02. A farcical ballet

Leila had a quick morning routine; uniform, hair, breakfast, teeth and out the door. But even so, getting ready in 10 minutes took some practiced panic control, sort of like a farcical ballet. She’d even written about it once in English class and scored an A in creative writing. Back then she’d felt a mix of amusement and offense at the teacher’s assumption that she got all that from imagination. Going through those motions now felt nothing like creativity and every bit like life pulling strings and imposing itself on you like a bad houseguest. She recalled every single word in that piece as she went through her rapid routine.

“First, acquire skirt from closet set perpendicular to bed. Disrobe; toss pajamas artfully on bed, don skirt. Acquire white uniform shirt, thankfully already half way off the hanger and unbuttoned; don and hastily button up. Open underwear drawer, push blooming pile of garments aside in search for uniform stockings. Once shoes and –hopefully matching- stockings are on, phase one is complete.

“Next, run out of room, pray bathroom is not occupied, enter and close door. Apply deodorant, wash face and attempt to tame unruly waves with frantic strokes of hairbrush. Give up on thought of wearing hair down, hastily tie hair back into a bumpy, frizzy ponytail. Wish to one day have the guts to tell off brother instead of jumping and hurrying out the door when he knocks and demands for you to get out. Step two is complete.

“Now, run down hallway past TV room, turn left at living room, left again at dining room and into kitchen. Sit at breakfast table, go to happy place in mind and try (unsuccessfully) to ignore icy glare of death coming from mother’s eyes. Feel like underside of old shoe. Scarf down lukewarm scrambled eggs and buttered toast, nearly choke then double choke while striving to wash down with banana milkshake. Think about thanking mom for breakfast but take self’s own advice and refrain from uttering words under risk of unleashing mother’s Kraken tongue.

“Backtrack, remain bottom of old shoe while asking brother to (please) allow use of sink to brush teeth. Brush teeth; gawk at self in mirror just long enough to remind self to gawk longer later in the day to throw pity party over new crop of blemishes. Jump out of skin as blare of car horn coming from garage pierces ears. Grab backpack, run out front door. Success is too strong a word, so let’s go with “done”. Enjoy what promises to be another subpar day.”

Please don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me… It was Leila’s usual mantra as she got in the car with her father every day. Their relationship was a true riddle wrapped in an enigma. There was no denying that Leila loved her father, a strong, capable man who had come from modest means to make a good life for himself and his family. Still, for the life of her she couldn’t figure him out, or his intentions in tormenting her with painful inquiries on the daily. Every subject Leila hated, avoided or skirted, her father would be all over like rust on an old bucket. It hadn’t always been like that, she could still clearly remember a time when they had been close, she’d been the light of his days and he’d been an ally and a supporter of all her endeavors. It just started changing for no good discernible reason a few years back, around the time she started 5^th grade.

“So, Leila”, her father spoke in a low, deliberate tone that made Leila lose the train of thought she’d been lost in. Her stomach shrank and her shoulders tightened, he usually had that effect on her when he spoke in that tone or she had something to hide, which was only always. She waited for him to continue, realizing after a beat that he was actually expecting her to acknowledge his beckoning and ask him what he wanted.

“Yes?” She hated the feebleness of her voice; she wished she could speak as confidently as her brother, who matched wits and volume with their father on the regular.

“How are you doing in middle school? Do you feel like you’ve settled in your new environment?”

Ugh, the unnecessary ceremony in his voice. The deliberate affectations make him sound so rehearsed all the time. Why can’t he just be warm with me anymore? “Yeah, dad, I think so. I’m getting the hang of it.” Stupid, she immediately thought, you sound lame and unnecessarily apologetic, you’re such a wimp.

“Well, as long as you’ve handed in all your work and paid attention in class you should be fine. All I ask of both you and your brother is that you apply yourselves to your studies and take your responsibilities seriously” he glanced sideways at her and went on, “do you believe you’re on the right track?”

His words pierced her like an invisible bolt through the gut. She knew she couldn’t tell him the truth, that she was the English teacher’s pet and every other teacher’s head scratching case. She was supposed to be this little ball of wit and creativity that won over the headmasters of Belmonte and merited a scholarship she now didn’t know how to keep. Her entrance exams had been above adequate, her interviews had been shining and now all she could think is that she’d quite possibly managed to overprice herself just a little bit.

She couldn’t explain this to her father, who only seemed to expect the best from her in all areas. Leila thought herself somewhat talented with words but she couldn’t begin to wrap her head around all the subjects and teachers while dealing with her own issues at the same time. This is ridiculous, she thought, why does he insist on making me uncomfortable like this? He can obviously see right through me, why not just ask me what I need, or just tell me he understands or, heaven forbid, even wish me luck with my new poem or my current writing projects? Why’s it all have to be about the bad?

Now she shook as she realized she was taking too long to answer and her father was pursing his lips and darting his eyes in her direction with expectant silence. Oh God, quick, answer before he says something else!

“Yeah, dad, I think so. I’m trying my best.” She punctuated with a short giggle that was meant to sound cool and nonchalant but instead came out with what she thought was complete and utter frailty and guilt.

And at that moment she felt like someone had moved the school to the next town over; forever had turned into this one conversation with her dad.