Cactus Flower
…"Sure but you go to film festivals and things like that," Stated Walter Stratford, confidently.
"Not always…" I persisted. I don't like where this is going. Dad thinks I'm the responsible one out of Bianca and I. If I told him the truth, would it hurt him?
"I'm just saying; that's why you're my trustworthy, dependable cactus." Mr. Stratford continued. I turned to him on the word 'cactus'; again with the 'cactus' remark? A freakin' cactus?! How come I'M the cactus and Bianca gets to be the flower? Just because I don't submit myself to pointless popularity, bright, colorful, and sometimes slutty clothing doesn't mean I'm any less of a flower than any other girl, right?
I stared at him in disbelief, honestly hurt by his words. "What?" he asked me. I got up and walked to my bag. I picked it from the top and felt the cool, smooth card on my finger tips. I took a final glance at it, remembering the night for a moment, sat back down, and handed it to him.
"This is my fake ID."
"Why are you showing me this?" Dad asked me in a deeper, angry but concerned voice.
"UGH! Because I don't want to be a cactus!" I exclaimed, sighed and stood up, admitting defeat. I want to be a flower. If not in anyone else's eyes, at least my own father's. I walked over to my bag and dropped my hands. I heard him stand up and saunter behind me. I then felt arms encircle me, and I lifted my hands to meet his.