(50) Falling to Peaces

It’s late Friday afternoon, the sunlight still pouring through the windows of my house with the oncoming spring. The sky is still covered with gray reminds any wishful thinker that winter has not yet lifted its dreary presence from the world. The gloom somehow has crept from the cold air into where I brood in the den, my hand clutching the black computer mouse as I pour out my frustrations offering votes on the Internet for whether men and women are “hot” or “not.” With such a downcast disposition burdening my shoulders, it is hard for any such person to even receive a five from my direction.

In hindsight, my day wasn’t really that dreadful. I had been almost cheery about an hour ago when describing to my mother how I had given up the last fat-free yogurt to the terror-stricken, trembling hands of one of those “apple-a-day” girls. Then suddenly like the gray clouds outside the window, one has taken a hold on my spirits, utterly dampening them so that now a raging tempest burns within my heart and the world is my enemy. What I should be doing right now is diligently slaving over my schoolwork, but my mood is so thoroughly foul that I cannot even bring myself to look at my backpack lying next to the couch bursting at its dark blue seams. All I can succeed at doing for the moment is clicking the bubble under the number two so that the figures who pose confidently on the computer screen in front of my merciless gaze can share this disappointment, this pain eating away at my conscience.

“Dar?” I can see my sister from the reflection of the polished mahogany frame of our family portrait. I ignore her, continuing to stare at the other blonde in my presence on the computer screen, having taken a snapshot of herself while posing with a tennis racket at some ritzy club. I squint at her critically from the perfectly blow-dried hair, the perfect smile, and the to-die-for hips and legs. Then I see it, the poor naive little girl is sporting a laccoste, white pleated skirt and then a clean pink colored Ralph Lauren tee shirt. I bring the white arrow up to the top of the computer window with glee and settle on the number “1.” Everyone knows you don’t mix crocodiles and polo players. I smile evilly, picturing this egotistical princess coming home from that little tennis club and checking her votes for the day expecting to increase her confidence in her attractiveness, only to find her name beside a humbling single digit.

“Daria, answer your sister!” My mother enters the room as well, but I don’t bother to turn around. I am numb to their calls, to their directions, nothing can call me back from this darkened state.

“Daria, it’s your turn to get gas.” I can feel my blood pressure rising. “Why don’t you stop wasting your time on that computer and go get it for once.” She orders.

“Why don’t you shut the heck up for once.” I reply with little enthusiasm, changing the screen to the next photo so that I can bring somebody else down to my gulf of misery and endless woe.

“Daria!” My mother’s voice rises dangerously. I can feel the top of my bottled patience buckling, the pressure building up towards an explosion that I can barely contain.

“FINE!” I scream, my voice sharp with anguish. “I am going shopping, I’ll get your stupid gas then!” I stand up to face my sister, glaring at her with hatred. Suddenly the idea occurs to me that everything will be okay if I go and take out all of my frustrations in life on the shelves of J.Crew.

“Oh no you wont! I have to be at Charlene’s house at six!” My sister is shouting back now, her hands placed angrily on her hips.
“Daria, make sure you are back in time for Olivia to take the car then.” My mother concedes.

“Whatever,” I spit out. I torpedo through the house, entirely annoyed with everybody and everything. Throwing a coat on, I stomp towards the ladies desk only to find the silver dish completely barren of any silver key rings. Already, having less than an hour of shopping time, I am reaching the end of my rope. I search the house with zero patience, now seething while slamming cabinets, kicking chairs, and throwing foreign objects. I am raving mad, unable to control myself and ready to destroy anything in my path. The house is my jail, bars that I cannot escape from because of the overwhelming amount of scholastic responsibilities I am forced to live up to, and now for just one hour of freedom I cannot even find my car keys.

Then, while kneeling on my bedroom carpet, ripping the white ruffles of my bed upward to search beneath its edges, it happens. I lose it. Suddenly the mixture of lack of sleep, a fifty on a math test, no social life, and everyone discussing prom comes hurtling back at me and I crumple to the floor, wracked with pain entering a meltdown. My face contorts itself, and while covering my face with shaking hands, unbidden tears form at my eyelids and come crashing down my cheeks. I sob, moaning like a little child as I am drowned in my sorrow. My head aches, voices screaming inside of it from my friends telling me about their boyfriends, those names seemingly included now in every conversation. Even Charissa is going out tonight with Rick Hastings, the son of her fathers’ coworker who she has been dreaming about for months.

Another wave of agony overcomes my body at the thought of Cameron, whom I had discussed going to prom with for almost a whole year. A couple days ago Charlotte had passed me a note in Algebra 2, a sentence quickly scribbled on the lines of a piece of loose leaf paper reading: “Cameron asked me to prom.” The very message almost burned my hand. I bitterly envision her, though she is my friend, dressed up in a flowing gown with her hand on the shoulder of his tuxedo. I continue to bawl, having tried to make myself not care, to hate the very idea of such a frivolous tradition, but not being able to shake the desires to feel elegant, join all of my friends in a black limousine, and dance the night away. Britney is going with Connor Ferrington, Patsy has already been asked by our friend Josh, Alex is taking some sophomore, Sammy is taking his girlfriend Sophie, Charlotte has to be going with Rick, which leaves me where? Completely in the dark. Plenty of couples are going together that barely know each other, but I will not allow myself to resort to that. The only way I would ever resort to attending our school’s prom is if by some miracle a particular guy that answers to the name of Jeff Waters asks me to be his date, which in itself is highly unlikely, impossible actually. Jeff will probably end up requesting the company of Heather, someone who is everything I am not and do not wish to be. The whole situation is hopeless, a waste of time, money, and stress. It really would be quite bearable to get over, if it weren’t for the fact that this overly-done dance is the topic of every conversation since tickets go on sale in less than two weeks.

Startled, I hear a determined knock on my door, even though it is obviously wide open because I am too much in hysterics to close it. Glancing towards the hallway, I see my father standing in the doorway in a suit, his eyes tired and his yellow striped tie hanging loosely from his unbuttoned collar. I offer him permission, blubbering profusely, to come in which he responds to by closing my door gently and then pulling out the chair from in front of my desk. He sits on it heavily, silent for a moment, his movements deliberate and thoughtful.

“Daria, I am going to try my hardest to be objective and have understanding as you tell me exactly what is so incredibly wrong in your life that would cause you to have only what I have been told was a tantrum downstairs. Is there something you are not telling me? Am I missing something?”

Then I let it all out. I wail as more tears flow about college, about how much school work keeps piling up especially on the weekends when I want to rest, how I have no sleep, no time for anything I want to do, how I want to study for SATs but can’t find opportunities to. Then I begin to howl about how I am stuck at home, again, while Rick is picking up Charissa, and about how all everyone can talk about is prom. He sits there completely quiet, content to wait until I have told him everything I need to. I end my lamenting, continuing to sob, moaning, “I just can’t do it anymore.”

“I am sorry.” He says simply after a few minutes. “I am sorry that you have so much work to do, I am sorry that you have to stay home when all of your friends are engaging in other activities, and I am sorry that you do not have a date to prom.” I watch him ruefully, waiting for some sort of lecture to come about how my problems do not give me an excuse to treat my family poorly. He continues gently though. “I wish you had called me, Daria, you know you can always call me. I had a terrible day at work as well, we lost a bid, and the other deal has decided to delay their response. I would have much rather talked to you. I love you Hunny.” I can see his eyes getting red, indicating that now I am not the only one shedding a tear. My father’s tears never fall though, I have never caught them rolling down his cheeks, they remain only in his eyes, barely recognizable, almost invisible.

He continues to explain his memories of the torture of junior year, and how he isn’t happy about my attitude at home but understands why I have it. He tells me lovingly that I need to communicate when I am frustrated, that I cannot keep it bottled up inside and how our home is supposed to be my refuge, a haven. He suddenly pulls back my fluffy white curtains, uncovering the dark night beneath them. “It might seem awful right now , Daria.” He tells me, glancing over at my computer screen saver, a colorful “Boys are Evil” bouncing and twisting around the screen. “But somewhere out there, there is a young man probably gazing up at the stars wondering the same things you are, having the same problems you are having, who will one day be your life’s companion and is truly worthy of your affection. I watch him closely, doubting in my mind that boys ever look up at the stars and think about girls, but I keep my mouth closed, savoring the moment of love between my father and I. Then he holds me in his arms, so that in my seventeen-year-old body, I feel like a child again, needing his strength and protection. The tears continue to bead up at my eyes but more out of relief than pain as I sit there on my bed, cradled by my dad. With the love of my father finally the seas inside of me are calm, and though it still isn’t going to easy, I know everything is going to turn out all right.