I was bored and I had a pen and paper.
“He’s late.”
I tap my foot and look at the deserted parking lot before me. My little brother Peter, six years of age, stands to my right, his bottom lip quivering.
We’re the only two kids who haven’t been pick up from school- Well no, that’s a lie. There’s this other kid here too. He’s sitting by the doors eating something that looks like guacomole. Anyhow it’s still a pathetic situation.
I mean how hard is it to remember to pick up your kids from elementary school? 700 other parents could it, why can’t mine?
My dad’s dinky urine-yellow car pulls up infront of us. He told me he chose it because he knew yellow was my favorite color. Looking back on it now it was probably the only thing we could afford.
“You’re late.” I say, bluntly.
He opens the door for us and my brother gives him a hug. Peter never could stay mad at him.
My brother and I sit in the back. I don’t sit in the front like other kids my age do when their dad drive.
- I don’t trust him.
- I don’t trust his driving.
- I don’t particularly wish to experience flying through the windshield.
“Your mom is going to kill me.” He tells us as he drives.
One can only hope.
