The Announcement Where Everything Went Wrong

"You can do this," I muttered to myself in the mirror. "It's easy. You've already come out to your homophobic grandparents, you can do this too."

I took a deep breath as I lied to myself some more. No, I can't do this. I was prepared to get back to writing when my eye caught my aunt's typewriter.

I sighed. Aunt Rosette was easily my favourite aunt, up until the day she fell down her stairs. She was very old, Aunt Rosette, and her memory wasn't perfect to begin with. But when she hit her head as she fell, that really scrambled her brains. She's still alive, but she doesn't know anything anymore. Aunt Rosette doesn't even know who I am anymore.

Her fall was a week or two after my seventeenth birthday, and her last present to me was Rosa, my typewriter. Of course I named my typewriter after Aunt Rosette.

"Hannah?" my mother called from downstairs. "Hannah, Rachel's come to see you. Afterwards, you're needed in your father's office to discuss colleges."

"I'll be down!" I called back, running a hairbrush through my waist-length black hair. I slipped off my glasses and stomped down the stairs in my boots.

"Hi!" I breathed as I swung open the door.

Rachel Tate, with her short platinum hair and her thigh-high boots, stood in my doorway. She grinned goofily, holding a pastry box. "Bonsoir!" she cheered happily, snow encrusted on the bottoms of her boots.

"Bonsoir to you," I laughed. Rachel had been practicing French for two years at that point. She moved her foot as if to step inside, but I held out my hand and stopped her. "Mom's home," I hissed.

Rachel's green eyes widened. "Shit, I'm sorry, should we go to my house instead?"

I peeked behind me to make sure Mum didn't hear. She loathed swearing. "Okay, let me get my coat." I glanced at her dirty boots. "And take off your shoes."

Rachel kicked her boots off as she stepped through the doorway. I double-checked for my mother when--

"Hannah?" my mum appeared out of the living room, clicking her small gold earrings into place. "You know we can't have visitors right now, we need to discuss college options for you."

"Hi, Mrs Hannah's Mom," Rachel joked. I sighed. Rachel was too brave for her own sake.

Mum glanced at her like something she found in my cat's litter box. "Hullo, Rachel. And may I ask what you are doing in my house?"

"You may!" Rachel said cheerily. Mum waited, but... nothing.

"What are you doing in my house?" Mum repeated.

Rachel brightened as if just waking up. "Dropping off chocolate croissants," she said happily, "for your dear daughter Ms Hannah Avery Press."

"Hm," was all Mum said.

"Well." Rachel cast me a good-luck glance. "I'd better get going then. Have a lovely day!"

And with that, my final soldier was gone, leaving me to deal with the dragon.

"Mum--"

"Hannah," she said sternly, turning away. "Go to the living room."

"I--yes, Mum," I said dully.

Every hint of a smile had been wiped off my face at that point. I sat down in our living room, which was strangely clean and boring. My parents were both lawyers, which means we could afford a lot of nice things.

"Art?" I heard my mother knock softly on the door of my father's study. "Hannah is waiting in the living room; bring the college folder, please."

"Yes, Alice," my father said, his gravelly voice muffled through the door. "I'll be down in a minute."

I checked my watch nervously. 8:27 P.M. Would I be brave enough to tell them the truth?

"Hannah," my mum said, sitting down across from me and smoothing her skirt. "I contacted Harvard's headmaster this morning."

"What?" I asked helplessly.

"I contacted Harvard's headmaster this morning," she repeated. "I listed your GPA, your extracurriculars--"

"Mum," I interrupted her, "we agreed I would get to choose the college."

She narrowed her brown eyes. "Harvard is a wonderful college. When I went there, I--"

"I don't want to go to Harvard," I said through gritted teeth.

Her eyes narrowed some more. "Harvard is one of the options."

"But I--"

"Harvard is one of the options," she said firmly.

I breathed deep through my nose but said nothing.

My father's shoes appeared as he walked down the steps. I saw the cuff of his pants, then his calves, next his thighs, and his dress shirt--

"Hannah," he said sternly at the bottom of the stairs. "Did I hear you interrupt your mother just now?"

His blue eyes were fixed on mine. I found it hard to keep his gaze, but I did. "Yes," I said quietly.

"And did I hear you say that you didn't want to go to Harvard?"

"Yes."

He let out a short laugh and sat down next to Mum. "Well, you know how much I appreciate jest, but now isn't the time for joking, Han."

There. Right there. He did that so much to me--make me feel like a joke myself. He could shut down arguments by making the other person feel insignificant with a snap of his fingers. I saw him do it to Mum more times than I could count.

"Art, do you have the folder?" my mum asked him.

He nodded, but his blue eyes were still staring at me. I noticed the horrible beige folder in his hand that would determine my future.

"All right, then," Mum said brightly, taking it from his fingers. She started to lift the front cover that had 'Hannah's College Options' printed neatly in perfect handwriting, but Dad placed his hand over hers.

"Han," he said quietly, still staring at me. I didn't dare look at him. "Is there something you want to tell us?"

I shook my head slightly. That's me--a coward.

"I think you have something you want to tell us, Hannah," Dad said, in his gentlest voice.

I could see right through that voice, though.

Mum glanced between us, but kept quiet. This was between Dad and me.

"Hannah Avery Press," my father said, but with a hint of amusement. "Are you keeping something from me?"

I clenched my jaw. Now or never, I told myself. "I have something to tell you two."

Dad raised his arched eyebrows, which were graying almost as much as his hair. Mum's eyebrows nearly touched as she said, "What is it, Han?"

"I..." I dug my fingernails into my palms. "I don't want to go to college," I whispered.

For a moment, just a second, I felt more triumphant than I ever had in my life, seeing my mum's horrified expression.

But then Dad started to chuckle. A terrible, slow, villainous chuckle.

Slowly, his chuckle turned to a laugh. Then he was keeling over in hysterics. It scared me, if I'm being honest.

After what felt like an hour, he straightened and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. Then his humor was gone, and all that was left was utter disbelief and....

And hatred.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" he asked, and I was petrified.

I hated that he was standing and I was sitting, so I stood up too. "I don't want to go to college," I said, louder this time. I'm proud to say my voice didn't even shake.

My dad's eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. Mum was the one to speak this time when she stood, "Hannah." Her voice quivered with fury when she said that. "I-- we-- spent eighteen years planning your future and this is how you repay us? After paying for your school, your food, your clothes, your car, and all your luxuries?"

Now I'm angry. 'Luxuries don't make up for the fact that you never loved me!' I wanted to yell. Instead, I said, "I want to write."

Dad flinches forward, and Mum grabs his hand tightly. I wince--the fact that Dad would actually hit me never occurred to me.

"Get out of my house," Dad whispers. I widen my eyes at him.

Mum turns to him with her calmest, yet tightest, expression. "Art--"

"Get the hell out of my house, Han!" he repeats, louder this time. Then he picked up the T.V. remote and threw it at my head in one quick motion.

I ducked just in time, and it crashed against the wall behind me. I looked at him with wide, terrifed eyes. But there was no apology in his blue eyes.

"Out!" he screamed, his hands were scrambling on the coffee table for something else to throw at me. "Out!"

Mum reached her hand to place on his shoulder, but he turned and pushed her. Hard.

"Art?" she whispered on the floor, her hair a slight mess.

"Get out of my house!" he yelled at me again.

I backed against the wall, walking backwards to the back door. I was eyeing him with deep fear.

"You ungrateful child!" he raged, throwing a rolled-up newspaper at me. It hit my bare thigh, and a pink mark much like a slap bruise formed there.

My eyes never left his as my flustered hands found my car keys. I unlocked the back door behind my back and disappeared to the sight of my father yelling and throwing things, and my mother crying on the floor.

That's the last image of my house I'll ever see, I thought to myself as I got into my car. I didn't cry, I didn't move. I sat in the driver's seat, still as a statue, frozen in fear.

I stared down at my hands, which were trembling. I was filled to the brim with... with....

𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦.