02 - How to bring your child to tears in ten seconds tested and trusted

Dinner ended up being ten minutes late. A whole six hundred seconds later than it was supposed to be. I was toast. Dead meat. A sitting duck. A dead man walking. It was my day to cook and with dinner being late, my mom had a legitimate reason to shout at me.

Not that she needed one to begin with.

My eyelids drifted shut as I exhaled noisily through my mouth. This was bad. Very bad. If it had been any other night, I might have gotten away with it but definitely not tonight. Not after she specifically requested that we come straight home after school. Not after our neighbor informed her of the time I arrived, a mere half hour before she herself did.

She wasn't going to see that I still arrived before she did. What she'd see was the fact that school let out hours ago and contrary to her order, I hadn't come straight home. Shit. Shit. Shit.

My mother, the Jessica Johnson, was going to be less than pleased.

The contents of my stomach plummeted. I could more or less smell her anger.

I shivered.

After working a huge case, getting home at late hours of the night and early hours of the morning, for the past two weeks -four, if you counted getting home by nine p.m. late-, the one day she got off early, I couldn't have dinner ready on time.

She wasn't just going to let that slide.

I drew in a deep breath, wriggled my shoulders and bent my neck one side, then the other like someone getting ready for a fight would.

Then, I called out, "Dinner's ready!"

A fun family dinner where we'd ask about her breakthrough on the case was nowhere to be found. Dinner was a tense strained affair where, as expected, my mother awarded me a beautifully worded lashing about how it wasn't too much to ask for me to come home straight from school just once -yes, let's conveniently forget that you ask this every time you get held up working a big case- and cook while simultaneously -and ironically- enjoying the spaghetti I, the ‘irresponsible and wilful’ daughter had prepared.

If I was so irresponsible, I definitely wouldn't have bothered cooking anything.

I kept that thought to myself though. I quite liked living and wasn't ready to say goodbye to it just yet.

I couldn’t anyway. I was too busy trying not to cry. Like an idiot.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled quietly, hating the tightness in my throat and the way my eyes were undoubtedly glistening with unshed tears. "I had to make a quick stop at the library."

"And it couldn't wait one day?" Her tone, the arc of her brows and her aura had me shrinking in my seat.

"I'm sorry." I squirmed.

I've always thought it was entirely unfair that parents have the ability to bring their kids to tears with only a few words or a mean look. It was even more unfair that my mom had mastered the art. Seriously, the woman could write a book; How To Bring Your Child To Tears In Ten Seconds. Tested and trusted. I wasn't a crier. Not by any stretch of imagination. I could count on one hand the things that could make me cry and still have spare fingers but at times like this, it felt like I was more sensitive to my parents because I wasn't to anything else. Like that somehow increased my sensitivity to parental disapproval.

Olly would never cry over simply being yelled at. She would hardly even blink but, unlike me, -and though she hated it- she was the type to cry over a sad movie, a dead pet, a sad goodbye. She cried a bucket over Five Feet Apart, Titanic and The Fault In Our Stars. I smiled at the first and laughed at the other two because I actually thought they were funny and stupid but now, with my eyes misting with tears, I'd have given anything to be the one who cried over movies and weathered through being yelled at.

I couldn't deal with negative emotions directed at me. I hated that. It always made me look like such a cry baby. I of all people.

"Honestly," my mother continued, "it was one simple thing. And you couldn't do even that."

I swallowed hard and forced myself to continue eating.

Olly shrank further in her chair with every scathing sentence that left our mom's mouth. Even my whispered "it's fine" and convincing albeit fake smile didn't seem to make her feel better.

Thankfully, the entire ordeal was short lived. I was finally on my way back to my room after hurriedly clearing the dishes. I had managed not to actually let tears fall throughout the dinner but if I had to listen to Olly apologize one more time, I knew with complete certainty I'd end up bursting into tears. That could absolutely not happen. It would only make Olly feel worse because she would know that our mom's words had gotten to me and if she felt bad then I would feel even worse than I already did. And I felt bad enough as it was.

There should really be a rule never to say sorry to a person struggling not to cry. When in history has it ever worked? It always just ends up making said person cry harder.

Unsurprisingly, the first fat drop slid down my face just as I was pulling my door open, betraying the façade of hauty indifference I had maintained throughout dinner. Luckily, Olly had already slipped into her room, just a few steps away. I was saved from feeling even worse than I already felt.

I angrily wiped the tear away, reminding myself that not only had I protected my sister, I also had nothing to be sorry for.

But when has that ever worked?

I crossed length of my beige themed room to my favourite part of the entire house; my window-seat. When I was younger, I hated the color of my room. I wanted it to be less grownup. I wanted bright colours like all my friends but my parents never came around to the idea. It all worked out though because now that I was older, I kind of liked it.

I made myself comfortable, pulling my knees up to my chin and wrapping my arms around my legs as I rested my chin on my kneecaps.

An annoyed growl escaped my lips as I wiped away another tear. And then another. And another until I had two matching tear trails running down my cheeks despite my efforts.

"You're better than this, Avy," I whispered, drawing in a shaky breath. "Why are you even crying?"

Unable to answer my own question, I leaned out the window for a clearer view of the starry night sky. And thank God for that because I happened to catch sight of Masked Idiot in the process.

I immediately ducked into my room, backing away from the window as if it had suddenly caught fire.

What the hell is he doing here?

It was dark and from my perch, I couldn't clearly make out his features but I was sure it was him. My mother had already harshly chewed me out for coming home late from 'an impromptu visit to the library'. I couldn't bring myself to imagine the hell and holy fire she would bring if she found out where I had truly been.

I would have to kiss my right to life goodbye.

Because I thought it would somehow help me conceal my identity, I flicked the lights off and made my way to the bathroom I shared with my sister. It served as the demarcation between her room and mine, and also as a passage to sneak into each other's rooms when we were much younger as we both had doors leading into the tiny bathroom.

I indulged myself in a long bath. It started out warm but soon turned cold because Olly had used up most of the hot water. Nothing is really going my way today. I was a lover of hot baths. Under normal circumstances, I would've come out as soon as the water ran cold but I hadn't been able to get a handle on my emotions and was still tearing up so I stayed so I wouldn't feel it as the tears rolled down.

When I finally emerged from the shower, the rest of the household -with the exception of my dad who wasn't home yet- had already gone to bed and my skin was well into pruny territory. I wrapped a fluffy white towel around myself and made my way into the room, drying my hair as I went. I was forced to wash it thanks to the peanut crumbs.

Even now, hours later, the thought was still as disgusting as ever. Maybe even more so. I had to repress a shudder.

If I ever saw that guy again, there was a very strong chance I would murder him.

I flicked the light switch on and splayed the hair towel on the towel hanger behind the door before turning around.

The sight of Masked Idiot on my bed was jarring enough to elicit a jolt of surprise from me and a sharp intake of breath, the kind that sounded like a wheeze gone wrong.

I stared at him.

He stared right back.

I lifted my gaze to the off-white ceiling, letting my eyes close for a second.

I was seeing things. I had to be. A criminal hadn't actually found my house and broken into my room. I couldn't be that unlucky. I really couldn't.

I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders before letting my gaze drift back to the bed.

He was still lounging comfortably on it.

I blinked.

He blinked.

Okay... I wasn't seeing things. There was an actual boy on my bed. Though my head ached and my vision was blurry from crying too much, I definitely hadn't conjured up the image of the boy on my bed.

He was lying casually, his upper body propped against the head of the bed with my pillows cushioning his back. My pillows. He had his legs stretched out, one hanging over the other in an all too casual pose, like he owned the place. Like this was his room.

He was dressed entirely in black. The only spot of color on him came from the considerably pricy genuine Rolex he had on. Black tee shirt, black jeans and black boots. Filthy boots that were also on my bed. On my easily stained cream coloured sheets. Sheets that my mom bought.

"First, get your filthy boots off my bed." My eyes narrowed in on the offending footwear.

Later when I think the conversation over, I'll realize that I was acting entirely unhinged. A scream for help would've been more appropriate given the situation but at the moment all I could think about were his dirty boots on my bed, him on my bed, him in my room.

It was like the universe was out to get me.

"Second, you're dusting my sheets when you get up. And third," I drew in a deep breath to steel myself, “what. The. Actual. Fuck.”

The look of utter surprise on his face made it clear he was having a hard time processing my response so I decided to clarify things for him but before I could, a cool breeze came in through the window reminding me that I was very much underdressed. How I managed to forget that important fact showed just how out of it I was. I mean I was in a towel. Just a tug away from full nudity. And I had a criminal in the room.

A criminal who could very well be a rapist.

I tightened the towel around me and stiffly made my way to the closet. I picked out a PJ and one of my silk scarfs before returning to where I had been standing.

I flicked off the lights, bathing the room in darkness while I hurriedly changed into my PJs without letting the towel slip until I was properly clothed.

Again, it wasn't until much later when rationality kicked in and I analyzed my reaction that I'd realize that dressing up in front of a complete stranger -even though it was in the dark and I kept the towel secured around me- was a ridiculously stupid idea. I could have, should have screamed bloody murder and had my mom deal with it.

I might have if I didn't know for a fact that even if he'd been a complete stranger -and not one I'd met at a place I wasn't even supposed to know existed much less be at- she'd still find a way to blame me. It would somehow be my fault that he had broken into my room seeing as he was around my age and not an unattractive middle aged man in a ski mask.

One look at him and she'd believe it had been my plan to sneak him into my room all along. That it just happened to accidentally go wrong. I could just picture her asking why he had specifically chosen my room and not hers or Olly's or even the living room and if he started talking about my noon escapades, then I was beyond dead. It would be straight to hell for me. Not even the police could save me. Not that they wouldn't even try thanks to my dad.

All things considered, keeping the break-in a secret was of utmost importance. It was paramount to my survival.

The lights came back on once I was done dressing up. I turned to face the intruder, planting my hands on my hips in a stance I coined from my mother. It always made her seem more terrifying.

"I would scream but I have a headache from crying my eyes out in the bathroom and I'm honestly more afraid of what my mom would do to me if she found a boy in my room than I am of you. Whosoever you are," I said, my voice conveying just how drained and unimpressed I was.

This was officially the longest and most tiring day ever and all I wanted was for it to end. I wanted, needed to curl up on my bed and just conk out. I was done with today. I hated today. I wanted today to be tomorrow already.

Unfortunately, I had to deal with Masked Idiot first.

"You have twenty seconds to explain why you broke into my room before I expose you to the wrath of my mother," I divulged, taking a seat at my dresser as I got started on my night-time hair routine.

"And trust me." I met his gaze through the mirror in front of me. "She's scarier than any police out there."

My body was tired. My brain was tired. I really just wanted to get today over with.

Behind me, Masked Idiot struggled to find his composure and wipe the gaping fish look off his face.

"You find a complete stranger who you know is trained to take down men twice his size in your bed and that's the reaction you're going with?" he asked finally.

My eyes met his through the mirror of the dresser, holding his in a steady gaze. "Twelve seconds."