Page 60 of Eyes Like Angel
Dad doesn’t eat breakfast with anyone anymore now that he got super busy, a clear indication he’d rather eat breakfast elsewhere or have a quick sip of his coffee before heading outside.
From there, I perched down at the comfy sofa, cross my arms and had my head threw back with an exhale after a fucking party still blasted in my system, a lingering effect of strobing lights flashed before my closed eyes, and dubstep music were banging in my ears. Alcohol hadn’t gone away after I shower. A fucking headache for disobeying on skipping my meals, but had salty snacks and fizzling soda.
Fuck. Someone should drown me already because her grating voice was killing me.
The morning still appeared as night—daylight saving time?
“Don’t eat there,” Mom seethed, forcefully clanging her silverware at a dining table. “Eat here.”
“I’m not hungry,” I objected, offended at her accusation.
“I don’t understand you. Why do you always look like a thug? Why do you always have to dress up like a wannabe thug? You have better outfits than that crap,” Mom ranted.
All the clothes Mom suggested were either not my size or she got the colors wrong or plain ridiculous. When I was thirteen, Mom would put on a tight sweater on me that’s barely my size and to make matters worse, the fabric was itchy and a sight for sore eyes. I interjected with complaint but Mom often told me I should always ‘be grateful’, and she’ll die sooner and no one will buy me ‘nice’ clothes like how she spent her money on outfits or shoes I hated.
“Why not? I like this outfit,” I said, my composure stabilized.
She shook her head. “Honestly, you look like a bag of trash waiting to be dumped at a dumpster.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom, I never knew I needed your fashion critique.”
I guess Dad didn’t want to hear this shit for breakfast.
I snapped myself back to real time, wondering if it does the same to me, asking in between the lines of defying the grounds or shrinking alongside it.
“Where’s your maid,” I changed the subject, a sting pricked my tongue, not wanting to call Eva by the term ‘maid’.
“She’s not here,” Mom answered with a groan, shoving her buttery pancake in her mouth once again. “But the house has been so…light. I admire her skills. House is spotless and feelsairy. Holy, even. I hope I get to have her again soon if the house has gotten messy and cluttered again.”
Tying my shoe lace tight on my combat boots I recently bought, saying, “Did you pay her at least?”
“No, I gave the full payment to her family,” she said briefly, shoving another slice.
Her answer irked me.
“Why them? Doesn’t she have a bank account?” I slightly raised my voice. “The people at my age have a bank account by now.”
“How the fuck should I know? I’m not her legal guardian,” she shot back, rolling her eyes like a teenager going through a phase. “If you’re that curious personal life, ask her family, maybe they would know.”
Pointless on arguing or convincing with this unhinged woman,I thought.
I stood up and grabbed a light snack from the cabinet.
“Where do you think you’re going? I told you to stay put until I say ‘go’,” she bellowed.
“We’ll meet at the church again, like you said to me, the day I hosted the party,” I shot back, unlocking the door.
“You’re still grounded. Therefore, you must follow everything I say,” she objected, eyes flashing in anger. “Don’t you fucking walk out on me, Michael. Michael!”
“Dad needs me to go there at Divine Miracles Church,” I made up an excuse before shutting the door and quickly rode off from the residence with my sports car, heading to the Rivers Foundations.
At a rearview mirror, Mom lunged out from the entrance door, already twice as pissed, ready to throw her $1000 slipper at me, but I was already gone through the gates.
Anger was reeling and seeping in, getting the best of me when I cut several lines and went over at the solid line, rovingover a stop light. Gladly no police came, and no cameras were installed. Everyone in this town hated technology, but it’s so fascinating when the Rivers family was holding it—it felt like we’re the trendsetters.
Life is meant to be when meant to be, Mom told me this once, unsure if she said her whole words with sincerity or not.
Hitting the brakes slightly hard when I parked at a Divine Miracles Church, viewing the moving workers—Dad’s workers, precisely decorators, project staff, fundraising managers and donor relations officers, marketing coordinators, accountants—to set up the banners and the large, round jar, assuming it’s for the folks to input their money in for charity, to set up the event well and all accord while Mom settled her part on taking charge for volunteers, interns, and nurses for hospitality.
