January Dreams by Carrigan Richards (read people like a book .txt) 📗

studying. Seeing as it’s only 4:30, I assume it’s my stepdad. I cringe when I hear his stupid stomping on the hardwood floors, and he stops in my doorway and greets me happily.

“Hello,” I nonchalantly answer, without looking up.

“What are you so mopey about?”

Certainly not the fact that I’m grounded. “Nothing.”

A few seconds pass.

“Aren’t you going to ask about my day?”

I sigh internally. “How was your day?”

“It was good. I made some sales and picked up a few new clients.”

“Good.”

I relax once he leaves.

Ron has been my stepdad for five years, but it’s felt like an eternity. I honestly try to get along with him, but it’s so difficult. He forces us to have a civil chat every day or small talk. It’s all fake, at least from my side. I have no respect for the guy since he treats Jonathan, my brother, and me like crap and Mom like a queen.

I hear Ron’s loud footsteps as he approaches my room again. “You know you’re cooking dinner tonight, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I groan and finally look at him. I hate the way his brown eyes bug out, like any second they’re going to fall out of their sockets. He’s short with a beer gut, but swears to my mom he never drinks anymore, but you can’t hide the smell of alcohol. He even lies to her about smoking. When my mom caught him smoking, he told her it wasn’t his cigarette. He had just picked it up from someone who threw it out from a passing car.

He repulses me, which only fuels my hatred for him more. I’m not a hateful person, but Ron makes my life a living hell.

“Don’t you think you need to get started?” he asks.

“I’m going to finish this chapter and then start.”

“Your mom will be home soon, so you should get started on it now.”

I clench my teeth, trying my best to hold in the anger. I don’t want another month added to my grounding. “Okay,” I finally say, and he stomps to the living room at the front of the house.

I hate the way he walks. I don’t get why he has to walk so hard that it sometimes rattles the windows. Then again, I’m sure his chunky body doesn’t help.

I slam my book shut and go to the kitchen. I drag out a pot and ingredients for chili. I’m surprised they aren’t going out to eat and leave Jonathan and me to fend for ourselves. I started cooking when I was eleven and I hate it. Probably because anytime I try to experiment, my parents won’t eat it. That and I hate cooking in this ancient kitchen. Only two eyes work on the stove, and of course, they are the two small ones. The sink is the size of a Dutch oven and there isn’t a dishwasher. But according to Ron, Jonathan and I are the dishwashers. God forbid he lift a finger. And there is a random bathroom that Ron uses as a storage closet.

The house belongs to Ron’s parents, but they let us live in it. It’s a dated house, built in the early 1900’s, and while I like old things, it does have several disadvantages. Like how cold it gets in the winter.

Before Mom, Jonathan, and I moved in, the place looked like a bachelor pad. Mom arranged the millions of antiques they both had, repainted, and decorated the place. Yes, Jonathan and I had a hand in those repairs. Jonathan and I don’t mind doing chores so much, it’s the way our parents make us. I’ll never forget Ron actually referring to us as their slaves.

That’s why I have to get out of here, and the only way I can is to focus on school. So far, I’m right on track with grades. I’m counting down: a year and a half. I just hope these stupid dreams go away.

I finish cooking the chili, and everyone grabs a bowl and we sit at the table tonight. Mom must have read something that convinced her we’ll be a closer family if we eat at the table and talk about our days. They don’t really want to hear about mine or Jonathan’s days though. We’re teenagers. What struggles can we possibly have? We’re lazy, moody people who don’t do anything but stay glued to our phones or computers. She puts on classical music in the background and no one really talks. Just the sounds of spoons hitting bowls.

Jonathan’s cell phone rings and he quickly silences it.

Mom clears her throat.

“Sorry,” Jonathan says. “It was Dad.”

Mom makes a disappointed sound. If it were me with the cell phone at the table, she’d have grounded me. But Jonathan is her baby. He even got her looks. Same brown eyes and same shade of reddish-brown hair.

“Probably calling to make fun of your mother?” Ron says, and I clench my teeth. Dad doesn’t say a word about Mom, but they always talk about Dad. It’s infuriating. Jonathan tolerates Ron more than I do. Ron wanted us to start calling him “Dad,” shortly after he and Mom married, but I refused. Jonathan did for a while, which upset me, but he doesn’t anymore.

“I just hope he sends that child support check,” Mom says. “If he doesn’t, I’m going to call my lawyer.”

“Mom.”

“Megan, if he can afford a new family, he can afford to pay for you and Jonathan.”

You mean pay for your car. I know that’s what she uses the money for.

Once dinner’s over, I flee to my room to do homework and grumble at the silence. I always listen to music, but Mom took all my music away, like always, when I’m grounded. She knows how much I love music and I guess she loves torturing me.

Savannah shifts under the blanket on my bed