See You Next Friday

Mom is drunk again, and digging through the drawers of my desk. I ask what she’s looking for. “Drugs.” She tells me. I’ve never done drugs, it’s just wishful thinking; she hopes she’ll find something fun to keep for herself. She moves on to my dresser drawers, then to my closet, then to the AC vent where the screws are still missing from the last time.

No drugs, imagine that. She returns to my desk. She sifts through individual things now—journals, loose papers, boxes of pencils—muttering something about everyone having something to hide between slurred verses of Tiny Dancer. I ask again what she’s looking for. She only sings louder, deceitful in her gaiety. Drama is the answer, a tempest in a teakettle. She wants an excuse to yell at me. She’s in the mood for a fight.

I tell her she’s drunk. She denies it. If it’s a fight she wants, maybe I’ll give it to her and she’ll leave me alone. I just want to write. Please let me write. I tell her it’s time to go to bed. She tells me to go to bed. I tell her I can’t because there’s a crazy lady in my room.

There it is; the Friday night drunken rant about how this isn’t my room, it’s her room because it’s her house. I should be grateful she puts a roof over my head and clothes on my back. I’ve been buying my own clothes for years but that’s not the point. I should be glad she doesn’t beat me, glad she lets me eat her food, glad she lets me keep the door on the hinges.

I don’t look at her. They say if you meet a wild animal you shouldn’t make eye contact; they take it as a challenge. I close my laptop. I can’t write in her presence, can’t let her know I’m writing, can’t give more kindling for her fire. Not like last time.

I silently weep. Satisfied, she leaves, slamming the door behind her. See you next Friday.

Averie K. Fraser has been writing stories and poems for as long as she can remember. She currently resides in Pennsylvania.