Forgetting about my plans for a jog, I turned around and sprinted back to my house and tore through the yard, not slowing down until I had reached the front door. I was about to jerk open the door when I caught a hold of myself. I needed to calm down. I couldn’t go into the house in this kind of state. My parents would worry that something was wrong.
I stood on the porch until my heart rate normalized and my brain stabilized. It didn’t take very long. As soon as I thought I was ready, I entered the house. I found my parents in the kitchen preparing dinner together. I slid casually into the kitchen, trying to start a conversation to override my father’s questions about the length of my jog.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked, peering over my mother’s shoulder. “Chicken stir fry? Sounds good…”
I slid back around to the outside of the kitchen, jabbering along the way about topics in which I had no interest. Along the way I prepared time-consuming dinner topics. All of this was working toward the goal of avoiding an interrogation about my recent activities. But as much as I prepared, something told me that I would not be successful in diverting my parents. They kept an alarmingly close watch on me, and even more scrutiny because of my suspension. At one time I was suspicious that they had set up cameras in my room, but a top to bottom search of my room convinced me otherwise.
“Why are you back so soon from your run?” interrupted my father. I hopelessly hoped that he did not detect what I was doing to keep the conversation out of those waters. But a current I could not overpower had pulled me back in.
“I just didn’t feel like running tonight,” I said. Before my father could dig any deeper, I changed the subject. “After dinner I need to swing by Angela’s house and pick up a packet from my teachers. It has all of the stuff we did on Thursday and Friday.”
“That’s fantastic,” my father said. I wasn’t sure he had even heard what I said. “But I know what you are trying to do. Don’t change the subject. What happened tonight?”
“Nothing, Dad,” I said, pretending to look confused, and letting out a small laugh. “Why are you so concerned about all of this?”
My mother ladled soup into our bowls and carried them to the dinner table. Though it was not intended to be threatening, this action reminded me that I still needed to get through an entire dinner table interrogation. I sighed and took my seat. My father followed immediately after me. He sat down in his usual seat and bent his head to the table. He ran his hand through his wavy hair and resurfaced with a yawn. My mother brought the silverware from the kitchen and we settled down to eat.