Embracing Rain

3 - Chance

3 - C H A N C E

"Abbie Chance Taylor," my mom repeats, making me cringe. It's an involuntary reflex at this point, both because I hate my first name but also because when she says my full name, I know she means business. And not good business, either. "Where were you this whole time? Do you have any idea how worried we were? You can't just disappear with every new town we move to, you know that—"

"You didn't even notice I was gone until the morning came and you didn't find me when you went to wake me up that time we were in Spain. You don't even have the right to be mad if you can't pay enough attention to notice when your own kid is missing. Besides, it doesn't seem like you were trying very hard to find me." I gesture around the nearly deserted grocery store and raise my voice in a bad imitation of my mom's high-pitched and raspier tone. "Oh no, my kid's gone missing. Guess I'd better go buy some bread."

I look up to find her still looking at me expectantly, seemingly ignoring my previous rant. She does that a lot—she's always immune to my outbursts, which I have to admit is probably a good thing since they happen more often than I'd like. I don't exactly have anger management issues, but I do tend to lose control of myself when I get tired.

Unfortunately, the times when I get tired and lose control of myself the most are when we travel and get jetlagged. Which also happen to be the times when my anger at myself, at my parents, even at the world in general is at its worst. The times when my emotions are the rawest, when they're just waiting to burst out, making me cause the people around me the same pain that I feel.

I hate this side of me. The side that gets angry at the world and lashes out. The side that's immature and can't stay under control. I think part of the reason I'm so curious about Noah is that he was able to keep himself under control, to accept the pain without dishing it back out to compensate. I admire him for that.

"Where were you?" she repeats. "And who was that boy? He wasn't getting you into any trouble, was he? I've told you countless times not to talk to strangers. I don't say that just to hear myself talk, you know."

"I was out, and he was helping me," I answer evasively. It's not that I don't want her knowing where I've been, but I'm just so frustrated that I don't want to cooperate. Even if it makes me seem like a bratty little kid.

"Out won't cut it," she counters, looking at my dad for help. That makes me snort, though, because I know my dad won't do a thing. He's so passive that he even hates correcting me or my mom, let alone disciplining me. I could call him passive to a fault, I guess. Most of the time, I appreciate his pacificism, because I hate getting yelled at. Who wouldn't? But sometimes, when he refuses to take a side or acknowledge something, it seems like he doesn't care. And that hurts, too.

"Can we go home soon?" he asks hopefully with a noncommittal shrug. He's trying to appear calm, but I can't help but notice the way his hands twitch. Not that I'm surprised, of course—confrontation always makes him anxious. "I'd like to go to bed. We've been awake for the better part of the last twenty-four hours. I'm sure we'd all like to go home and rest."

"Well, whose fault is that?" I mutter under my breath. "And it's not home."

"You shouldn't do that either," my mom says, shaking her head. "It's rude to mumble like that. You know that, Chance."

It makes me angry that she stays so calm. That she carries herself with such a shameless air of superiority, as if she's looking disdainfully down at the world around her in disappointment for having not been perfect enough to satisfy her. It feels like she uses her ability to stay calm as a weapon against me, as if to point out how much better she is than me. To point out how my feelings are invalid.