18

My Sunday is pretty normal: studying a little, some homework and the usual tasks from my mother. Except that this time I can't. I keep thinking of a certain someone… his idiotic smirk, his soft lips, his flawless body. I keep trying to force my mind to concentrate on my work, but it somehow always springs back to Tom, like:

I'm washing the dishes

With soap

It smells good

So does Tom

It's getting really frustrating. Fortunately, after a while I find something that distracts me the most: reading. I'm now at my seventy-ninth book, and we're almost at the end of the year. I'm hoping that I'll be able to reach one hundred books, but I doubt I can. I have a lot to study, and my time reading is limited.

Out of not-a-lot-of-self-control, I give myself a half hour to read. But, as usual, I lose track of time and end up reading ten chapters. I look up at the clock and realize that in barely ten minutes my mother will be home. So, as everybody would do, I close the book and get to work. Somehow, I'm able to clean the kitchen, vacuum the floors and fold the clothes in five minutes. I'm sure a lot of you can relate.

Sure enough, I hear a familiar car engine drive up the road and turn into our driveway. I run upstairs, so it doesn't seem like I did all my chores the last minute. I sit on my desk chair and wait. It takes more than I expected, maybe even fifteen minutes, but I finally hear the entrance door opening.

"Emma! Come down here!" my mother calls, as I expected.

"Coming!"

I walk down the stairs and head towards my mother, who is sitting at the dining table holding her head. When she hears my steps, she raises her head to look at me, and I almost back away. My mother is looking at me like never before: her eyes look like they could burst into fire any second.

"Mom?" I ask, already scared.

Without looking away, she answers through gritted teeth. "I've been calling you for the last ten minutes." she says simply.

I frown. "I'm sorry. I swear I didn't hear."

"Bullshit," she snaps. "I know you heard the car. You always tell me how noisy it is."

True, I always tell her. But did she really expect me to run down every time I hear her car drive up the street?

"I'm sorry, mom." I say truthfully. "What can I do now?" I try to fix things.

My mother suddenly slams her fists on the table and stands up in a flash. "You could start by doing what I told you to do!" she booms.

"I did!" I complain, and I point to the kitchen counter, but I can actually still see a little crumb on it. I really hope my mom won't see.

"How many times have I told you to clean the sink too?! It's always the same thing! CLEAN THE SINK!" she yells. I scramble to the basin and pick up the sponge. I fill it with water and start rubbing the sides. Then I throw away the few crumbs and bits that had fallen into the sink.

"Okay, I'm done." I say.

She doesn't say anything, but orders me something else to do. "Help me."

I rush to her aid. I pick up some grocery bags and place them in the kitchen, where we usually decide where to put the food. I go back to see if there are any more bags, while my mother goes in the kitchen. "There are more bags in the car." she says.

I walk out and open the car door. There are only two bags, so I pick them up easily and close the door with my foot.

I go back to the house, only to find food littered onto the floor. I slow down at the sight of it, and I quickly realize that my mother is the cause of the mess.

I turn the corner and see my mother covering her face with her hands, her black hair falling around her head. "I told you to clean the kitchen." she says.

I put down the bags and look around. The crumb is still there, but that can't be what she's mad about, right? Maybe I didn't clean the sink well enough? But then something catches my attention. Thanks to the light, I can see that the cooking counter has a couple of stains. How could I have not seen them earlier?

Without answering, I get the cleaning spray and a cloth and I start wiping. When I'm done, I just stand there looking at my mom, who still hasn't uncovered her face.

"I can't do this anymore." she says suddenly.

"Mom?"

She looks at me and starts speaking loudly, her words almost venomous. "I'm always the one who has to clean, to cook, to wash, to buy groceries. I'm tired of having to come back from work and immediately start cleaning the things that you can't do." she points at me. "'Cause you're just too damn lazy to do shit."

Her words sting, but the thing that surprises me more is that she cussed. It happens that a curse escapes her mouth once in a while, but it's clear that she wants to insult me now.

"What can I do?" I ask again.

Taking me completely by surprise, she grabs a bag of onions and throws it directly at me, hitting me on the sternum. The air shoots out of my lungs, and I can't breath for a second. I bring my hands to my chest and look at my mother in horror. She doesn't realize she's hurt me, or maybe she just doesn't care.

"LOOK AROUND!" she bellows. "I'M DONE! I'm done telling you what to do! Look around and do what has to be done!" she yells before storming up to her room. I hear her slam her room door, then silence.

When I wake up, my mother is already gone. I don't understand what I did wrong. I mean sure, I didn't clean the kitchen the way she wanted and I didn't help her out with the bags (at first). But I'm fairly sure that not a lot of teenagers have parents that teach you to look around and see what's wrong.

The thing I hate the most bout this method is that if you forget something, it immediately becomes a huge scandal and you get punished – at least, I do.

"Hello?" someone says. "Is someone in there?"

Karen is waving a hand in front of me, trying to get my attention. "Oh, sorry." I say. "I was… uh…"

"In your little world." Karen finishes for me. "You seem stressed today. Is something wrong?" she asks.

Flashes of yesterdays fight with my mom pop into my mind. I want to tell someone – anyone – but I'm not used to expressing my feelings. When something bad happens, I usually lock myself in my room and cry it out. It doesn't always work, but I always prefer to be alone in my moments of weakness.

"No, nothing," I say, forcing a smile. "Why would you think that?"

"Don't know," she admits. "But you looked sad."

"I'm fine."