Instantly the car doors whip open and everyone seems to hop out of the car as if it were about to blow up. It kinda makes me want to laugh but then I realize that I'm doing it too and that snicker backfires.
The minute you step into my home, if you had never before set foot in it, an unusual smell takes over and you'll become entranced. That, friends, is the smell of good cooking. My stepmother, Amy, is the best chef in the world. It's like eating at a five star resturaunt every day when we get home. The food's set out on the table and everyone's anxious for food. Now that I think about it, maybe this is the subconsious reason for everyone's desperate escape from the van.
Immediately, I head to my room to put my backpack away and kick off my overly disgusting shoes in my open closet and quickly close the door. I tried conducting an experiment where I would make a shoe that would never smell. Never. I had done it before. It had lasted for three days...then someone stole it. Anyway, so once I tried again, the experiment turned on me and began to absorb my f.o. (note: I thought b.o. couldn't be used for my feet so I made f.o. foot odor). Now the smell is unbearable. Really unbearable. Excessive shudders can't begin to describe the amount of twitching that goes on when you take in the slightest whiff of my disgusting tennis shoe.
Now, dinnertime. I take the few steps over the pile of who knows what (not important enough to all be named) to my door and leave my peaceful room out to the unpredictable house I'm proud to call home.
"What is it?" I asked to absolutely no one, just hoping that someone would answer the question (note: In my life, most questions aren't directed to anyone and I usually assume someone's going to answer my question). As expected, my dad did answer.
"Puttai," he responded in a monotone voice. My dad usually has a lot of energy and, though forty, holds all the charateristics of a college student. When my mom died three years back, he grew his hair out long and no one recognized him when we went to the next family reunion. Amy cut it short, which I'm a titch bitter about, and now he looks twenty-nine. Still... He not only looks like my brother, but he feels like one too. Teenagers are supposed to hate their parents. I love them beyond reason. I guess you could say I'm weird because of that-I say I'm normal. (Isn't 'normal' doing the right thing?)
"Ooh," I quickly let out. I love puttai. For that matter, I love any Thai food, just not curry. I avoid the curry at all costs. It tastes funny. It's all bluh.
James will come over at this point and look in the pot to see what we're eating and ask, "Will I like this?". The usual response is 'yes'. But that's what everyone says when they want someone to eat a meal.
James is different. He can find danger in anything. He's not as 'adventurous' as he once was, but he still has ADHD. There isn't a soul in the school who doesn't think he's awesome. I'd have to agree. We use to be friends. Then my family moved to Wyoming and we no longer talk. I still think he's a great person. He's pretty nice too. Too bad he has 'loudness' issues...
I usually eat in silence. I'm not much of a talker around people, unless I'm with friends. Then I can't shut up (note: This includes random yelling, raving, occasional squeaks, etc.) When food's done, it's time for my room. The one place where I'm completely different from what everyone sees, no matter who they are. In case you're wondering, I'm a complete and total spaz.