Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“Whatever.”
I slam the refrigerator door shut and head back to the living
room to grab my backpack. What I need right now is a refuge from
life. I really wish there was a lock on my bedroom door.
“What were your classes like?” she asks. “Do you like your
teachers?”
“They’re okay.”
“What about the students? Did you make any friends?”
“A couple.”
“What god do they belong to?” Her voice takes on that professional
analyst tone. “Damian tried to describe the social dynamics
of the school, but I’d like to hear your—”
“Just drop it, okay? I’ve got a ton of work to do.” I want to stomp
off to my room, but my thirst gets the better of me. I drop my backpack
and go get a glass of water—from the tap. Is bottled water too
much to ask for?
“Honey, I know this is a lot to face all at once.”
“I’m fine. So there’s no Gatorade. I’ll dehydrate like a normal
person, all right.”
She looks a little hurt, but that was pretty much what I was going
for. Everything about this situation is great for her and crappy
for me.
“Do you think—” she starts to say, but then stops.
I fling my backpack over my shoulder and head for my room. I
can sense Mom trailing behind me, but I’m happy to ignore her.
Unzipping my bag, I start setting the massive textbooks out on my
bed. I think I have more homework tonight than I had in my entire
three years at Pacific Park.
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