"So, Charlie," my father asked casually, "how did you score on your Biology test?" My twin brother poked his silver fork at his portion of rice, separating each grain into sections.
"Oh, I did phenomenal," he answered with a sly smile. He shifted his hazel eyes to me as he pursed his lips. "The real question you should be asking, though, is how well Charlotte did." My bite of grilled chicken suddenly caught halfway down my throat. I could feel my parents' gaze swiftly focus on my tomato-red face. I swallowed hard.
"And why is that?" my mother questioned, furrowing her neatly trimmed brow. I cleared my throat as every drop of moisture escaped my mouth.
"I—uh—I haven't gotten my grade yet," I lied. Rolling his eyes, my father sighed aloud.
"How stupid do you honestly think I am, young lady? You and your brother are
both in the same class, with the same teacher, and at the same time. I saw you studying last night, so you must've gotten higher than a zero percent." Charlie attempted to muffle his laugh, but was unsuccessful at doing so.
"Are you guys blind or something?" he announced, still keeping his eyes on his plate. I kicked his calf from underneath the kitchen table. "Ow!"
"What the hell is going on?" exclaimed my mother. "How difficult is it to answer a simple question?"
"Apparently very," my father muttered.
"She ditched, goddammit!" Charlie said. "She wasn't at school today."
"Charlie, shut up," I whispered to him. Still avoiding my parent's eye contact, I began to absentmindedly trace circles on the off-white, decade-old table.
"You what, Charlotte?" my father asked, voice ridden with shock. The upset in his tone was quite obvious, and I yet again began a nervous tick—adjusting my glasses—for I had never handled pressure well.
"She went shopping with Zoe today. You haven't noticed her new jewelry? Oh and by the way, this has been happening all week," my brother added with a mouth full of food.
"Charlotte Louise Ross!" exclaimed by father. I finally looked up, barely able to meet his furious eyes. The heat radiating off of him seemed to fill the room to the point where I wondered if my brother or mother also felt trapped in his intensity. "Again? Really? I've had enough of your—your antics! You lie, you skip school, you cheat—this is not how your mother and I raised you. Why can't you be more like Charlie?" he spat, gesturing to him with an outstretched arm, "He gets straight A's, is always willing to help, and at least acts as if he enjoys being in this family." Everyone fell silent.
"Honey—"my mother tried to console, a minuscule look of worry in her eye.
"No, Kelly, I've had enough of this." My father rose from the dinner table, shoving his chair underneath as he left. As an angry presence exited the dining room, a guilt-ridden one entered.
My brain became scattered. My hands began to shake. My eyes began to tear. Why can't you be more like Charlie? Why can't you be more like Charlie? Why can't you be more like Charlie? My face flushed. Endless waterfalls began to cascade down by burning face. I felt as if a million needles had punctured my lungs, denying me the ability to breath. My vision blurred. The fork I was once holding slipped from my hand, landing with a clang against the tile flooring. Why can't you be more like Charlie? Charlie wouldn't have disappointed his father.
People have always told me that in the midst of anger and irritability, a person may speak lies; I disagree. Deep down, somewhere inside, truth escapes in infuriation. If my father had said those disheartening words, he must have meant them to an extent.
Before I was able to obtain my sanity, vexation gained control of my senses. My
mother reached a hand out to mine a second too late, briefly grazing my fingertips. I could barely hear her whisper my name, but my mind was screaming with such volume, all noise canceled out. Rage boiled inside of me as I stood up—and almost toppled over.
"Charlotte, where're—" Charlie attempted to say. I made my way to the staircase that neighbored my father's office, each step feeling like a mile. My eyes burrowed a hole through the back of his head as I stood at his doorway, my brain buzzing with words. I opened my mouth, unable to speak. Until it was too late.
"I hate you. I never want to see you ever again," I choked out in a raspy voice. Just as my father started to turn in his swivel chair, I had already bolted halfway up the stairs, sobbing uncontrollably.
