FROM NAT
Until the second the lights flickered on and flooded my room, I actually thought I had got away with it. Not because I was particularly good at the whole breakout extravaganza, or because I had been especially careful, but because I had been doing it almost nightly since I had found out about the move, and I had yet to be caught. My parents had been too busy screeching at each other to notice I was missing. I had become a virtual ghost in my own home. Unseen. Even more invisible than I had usually been to my parents for the 17 years of what I called my life. It seemed somewhat fitting that they should bust me on the last day of my escapade, on the night before we were supposed to pick up and drive some 500 miles to start again. Whatever that would mean. Maybe they were testing out a new version of themselves, responsible and involved.
“Where have you been?” This from my father, who was speaking to my back as I tried to balance my body on the window sill and enter my room rear end first. Even without looking at him, I could tell he was tired, but it had little to do with worrying about me. “Do you know what time it is?” Why do parents always ask that question? Is it a required question in some manual, like when a cop asks if you know how fast you were going when they pulled you over? I wiggled backwards and felt my feet on solid carpeted floor. I turned around and leaned on the sill.
“I went to say goodbye to Lenny.”
“I can’t believe you. It’s such a childish thing to do. If you had told us you wanted to see Lenny, we would have been fine with that. If you’re angry, then we’ll deal with your anger, but you don’t just disappear like that.”
My mom, the black belt in passive-aggressiveness, the woman whose inability to deal with her emotions had led to my being uprooted from my home right before my senior year, was calling my behavior immature. I was sure the irony was lost on her.
It was weird to see them direct their disappointment and anger toward me and not toward each other. It was almost a welcome change. As conversations go, this was an upgrade from what passed as communication in my family. My father was hardly ever around, always at work, always busy. I could go days without even crossing paths with him. Not that he had much to say to me when we did happen to run into each other randomly. With my mother, conversations were limited to her barking orders at me or belittling me. Little conversational gems like, “Is that what you wore to school? That is the most utterly ridiculous outfit I have ever seen,” “Pick up your crap, Aubrey. I am not your maid,” or “That is the ugliest nail polish I have ever seen. It’s the kind stuff trashy supermarket cashiers wear.” My parents: cleverly disguised as responsible adults, but no more than overgrown adolescents bumbling their way through raising me. A classic example of why people who think they don’t want children shouldn’t just throw out that plan because the condom breaks. I mean, I understand that had they opted for an abortion, it wouldn’t have worked out so well for me, but perhaps it would have been less painful than their failed attempt at parenthood, or the little experiment they called their marriage, for that matter. I had been rooting for a divorce since they hit this last rough patch, but no one had asked me to weigh in.
“Do you have anything to say, Aubrey?”
“Not really.” I looked at her. She was pissed. It was misdirected anger. Clearly. It was a standoff. She was expecting me to say something to egg her on. “I’m kinda tired, actually. I need to sleep if I am going to drive at all tomorrow.”
“That’s it? You’re tired?” She shook her head and looked me in the eye. “You know what I think…I…” She stalled. “I…” She closed her eyes, trying to find her train of thought. She opened them again and looked at me, then at my dad. “I…” she started again, but couldn’t locate the words. She shook her head and rubbed her temples. She opened her eyes and looked at me again. “What was I saying?” I raised and dropped my shoulders. She looked at my father, whose expression was blank.
“Look, just go to bed. We have a long drive tomorrow and a lot to do when we get to the new place,” she said.
I nodded. She looked around, as if she had forgotten to say something and something in the room ought to give her a clue of what it was, but gave up when she couldn’t come up with anything. They both stood there for a few more seconds until I walked to my closet and pulled out a pair of pajamas. Taking that as their cue, they marched out of my room without another word.
CRITIQUE
There’s a few things that bothered me.
Not “getting away” with something and getting “busted” for it typically means the perpetrator suffers some kind of consequence. Aubrey suffered no consequence whatsoever. She did indeed “get away with it” and her parent did not “bust” her in any way, unless you define “bust” as simple exposure. With her attitude, I’d lose the “I actually thought I had got away with it”. I doubt very seriously she’s the least worried about getting caught.
Aubrey sits on the sill and enters her room “rear end first”. Okay, so her legs dangle outside the window. Then she wiggles backwards and feels her feet on “solid carpeted floor”. Either there’s carpeting outside, or you forgot to say she swung her legs inside the room.
Tense shift at “I mean, I understand…”; should be past tense.
In all my life, I never met a child who rooted for their parents to divorce, not even adults. The closest I’ve seen is a person who viewed it as necessary evil, but still wished his parents could “get along”.
If you’re aiming to portray a really unpleasant, annoying, know-it-all, cynical teen-ager whining about her selfish, clueless, impotent parents, you nailed it. Or maybe I should say DRILLED it. Teenage narcissism gets old real quick with me; I started losing patience after the first paragraph. I think you could cut this in half pretty easily and portray Aubrey just as ignorant and disrespectful. For example, I’d probably lose the direct quotes concerning her mother’s communication abilities - drilled that a little too long. Also, the writing is riddled with empty verbs, which makes Aubrey sound kind of weak and unintelligent. I suppose that’s justified given her age and attitude, but for me, I think sharp intelligence makes teenage drivel easier to read. Just eliminating as many of the “to be” and “to have” verbs as possible would hike her IQ a few points and improve the writing quite a bit. Then you could eliminate the weak “ing” verbs. Then “to go”, “to do”, “to get”, “to look”…all empty.