Chapter Thirty-Two>>>Ten Miserable Hours
I walk through the front door of my family’s house at half past six to a moderately quiet house. That means for a quick escape back to my apartment.
“Taylor, just in time for dinner,” Mom smiles at me s I walk into the kitchen. I shamelessly groan. She’s standing there making a salad and swaying to “California Dreaming” playing on the radio.
“Actually, I was just about to…”
“Set the table,” she smiles, nodding at a pile of plates on the kitchen counter. Actually, I was going to say get a few notebooks from the basement studio and run like hell. I sigh and pick them up.
“You know, it doesn’t kill you to eat with the family every now and then. I don’t understand why all my sons want to just run from me.”
Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that every time we come home there’s chores to do. I am twenty years old and I’m still forced to do chores every time I walk through the front door!
Zac appears in the doorway in sweat pants and an old Mayfest t-shirt. He tosses a rag onto the counter and leans against it with exhaustion.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Mom corrects him, “You still have the windows upstairs to wash for me too.”
“Mom!” Zac gasps, turning to look at her, “This is slave labor! There has to be some kind of law that restricts you from forcing your kids from working for…” he glances at his watch, “Ten miserable hours!”
I smirk in his direction, happy all I have to do is set the table, and lay down the last plate.
“What’d he do?” I finally ask, directing my question at Mom.
“That’s for Zac to share if he wants to,” she retorts quickly. Way to ruin the fun, Mom…
“What’d you do?”
Zac angrily gets a cup down from the cabinet and slams the cabinet door. As he makes his way to the refrigerator Mom turns and takes him by the arm, “Lose the attitude, got it?”
He sighs and pulls away from her to get a drink. “My grades sucked.”
I chuckled, “I’m not surprised.” You were too busy studying the anatomy of women to bother studying anything else, I want to add, but I don’t for Zac’s sake.
“Tell him what your grades were,” Mom encourages him.
Zac sighs yet again and leans on the counter, gulping down his water. Once he’s swallowed and exhaled loudly, he finally adds, “My GPA was a 1.6.”
Is that even possible? The first and only thing I can do is laugh. How the hell do you manage to get a 1.6 GPA. Am I the only one that finds this funny? I look at Zac and Mom’s serious expressions. Apparently so.
“That’s really pathetic,” I finally chuckle.
“Taylor…” Mom warns, although I know she agrees.
“I just don’t know why it’s that low…” Zac muses, “I got two C’s and a B even!”
“And a D and an F,” Mom adds.
Zac gives her a less than appreciative look.
“A 1.6…” I continue to ponder out loud, “That’s got to be the worst GPA I personally have ever heard of. You take the record on that one, Zac, really.”
“Taylor,” Mom corrects yet again, “I’ll do the lecturing, thank you.”
“She’s not joking…” Zac mumbles and puts his now empty glass in the sink.
“That’s what happens when the baby bird leaves the nest for the first time,” I explain to them, “Zac has too much fun and too few restrictions, that’s what it is.”
“Tay, what did I say,” Mom says in exasperation. She sighs heavily. “Enough.”
No, not enough. I’m not really done yet making Zac feel bad about his life and therefore making myself feel quite pleased with my current own life. Suddenly I’m feeling pretty damn aggressive, actually. I blame it on the lack of sex on my vacation.
And then I say what I told myself I wouldn’t say earlier, “You shouldn’t spend so much time studying the anatomy of women and maybe spend a little more time-”
“Taylor!” Mom snarls.
“Tay, you didn’t even GO to school. What are you doing with your life that gives you the right to lecture ME?”
“Zac!” Mom grabs his arm and gives him a stern warning look.
I pause for a second and let it sink it. It kills me because here I am with a girlfriend, my own apartment, a new job, and he still can say that to me. I briefly wonder if he’s right, but make sure that my expression reveals only anger. I can’t let him actually think I’m I care about what he said.
I set the last set of silverware down in its place, raise my eyebrow at Zac, a look that implies whatever he wants it to imply, and head for the basement to get the stuff together that I came for.
Behind me I can hear my mother huff, “Well, I’m almost glad he brought it up. I want to talk to you after dinner about what he said…”
I almost feel guilty for getting my brother a “sex before marriage is wrong” talk, but not quite.