Chapter 4: "True Romance"
Who was this Jacqueline woman? Who was she, and why had my father become so taken with her in such a small amount of time? Who was Jacqueline, and why had she so suddenly entered our once peaceful lives?
Dad had fallen for Jacqueline faster than I had previously thought possible for 'true love,' as he called it to occur-- I truly did not think of their little 'romance' as 'true love;' true love was something that I had only seen a couple of times, and besides, that woman wouldn't know how to 'love' a man without demanding things in the process; he had already bought her some pretty nice jewelry, and was planning something extremely special for her birthday... I hated everything about her, and I simply wanted her gone from my life; after that day at Albertsons, she had taken to spending more time at our house-- I doubted whether or not she even bothered to go back to her own place at all.
Staring at the two little lovebirds from behind my heavy Geometry book which had remained on page seventy eight for the last hour and a half with the dirtiest look I could manage, I simply wanted to throw a rock at her, and wipe that smug look off of her face once and for all. They sat on the couch across the room, watching some cheesy old horror flick on TV. It was nearing the end of September, and I had recently begun the eighth grade. I pretty much liked all of my teachers so far... I mean, at least I wouldn't have to deal with that fat old slut, Mrs. Johnson anymore... that old hag who had taught Homeroom the previous year!
Why doesn't Jacqueline just go to hell? I suddenly wondered, as my father spoke again, "More popcorn, sweetie?" he asked, as she finished the last butter-free, salt-free piece in the bowl, "No thank you," she replied, "I've already had oh too much. I've been watching my figure, remember? I think I'm already fat enough, and besides, I want to be the most perfect girlfriend for my Jamesie!" I rolled my eyes; she had recently taken to calling my father 'Jamesie--' some stupid nickname that she thought was cute, and full of innocence... My dad loved it, but I could see right through it; she was nothing but a fake bitch.
"I think that you're perfect, sweetie," my father piped up.
She giggled, and said, "Oh, you're just buttering me up!"
She laughed at her own stupid joke, and so did he. Frankly, I thought that she was pretty stupid, but alas, all blondes are, and besides, corny jokes coming out of Jacqueline was something always to be expected whenever she was around my father. I turned away as the couple began kissing again. To tell you the truth, whenever I would see the two together like this, I wanted to just get up, and hurl.
"Do you want anything from the kitchen, buttercup?" my father asked, as I began trying to concentrate on my Geometry homework once again.
"Allow me," she whispered, standing up, and gently shaking her plait of blonde hair, "I'll go."
"Are you sure?" he asked, as if this simple task was far too difficult for his stupid girlfriend.
"Yes," she answered, and she began walking away towards the kitchen; pausing at the threshold to blow him a kiss as if she were five.
"God, Dad," I muttered under my breath, "since when did you get married?"
He did not notice that I had spoken; in fact, he had been doing this for quite a while now. I shook my head, sadly; it was as if he were brain dead. It was as if he never saw me, and whenever he was looking directly into my eyes, he was only seeing Jacqueline! Jacqueline-- what, exactly did Jacqueline see in my father? Why couldn't she have gone and wrecked some other family? I stared at his happy face, and frowned; If only she had never shown up on our doorstep.
She returned from the kitchen a few minutes later, carrying a large plate full of slices of apples and oranges; I promptly rolled my eyes, as she sat down on the leather couch beside my father, and began giggling like a mad woman, "James," she whispered, in that disgusting voice of hers, "I decided that I would fancy some fruit."
"That's great, honey," he whispered, taking an orange slice, and shoving it; peel and all into his open mouth. He chewed for a moment, and then swallowed it... whole, "I've always loved oranges," he murmured, happily.
I felt a laugh escape from my throat; my father hated oranges! He had told me so many a time! "Do you want some, Bea?" the bitch asked, using the nickname that my father, and my father only used.
"No," I replied, coldly, and swiftly, I'd never touch shit that your filthy hands touched, I thought to myself, angrily.
Meanwhile, she head turned to my father once again, "I love you, James," she whispered, gently, allowing him to kiss her on the neck; she moaned softly, and I groaned in utter disgust, "I love you too," he replied, and I rushed upstairs; my nose buried in my Geometry book, as they began placing slices of fruit into each others' mouths.
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After I had slammed the door to my bedroom shut, I looked around; drinking in the fact that I was now alone, and would no longer be subject to witnessing the fools' making out any longer.
I tossed my Geometry book aside, deciding to finish my homework the following morning in Study Hall; I grabbed my phone from off of my bedside table, and quickly dialed Carla's number.
"Hello?" she answered after the third ring.
"Hey, Carla," I spoke into the receiver, "What're you doing?"
"I just finished all of my math homework, and I was about to go online to celebrate-- then you called, and kicked me off."
"I'm sorry," I said, without meaning it.
"Oh, who gives a damn?" she asked, laughing, "It's just... ya'know..." she drifted off, "How's your dad?"
"Retarded," I replied.
"Oh?" she asked, truly intrigued.
And then, we launched into a forty-five minute conversation about the vermin and how to exterminate it...
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My thirteenth birthday came and went unnoticed, as did my fourteenth. I was in the eleventh grade when one of the worst moments in my early life occurred; my father proposed to that bitch, Jacqueline!
It was my fifteenth birthday, and school had just let out the previous week; I had been getting straight A's and B's for the past three years, so although my life at home was an absolute mess, I still took pride in the fact that I was doing well with my studies; just as I was finishing reading a chapter of a book I had just bought, I heard my father's voice calling me to come downstairs.
At first I felt a surge of excitement; you see, my father had completely forgotten all about my fifteenth birthday-- as he had for the past couple of years, and I was beginning to feel just like that girl in that movie, Sixteen Candles-- although at least she had not been forced to deal with Jacqueline as well as being virtually ignored by her father.
So anyways, I rushed down the stairs, and although quite disappointed, as I always was, I wasn't too surprised to find Jacqueline in the living-room, with her arm around my father's waist. You see, I wasn't surprised to see the little whore there because to 'further her relationship' with my father, she had decided to move into our 'humble home' about two months before; I remember the day of her moving in quite well; the fifty boxes filled with clothes, makeup, spare handbags, pictures-- most, quite unsurprisingly of herself in various poses, and a couple boxes filled with books-- most of which I would not be too surprised to find that she had never opened-- even to look at the pictures, if there were any to be seen within. She was a spoiled girlfriend... for instance, my dad took her on a yacht for her birthday, leaving me with my grandmother in Barstow for a couple of days-- a woman whom I loved deeply, but was barely awake at all during a large chunk of the day as she was usually in some drug-induced stupor from her prescriptions.
Supposedly, the little 'angel' had become seasick, ant they had had to cut their vacation short... I would have paid good money to see her yacking over the side of a boat, but that's besides the point. Let's just get one thing straight: Jacqueline was simply a fake, and money-hungry skag, who was as interested in my father's blind love for her as I am in reading an encyclopedia.
She was dressed in black today (no surprise there,) and she had so much makeup on that she looked like a clown. You may think that I am exaggerating here, but I assure you that I am not. With her complexion, she did look like a clown. Her skin was paler than mine for God's sake; she smiled at me-- or smirked; I couldn't be too sure, but either way, I knew that she was being fake as usual; I grimaced, as she spoke.
"Bea," she began, holding up her right-hand, "We have some good news--"
"Great news," my father interrupted; she turned to kiss him upon the cheek, and then returned her intent gaze upon me once again; her cold blue eyes staring deeply into my own, and sending chills up my spine, although they had been warm and twinkling only seconds before when gazing into my father's.
"Oh?" I asked, dreading her 'news.'
"Your father and I are engaged, and we were just about to go out and celebrate with a bottle of champagne."
My jaw dropped to the floor, as she explained (as if she thought that I had misunderstood;) "We're getting married."
This-- I had not expected this; of all the things she could have told me instead-- that she had a brain tumor, that she and my father were infamous cat burglars; of all the things she could have said instead, and it had been this.
Well, this was a very hard blow; I had not expected anything like this-- I had always suspected that something like this would eventually happen, but I had always kept the hope that it would not, and it had; of all the things my father could have given me on my birthday!
My gaze turned to my father, as if to ask him if this horror was true; he merely beamed, nodding happily, "I just proposed tonight," and I saw that this wasn't a joke, and that she was wearing a ring, and it was pretty expensive by the look of things, "What's wrong?" Jacqueline asked, after having seen my look of complete hurt, "Would you like to go out with us?"
I shook my head, ran upstairs, and cried for the rest of the night.
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As the weeks wore on, I became more and more accustomed to the notion that my father was marrying Jacqueline; now, whenever I looked at the huge rock on her finger, I no longer felt an uneasiness in my stomach... Nor did tears form in my eyes, whenever I thought of the two of them growing old with each other.
Staring out of the window, and into the warm sunshine of summer, I suddenly felt a frown form across my face, although I had not even been thinking about her; my mother's roses that had once grown all along the windowsill had since died, and would never grow again; It's as if she never existed, I thought, turning away from the sad sight, and looking towards the mantle on which my mother's college paintings hung... The now bare wall; What's happened to my mom's paintings? I wondered, standing up from the couch, and feeling a great anger rise from my chest, "Jacqueline!" I screamed, as I ran up the stairs to the bedroom which she shared with my father.
"What?" she asked, coldly, as I burst into the bedroom, to find her flipping through the pages of the latest issue of some fashion magazine, "Where are my mother's paintings?" I asked; unsure why I had become so panicked in such a short amount of time, and without any warning.
"I don't know," she replied, shrugging her shoulders, "maybe your father finally got rid of the moth-ridden things."
I stared at her, horrified, "Those paintings were the only things my mother left behind."
"Pity," she said, shrugging her shoulders.
I felt anger raging inside of me; I had attempted to keep quiet for quite a while-- told myself over and over again that as long as my father was in love, I should attempt to be happy for him, but in an instant, I had raised my hand; determined to vent out at least some of my resentment for the woman who had destroyed everything that my father once was, "Fuck you," I hissed, bringing it down, and leaving a red imprint of my hand.
"Jacqueline, I'm back!" my father's voice called from downstairs.
Jacqueline had at last torn her eyes away from the magazine, and was looking at me, "You'd better watch it, Beatrice, if--"
But I wasn't paying attention, for I had already left the bedroom, and was headed down the stairs.
"Dad!" I yelled, as I entered the living-room; my voice had never been so panicked-- so high-pitched and whiny-- I had never felt such anger and bitterness and fright before, "Dad, where are Mom's paintings?"
"Who?" he asked, with a glazed expression in his eyes as Jacqueline came down the stairs, "What happened to your face, sweetums?" he asked, as she took his hand.
"Nothing," she replied, touching the spot with her other hand, and staring at me, coldly, "Beatrice was just asking what you did with all of Joanna's junky oldpaintings," she raised her arched eyebrows, meaningfully, "I burned them, Jacqueline," he replied, as my heart sank into my stomach, "I burned them just like you told me to do."
And, feeling as if I was going to throw up, I ran up the stairs, into my room, and spent another day of crying.
