She's Got Legs: II

I roam uneasily from room to room, sit for a few seconds on the edge of anything resembling a seat, then stand again, wring my hands, fight back the urge to puke, and walk to another room.  I go over and over in my head what I will say even though I know Ill never get the chance.  Even if I did, my fear would make me foget my lines anyway.  So I sit, stand, sit, walk, go to the kitchen and think about eating something as I stare blankly into the fridge and cabinets.  Deciding on a spoonful of peanut butter, I remove a spoon from the drawer and get down the Jif, but as soon as I unscrew the lid the aroma hits my nose and travels to the pit of my bile-filled stomach.  The acid that has been multiplying in there makes its way to my throat and I run for the bathroom.  As I vomit, I plead for God to make it all stop.  And stop it does, as I freeze to the sound of the outer front door rattling closed.  I come-to and quickly wipe my face from tears and regurgitated stomach acid and bolt back to the kitchen to return the spoon and peanut butter to their proper places.  My throat burns from the bile recently forced through it, but the sound of the heavy inner front door locking into place replaces the pain with a lump of pure terror.  I simply stand frozen in the kitchen, my thoughts taking over.  What do I say?  Where do I go?  Do I dare to move?

I hear his heavy footseps lumber up the stairs.  With each step my body relaxes a little more.  Oxygen slowly escapes my lungs where it's been held captive.  Maybe he doesn't know I'm home.  Maybe Mom answered the call and covered for me.  Maybe Mrs. Gregaydis just said she called to scare me.  Maybe..."JENNIFER!!!!!!"

Maybe not, I surrender as I rocket up the stairs to the master bedroom.

"Yes?", I ask with the glimmer of hope that one of my earlier maybes will hold true, but knowing inside that the maybe not would end up winning out.

"Why did I get a call from your teacher today?" he asks in his own special cynical way.  Now here's the kicker with this particular question; it has previously been used to trick my brothers and me into false admissions when, in fact, no call was ever actually received.  Is it a trick?  Is it worth the gamble that I am caught lying by saying I have no idea why Mrs. Gregaydis would call?  School is fantastic, in fact?  Do I feel lucky?  Well, do I, Punk?  I decide that no, it is not worth the risk--chances are too good that he already knows.

"I didn't do my homework?" I half tell, half ask the half truth with which I choose to answer.  I left off the "for the past couple of months" part, but I can see from the immediate tightening of his lips that he already knows this.  Or they could be the result of incorrectly chosen words or tone.  Not only does each word I utter need to be precisely chosen, but its tone must also be perfect--an equal balance of strength, respect, and submission, spoken at the perfect volume to be heard loudly and clearly, but without giving any air of anger or sarcasm.  Improperly spoken words can prove to be very painful.  I didn't choose carefully enough.  I see his hand move and I try to brace myself but I'm not quick enough--I blink and every molecule of air is forced from my lungs, upward and out of my mouth by a fist the size of my entire 9-year-old abdomen.  I'm left with an exploding feeling in my chest, throat and head.

"Do you think you're too good to do homework, Puke?"

Having no air in my lungs renders me unable to utter a word.  I open my mouth and I try but nothing will come out.  My right cheek burns from an angry open-handed whack.  "Don't play games.  Answer me, Puke."

"No" finally crackles from my lungs that are refilling entirely too slowly.  The hatred that I'm feeling for him at this particular moment must be radiating through my expression because his expression changes almost to one of disbelief.

"What are you looking at?", he seethes.

I'm a bit caught off guard because I'm not understanding the question.  "I'm looking at you because you're speaking to me", I try to sound meek and timid though inside I feel like a rudely awakened bear.

"Wipe that look off your face", he says in disgust.  I try to soften my expression by widening my eyes and it seems to work.  "Get out of my sight you disgusting puke".  I'm happy to oblige and back quickly through the door then scurry to the sanctuary of my room where I sit on the edge of my bed waiting to be called again.   I know, of course, it's not over.