Dad hardly looked at me anymore. Because I looked like Mom.
Or maybe it was due to my scars.
Maybe it was a mixture of both.
Or maybe he just hated me.
Who knew? Who cared?
A new nanny...
Ugh.
I was too old for a nanny. How many fourteen-year-olds did you know who had a nanny? Dad could’ve easily driven us girls to school each day, but he made up the excuse that he had to be in his office early Monday through Friday.
I knew he was lying. My father was many things, but a good liar was never one of them. I figured that was why he didn’t speak much anymore. It was better for him to be quiet than to try to be a good liar. He hadn’t driven a car with Lorelai and me in it since the accident. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t know if I wanted to be in a car with him since the accident, either.
I hated that for both of us.
I hated that I blamed him.
I hated that he probably blamed me.
I hated that he blamed himself, too.
I hated that Mom was gone.
I hated that Lorelai wouldn’t have enough memories of our mother to play on a forever loop in her mind. I hated that Lorelai would probably forget Mom as a whole by the time she was six years old. I hated that I’d never forget her.Remembering your deceased mother was like remembering heaven existed—something so beautiful but so far out of your reach.
I didn’t know if I still believed in heaven, but I was almost certain that hell was real and I was a permanent resident.
Grandma Claire seemed unfazed by my sarcastic reply. She kept smiling Mom’s smile and nodded. “I love you, Karla. Have a great day, sweetheart.”