Pencils & Polaroids

03: olives & mellons

"Do I even want to know?" 

My mother, ladies and gentlemen, gawks at me with displeasure as I enter her tidy house and leave behind my blue toe-prints. 

"And here I thought you didn't care about my safety." I drop my bag from my middle finger (the only part of my body that wasn't painted blue) beside the couch. "How deeply mistaken was I." 

She follows me, crinkling her nose at every blue flake of paint she spots on the mahogany wooden floor. "I do care, Park." She brings her gaze back to me--her sole daughter, the reason for her existence, the watermelon of her eyes. "Who did you hurt? Is that person okay? Is that poor kid breathing well? If Eleanor Barcross is going to call me for a meeting, tell me in advance. I'll bake some cookies for that poor child's family." 

Oh, looks weren't the only thing I inherited from my mother. I talk like her more than I look like her. 

"Why stop at cookies, mother? Give the poor kid's family an entire feast with your Masterchef cooking skills." My smile falls but my eyes continue to stay converged. 

"Was it Rainer again?" She asks, softly. 

My teeth grit together. "Olivia Forbes, we do not utter that name in this house." 

Her tongue instantly sticks between her teeth. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Was it you-know-who again?" 

"At this point, do you even have to ask?" I let my shoulders drop and she sighs as if she's relieved it's not someone new. 

She shakes her head at me before fetching the mop and re-cleaning the floor. "Did you try the sharpie trick I told you? Works like a charm." 

Contrary to popular belief, mothers aren't supposed to be this supportive of pranks. Mothers are sketched out to be the idealists who scold, mend, fix, lecture, and probably give time-outs and ground their teenage kids in circumstances like these. 

But mine's cut out differently. Thank god! You see, my parents never had to bother about my grades. My passion for knowledge and Rainer's competitive achievements always kept me in check. However, her divorce from my father one year ago has brought drastic changes in her parenting methods, making me wish she'd divorced him long before. 

In all honesty, Christopher Mellon is a good father. But he wasn't a good husband. Starting with how their marriage was a result of a Tinder date gone long, emotional attachment and communication were the key ingredients both of them lacked--in their relationship and in life. 

My amusement still lies in the fact that they stuck with each other for the last sixteen years. I've read books and seen movies to understand domestic violence, screaming, fighting, and crying, are all the signs of an unhealthy marriage. 

Well, my parents did none of those. Ironically, there was no sound of conversation in my house at all. I thought they were being respectful to my studying routine, but it was later on that I realized they hardly spoke to each other. They didn't have anything to converse and they were okay with it. 

Maybe that's where the problem was--misleading literature and cinema. 

"This," I gesture to my Avatar, (hehe, get it?) "is the result of your sharpie idea. Clearly, I shouldn't be taking revenge ideas from you anymore." 

As my mother mops, she casts me an offended gasp. "It's not my fault you didn't execute it properly. My ideas are always a bolt from the blue." 

I don't appreciate punny humor today. 

"Of course, I don't doubt it anymore." I hop on my toes and rush to the guest room to refrain from making a bigger mess.