Before that day, I’m not sure Thursdays really deserved the title I’d always given them, Most Horrible Day of the Week. Honestly, other than perpetual quizzes in Math, the only thing Thursdays had going against them was the bad fortune to be the day before Friday.
But that day, that seemingly ordinary Thursday, decided the fate of all Thursdays forever after.
It started like most other weekday mornings. Me drooping into the kitchen to slurp down a quick breakfast before catching the bus to school. My mom leaned against the counter, reading her texts and emails on her phone as she sipped her protein shake. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and she wore a matching tank and shorts, with her running shoes laced on her feet. Just another weekday morning for her, too.
Perhaps the fiercest thing about that morning was the way I kept my jaws clenched together to trap my words inside.
After opening a can of peaches, I plopped onto a barstool at the opposite end of the counter, as if I could voice my anger better with exaggerated silence than a thousand heated words.
Lost in my own needy thoughts, my mom’s voice pricked me like the bristly needles of a golden barrel cactus. “Rory, how much longer are you going to punish me? It’s been almost three weeks.”
Though my lips itched to answer her, I stuffed a peach in my mouth instead.
She sighed. “I think we need to get away for a few days. How about San Francisco?”
Sweet peach syrup dripped onto the counter as I stared at her with my fork midair.
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