It’s past midnight on an early winter as I write a message on the whiteboard in the living room, “Bye Dad. I’ll be with mom.” I pick up the baggage I packed just minutes before and head to the door. I wobble with the weight, bump heavily into the door, and stumble my way through the door. But I am leaving the house. Tears flow down my cheeks with every step, my feelings no longer controllable. Fuck you! Fuck you! I see the black Rav4 with its light on, waiting for me in front of my house. I drag my bags down the stairs and across the front yard, towards the car. I open the door, slam my bags onto the back seat and hop in. I feel the overly heated air from the car. It gives me security and softens the stiffness I was feeling just minutes ago.

“You okay?” My mom asks. I woke her up right after I had the big fight with my dad. She is still in her pajamas, wearing her favorite oversized black hoodie over them. She seems sleepy but worried at the same time also.

“Yah…” My voice is shaking, but I am feeling better. I know that I won’t be dealing with Dad and his selfishness for a while. I know that he won’t come up to my room when I’m trying to sleep and start the same argument that happened hours ago.

“Juan was really worried about you, you know.” My mother says.

“Oh, I woke Juan too? I feel bad.”

“So, what exactly happened?” My mom asks, ignoring what I just said.

            “I didn’t help him cook dinner.” I give my mom the “look”. The “look” that says I know, it’s dumb.

            “That’s it?” My mom laughs. I laugh with her as I think back to what exactly happened and how it happened.

I was doing homework for my math class. Then I heard my dad saying dinner’s ready. I replied with an alright and tried to finish the problem I was working on. Then I hear my dad yelling. He said Asaki, my sister, and I were uncooperative. I told him I was doing my homework but he didn’t listen and went on and on about how my sister and I would listen if it was my mom asking for help and how we never respected him as a father and how we treat him like a slave. I told him that it wasn’t true. My sister saw that I was going to take care of my dad’s anger as I usually do and headed back into her room. She’s so sly. She knew if she leaves the room, my dad would attack me and he wouldn’t bother yelling at her. She also knew I would talk back with dad when he yells at me, because I don’t allow anyone to accuse me of something I didn’t do wrong. Anyways, Dad started yelling at me endlessly, I get emotional and yell back at him. I realized this wouldn’t do anything; I told him I didn’t need dinner and left to my room. I curled under my blanket and cried tremendously on the frustration of my Dad; on the frustration of myself for not being able to say what I want, choking myself silently with my own tears. Then right when I was starting to feel calm, my dad came into my room and began yelling again. He continued about how I had changed; how I didn’t care about our family anymore, how I don’t express myself anymore, how Mom made me change and that I was taking her bad attributes. I couldn’t take any of it anymore. So I waited. I waited until he left my room and then I called my mom. 

            “Well, looks like you’re feeling better now,” says my mom, bring me back to reality.

            “Yeah... seems like it.” My voice is no longer shaking and the tears are beginning to dry on my cheeks.

We drove down San Pablo Street for another few minutes until I saw the apartment. After getting out of the car, my mom grabs one of my bags as I did the same, reaching for my other bag. I followed my mom up the stair. She gets her tinker bell key and opens the door. I see Juan sitting on the chair with a look of worry on his face.

            “Hola. Como estas?” I force a smile on my face.

            “Bien tambien” He smiles back. “Que pasa? Eh?” He asks foolishly, lightening the mood.

             I smile again, this time for real. My mom tells me to use the room next to the bathroom, the extra room she had for my sister and me for whenever we sleepover. I carry my bags to the room. I’m glad my mom told me to leave dads when I called her crying. I remember what my mom said before— we all need shelter, a place to run away when life gets too hard. A feeling of relief washes over me at the memory of those words. I look at the clock. Its past one and I have school tomorrow. I pull on a big T-shirt. My mom brings me blankets and a pillow. She is wearing Shakira’s concert T-shirt she bought last summer. I place them neatly on the bed. I noticed myself spending hours just setting my bed. I am bed OCD. It needs to be winkle-less. Being OCD about cleanliness is fine… I like to be clean, the feeling of the smooth bed sheet feels nice. But tonight, I wish I was never OCD as I see the watch show 2AM. Then I remember when I had a fight with dad over the time when I found him laying on my bed.

“DAD! What are you doing in my room? On my bed!” My bed was a mess. I just couldn’t believe it. The bed cover was flipped over, the inner blanket was slipping down, and he had his feet on my pillow!

“What do you mean? I’m just relaxing,” my dad said.

“But in my room? Get out! This is my room!” I shouted.

“That is NOT the type of attitude I want to see. I am your father and that type of attitude is unacceptable” 

UGH! I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I start thinking about all those fights. I force myself to end the flashbacks happening in me. I head to the bathroom to check my eyes before sleeping. Red and Puffy. I cooled them with water hoping they would not swell up by tomorrow morning. I head to bed.

I woke up earlier than usual and check my cell phone. No missed call. He didn’t call me. I head to the bathroom and check my eyes. It seems better. I couldn’t tell that I had been crying last night.

I hear my mom cooking in the kitchen and talking with Juan. It feels weird, the feeling of waking up to hear someone active, and me also feeling awake and unusually active. I quickly change into my clothes and head towards the kitchen.

“Good morning.” We all say to each other.

“What time do you need to go to school today?” my mom asks.

“I have lab today so like seven thirty” I reply.

“Okay.”

My mom places a bagel and a cup in front of me.

“What do you want? Orange juice, Cranberry Juice, water, milk, soda…?”

“Orange.”

She passes me the orange juice and I pour it in my cup. It was a cup from the day Juan had made Mole, a type of food Mexican food. It was my second time having dinner here with my mom and her boyfriend. I didn’t like it. It was a dark green pastry that seemed so manufactured and tasted like nothing. However, I had liked the package. It was packaged in a glass container. I see the containers and immediately figure out that they were the same cups in this house. Eight cups, eight moles. I laugh at how cheap my mom was. She’s always been strong at any situations, and this was how she saves money without a job.

According to my mom, Juan currently works under his friend that lives near my dad’s house. He meets up with his co-workers at 7:30AM. We will have to leave early so that he won’t be late to work and I won’t be late to school. We left the apartment at 7:10AM. My heart pounds harder and heavier as we approach my old house. What if my sister decides to go early today and my dad sees us. What it my dad simply felt like taking a drive at this time…? I tried calming myself down, convincing myself it won’t happen.

We arrive at Juan’s workplace. It is just three blocks away from home. He gets off and I wave bye to him, silently begging my mom to leave the place as quickly as possible. Mom, Hurry! Please! However, my mom takes her time, making sure Juan finds his co-worker, just like a mother making sure her 2^nd grade son goes to the right class.

Chemistry in the morning is dreadful. The freezing room numbs my brain along with my fingers. I understand Mr. Glimme’s lecture about pressure and it’s affect on chemistry but the main point never makes it to my brain and I wander off into my own world until the bell rings.

Days at Mom’s feel very peaceful, like the days back in preschool. We do what we love to do whenever we feel like it. We are not completely isolated but we remain spaced amongst each other. It was the prefect distance. It gives me time to think at my own pace.

“Mom, I want to oil paint,” I say on a Saturday as I saw Juan painting.

“Go ahead,” my mom says.

So I ask Juan for a canvas and begin to surf on Google for an image, finding a picture I admire from one of my favorite Japanese movie. The actress is dressed up as an “oiran”, a Japanese prostitute during the Edo era. It is the first time I will oil paint in my life but I began painting a person. I don’t know how oil painting works, but I tried anyways. I thought I’ll eventually get the hang of it. I mixed colors on the canvas, it turns dirty red, I soak the brush into the chemical supposedly for taking off paints from the brush and apply it on my canvas. The paint smears and I wipe it off with clothe nearby. It erased. I attempt few more trial until I got the right color. While painting, I start thinking about my life at that moment, realizing that it’s not the quality that makes it so bad but how I interpret it. I think to myself, the things I’m going through right now will make me stronger and help me later in life when I’m in bigger trouble, without any support from people like Mom and Juan.

It was the last school day of the year 2006 and I decided to take the Bart home that afternoon. I could feel the mid-December breeze pinching my cheeks. I rush up the stairs and enter the apartment. I hear my mom watching a video clip online from the living room. I peek into what she’s watching, a girl eating endlessly, competing in a food-eating contest. Interesting. I pull a chair and sits next to her.

“Oh you know, Asaki called awhile ago”, my mom says, her eyes still glued on the computer screen.

“What did she say?” I notice that I haven’t been talking with my sister since the night I left. I thought about her and how she must be doing with dad. “Is she fine?”

 “Yeah she’s doing fine. I asked how Dad is and she told me he’s been pretty quiet. I think you leaving the house made him think about his attitude,” my mom smiles, “oh and your sister seemed to miss you.”

            “What do you mean?” I understood what she meant, but I ask her anyways. .

            “Well I asked her if she missed you and she was like, ‘umm I guess I do… there’s no one really to entertain me’” My mom imitated my sister using her childish voice. “Plus she does need a role model around her.”

            I see the girl on the computer screen, she just finished eating ten kilogram of rice and her stomach began to look as if she was five months into pregnancy. While watching the girl, I thought of how my sister might be doing without me. Maybe I should go back soon... I do miss my sister...plus, I can give my Dad another chance.

That night, as I lay down on my bed, I thought of whether or not I should go back home. I’m safe for sure at my Mom’s, but I do notice my Dad’s been trying his best when I was still with him and my sister misses me. Would I be able to get along with Dad? I’m not sure but I know I have become stronger emotionally and I can always come back to Mom’s if it doesn’t work.

The next morning, I told my mom that I will be going back home before New Years. She and I are in kitchen and she is enjoying her French Roast coffee in the usual sky blue mug cup.

“Why so sudden?” she asked, but not surprised as I expected.

“Well I was thinking last night about it and I miss my sister.”

“Oh I see.” I see my mom smile out of the corner of my eye, as if she knew this was going to happen.

I call my sister later that day to tell her I am coming back to dad’s house soon. She tries to hide it but I can tell by her voice that she is excited to hear that I was coming back. I smile.

I got off the black Rav4 with my bags.

“Bye Mom, bye Juan” I smile to them and head up the stairs towards the front door. I think about what happened this past two month and about the time at my mom’s apartment. I have become stronger, and I know that there is always a place to be when I run into a problem. The two months with my mom released my stress and worries. I’m charged, ready to go. I knock on the door. My sister opens the door.

            “Welcome back.” She smiles.