GRRRRR!!!!!!!

Why do parents always pick the most inconvenient days and times to do stuff??? I mean, seriously, you could just as easily go grocery shopping fifteen minutes later instead of feeling the need to do it right then and picking your daughter up from a get-together at the pool early. Or taking away your daughter's computer privileges just because she had an essay to write that was due--get this--four days away. Like I can't write an essay in four days. An essay, you say? In the middle of summer? Yeah right. But, no, it's true. Sadly. My mom is insisting that I enter this contest thing advertised in the newspaper. I really don't like writing of any sort, but I had to admitt, the prize looked pretty sweet. One of those high-tec-looking, gleaming silver stereos, complete with a slot to put your ipod in. But, thanks to my control freak of a mom, I'm going to be lucky to ever see my ipod again. Yep, meet me, Dylan Mcaphee (that's pronounced mc*A*phee), and my totally-out-of-line Mom.

"Dylan, you get down here this instant!" My mom yelled angrily. Sure, I had ignored her the other two times, but what did she expect from a kid who was banned from all electronic devices, got detention on the last day of school (you'd think she'd be over it by now, but nooooo), and had to write a totally boring (sense the rolling of eyes now, wi?) composition on--I still don't believe it--a day in the life of your dad's job? Great. It was perfect. Wonderful. Absolutely the worst, most boring, boring, boring essay subject in the world! I mean, my dad didn't even have a cool job! It sucks because all my friends' dads have neat jobs, like Lila's dad is a lawyer and Sarah's is the CEO of some air conditioning company, and even Emma's is pretty decent, but mine is...well, I guess I'm making to big of a deal over it...but he works for this company that makes drills. I know, I know, you're thinking "that's not too bad" and it's true. But in my opinion, it IS a boring job. How the heck am I supposed to make that essay interesting?
"DYLAN MARIE MCAPHEE, YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS!"
There goes my mom. I heard her counting at the top of her voice.
"ONE!"
Scowling heavily, I swung off my bed and stormed out of my room, arms knotted tightly. Deliberately going slowly down the stairs, making sure to bang as heavily as I could, I planted myself in the doorway of the living room. Mom whirled around from writing something on our refrigerator notepad. The fruit-patterned table cloth covering the kitchen table was barely visible beneath piles and heaps of papers. She placed her hands on her hip and cocked an eyebrow at me.
"Missy, when your mother calls you," she said, a dangerous gleam in her eye, "you come."
I stared at the floor stonily, my lower jaw jutted out. Okay, maybe I was being a bit of a brat, but whatever. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Mom sigh and shake her head.
"I wanted to talk to you about that essay," she said, moving a stack of papers off a chair to sit down at the table. Oh, here we go again, I thought, struggling to keep my already flipping temper in check.
"I've arranged it with Dad for him to take you to his work on Wednesday," she said, burying her fingers in her thin, strawberry-blonde hair and staring at a particularly thick mound of papers. "That's not a very busy day for him, so you won't be in the way, but you'll still find out what it's like."
I nodded, refusing to reply. She glanced at me and then back at the humongous piles of papers. I felt a tiny bit of sympathy stir inside me. Poor Mom, I thought. It's got to be hard, overseeing the testing of a bunch of new drugs and medical equipment. For those of you sitting clueless out there, my mom just started a new job a couple months ago, and has been swamped with documents and papers ever since. She says it'll calm down once this new job thing settles down, but for right now, I can tell it's plain exhausting for her.
I mentally hit myself. Dylan, here you are being a brat while Mom's hair is practically turning white, I chided myself, it's got to be stressful for her. My pride wouldn't let me drop my huffy attitude immediately and rush over and apologize to Mom, but I did make an effort to sound cheerful as I said,
"That's good. Thanks."
Mom gave a faint smile, and I walked back up the stairs to the second-floor landing. Then, right when I was about to turn in to my room, the door burst open in front of me and with the force of a bullet, my fair-haired, angelic-looking younger sister raced out of the room. Jenny and I, however unfortunate, share a bedroom, and you have no idea how many times I've pleaded with my parents to let me have my own room, but to no avail. Now, that little terror ran in circles around me, screeching at the top of her lungs.
"Away, Jenny!" I yelled in exasperation and anger. You'd think I'd get used to this, considering the oh-so-sweet Jenny tortured me with fifty times a day. And note the sarcasm when I say oh-so-sweet. Jenny's the exact opposite of what she looks like. She has a perfect, heart-shaped face with faint, rosy cheeks that would touch the heart of even the most crustiest of elderly people, sleek hair so blonde it's almost white, and big, baby-blue eyes. Not to mention she almost always has that deceiving, innocent, puppy-dog stare on her face, especially when she's trying to get something out of Mom or Dad. Yeah, forget your stories about the happy teenager surrounded by loving brothers and sisters, living a perfect life with a perfect family. That story is so totally false I crack up laughing every time I think of it. The reality is my brothers and sisters are a pain. I don't even have a cute little baby brother like Sarah. I have the most annoying toddler who sucks his thumb all the time, a holy terror of a seven-year-old sister on the loose, twin mischief-making brothers, and one heck of a jerk for a sixteen-year-old brother. Sometimes I really wish I had Emma's brother, Jason, as an older brother instead of Tyler.
A particularly loud scream of Jenny's brought me out of my reverie.
"Go, Jenny! Get away!" I shouted, catching her by the wrist as she circled me. I pulled her to the stairs and yelled, one hand clasping the the railing of the stairs to keep Jenny from running away.
"MOM!" I shrieked downstairs. "Get Jenny AWAY from me!"
"Jenny, baby," Mom's voice floated up from the kitchen, "come here to Mama. You were going to help me make ice cream, remember?"
Ice cream. Gosh. What a way to show discipline, Mom, I thought as Jenny freed herself from my grasp and whooshed down the stairs like a blonde cannonball, making sure to bump into me. I stumbled and grabbed the stair post to keep from tumbling down the stairs. I heard Jenny talking down in the kitchen.
"I want vanilla ice cream, Mommy," she said, now as angelic as could be. Oh great, I rolled my eyes.
Cue a la brothers.
"Ice cream?" Two identical heads poked around the bedroom door next to mine. Terrence and Thomas (funny, did you know the literal translation of Thomas is 'twin'? Just thought you'd like to know), called Tom, looked at me questioningly. I shrugged and wordlessly pointed downstairs. In a matter of seconds, they were gone, disappearing into the kitchen right as my two-year-old brother, Josh, toddled out of the open door on chubby legs, a thumb stuck in his mouth.
"Terrence, Thomas," I shouted irritably, "just leave me to deal with Josh, will you?"
"Yeah, thanks!" Terrence yelled back. I stomped over and scooped up Josh before he could fall down the stairs or something. I gasped at his weight. He was definitely getting heavier.
"You feel like a fifty-pound bag of flour," I told Josh, who turned Jenny's (or should I say Dad's) big blue eyes on me, "what've you been eating? Rocks?" Josh continued staring at me, small sucking sounds coming from his mouth. I sighed and walked carefully down the stairs to the kitchen.
I winced as I entered the room. It looked like the whole of the Ye Olde Ice Cream Shoppe had exploded in here. Fluffy, half-mixed ice cream lay in pools all over the counter. A hassled-looking Mom was hastily sponging up a spill of milk that had already soaked a quarter of her precious documents. Tom and Terrence were having fun with the blender, and Jenny was calmly adding pounds of blueberry yogurt to a container of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I rolled my eyes and set down Josh by the refrigerator.
"Terrence! Tom! Stop!" I yelled over the grinding sound of the blender. "Stop!"
They grinned evilly at me, and Terrence increased the power. My mouth set in a firm line, I marched over and punched the 'off' button. The blender's whirring ceased with a throaty gluck. I treated the twins to a glare before turning to help Mom mop up the milk.
"No, no," she said distractedly as I approached the table with some paper towels, "get a wet cloth. Milk sticks."
I wheeled around and opened a drawer by the sink of dish towels. Just as I was soaking the cloth in cold water, I heard the front door open and close.
"Dad! Dad!" Tom and Terrence yelled immediately, whisking into the living room faster than I could say "dead." I growled deep in my throat. I was so going to kill them. Things with Mom and Jenny never got out of hand unless the twins were there. They had probably wanted to "experiment" again. Thanks to them, the kitchen was a mess, a bunch of Mom's files ruined, and tonight's desert being sabatoged by Jenny and her yogurt cups. My dad lumbered into the kitchen, and I say lumbered because Terrence had his arms slung around Dad's neck, riding piggyback style, and Tom was stuck like static cling to his leg.
"Did you bring it, Dad?" Terrence asked excitedly, unsticking his face from the back of Dad's shirt. "Did you?"
"I sure did, boys," Dad smiled, fishing around in his pocket for something. "Aha! There's the little bugger." He held up a shiny, metal screw a little thicker than a sewing needle.
"Excellent!" said Tom keenly, getting off Dad's leg. He took the screw from Dad and held it up for closer inspection. Terrence scrambled down from Dad's back and leaned over his twin's shoulder.
"Great, this is just what we need," he muttered to Tom. Without another word, the two turned and ran across the kitchen and pounded up the stairs. After their banging had subsided, I heard a slam and the unmistakable click of a door being locked. I heaved a quiet sigh. Being the geniuses they were, they'd probably turn up a few days from now with an atomic bomb. Well, maybe not something that drastic, they wouldn't have the materials, but I'm willing to bet they'll be the first ever people to market a robot when they're grown up. And not just one of those black and white, astronaut-looking robots that can walk at about two inches per minute. A real one like in that old TV show, The Jetsons.
For the first time, Dad took in the sight of the kitchen and stopped.
"Whoa," he whistled, "what happened here?"
"The boys," Mom panted, scrubbing hard at the table, "decided to see what would happened when you blended baking soda, vinegar, and ice cream together."
Have any of you ever done the baking soda and vinegar in a water bottle experiment? For science or something? Well, basically you get a small bomb, and water explodes everywhere. I stared at her. Then I slowly dropped to my knees to wipe up a puddle of milk on the floor, a grin inching unwillingly up my face.
"Yikes," I said, "I bet that was something to see."
"Those boys," Mom sighed in exasperation. She straightened up, holding a sopping cloth. She trotted over and dropped it in the sink quickly, before it had time to drip. As my dish towel wasn't in danger of dripping, I walked to an alcove under the stairs and opened the door. A musty, sickly sweet scent almost knocked me off my feet. Coughing, my hand felt in the air above my head and fumbled with a string. I blinked as the harsh, white light from a lightbulb dangling from the ceiling filled our laundry room. I glanced at the washing machine and dryer, crammed together, and at the laundry hamper tucked in the smallest end. I only had to take half a step to drop my wet cloth on top of the washer. Clicking off the light and stepping out of the room, I took a deep breathe, enjoying the fresh air. I don't know about you, but I really can't stand the smell of dish detergent.
~dYlaN~