. . . Ugh. I don't feel very well. Today, my mother decided to make a cake, and you know how mothers are--they always want you to help them. "It'll be fun," she said. Fun! Ha! "Oh, yes, mother, I would love to help you with the cake! I'm just dying to help you." So, yes, Diary, I got to bake a cake with my mother this morning; well, at least part of one.

     She got mad at me before we could finish because I told her I wanted to go to the movies today. I was supposed to tell her yesterday --of course Joyce didn't invite me until today. I then began to yell (I always do try to keep my cool, but it never works) and so she yelled back. "You know the 'twenty-four hours in advance' rule! I don't know what you're complaining about!" "But, it's summer! Joy didn't tell me about it till today! And you don't have to worry about a ride or anything--she said she could give me a ride--and if for some reason she can't I can ride my bike to the theater. You're always yelling at me for being a 'lump' and never doing anything, but you never let me do anything!" SLAM. I slammed the door to my room after my outburst and she yelled through it, "Good. Now stay there until tomorrow, young lady. I do not wish to see you until the morning."

     So, here I am stuck in my room with absolutely nothing to do. I should know better by now, shoudln't I, Diary? Why can I never keep my mouth shut? Well, I guess . . .

     "Sarah Olivia Swanson! You get yourself down here right this instant!"

     "Coming, mother," she mumbled under her breath.

. . . I better go--she used all three names: Sara Olivia Swanson. S. O. S.--you think she was implying something when she named me?

     "Sarah!!!"

     "I'm coming!"

      Sarah quickly closed her diary and, making sure to slam her door, walked out of her room. Taking her time down the hallway, she heard the normal sounds of her mother making dinner--the sizzle of a frying pan, the scratching of a fork on the teflon, and the inevitable "clink" when her mother set down her wine glass to pick of the pan.

      Peering around the corner, Sarah could tell that there was something different about tonight. Tonight her mom wasn't smiling, nor was she humming as she stared blanking down at the the sizzling food, which she complacently nudged with a fork. Sarah felt herself waver and she shook her head; it amazed her how much her mother's actions still affected her. Why should she be scared of her mother? There was no reason anymore--she had realized a while ago that her mother was not a statue on a pedestal--she was far from perfect. Still she knew her mother held something over her--what it was she knew not--nonetheless she trembled at her mother's gaze. Gulping, Sarah quietly stepped into the kitchen.

     Placing her wine glass down and coughing dryly, Ms. Swanson prepared herself to yell her daughter's name again, "Sar-"

     "Mom, I'm right here," Sarah cut her off.

     "Oh, um, dear," Mrs. Swanson replied while figeting with a stray piece of hair that had fallen in her eyes. She seemed to look everywhere, but at Sarah.

     Sarah knew that no eye contact was a really bad sign with her mom. Sure, they hadn't looked each other in the eyes for at least a year, but when her mother couldn't even look at the top of her head there was a problem.

     "Are you alright, mom?"

     "A-hem, ah, yes, Sarah, I'm perfectly, ah, well," she continued to play with the rebel strand of hair.

TBC . . .

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