I actually hate yelling. You wouldn't know from how much I end up yelling myself. It's a vicious cycle. I get pissed off, and I start yelling, which pisses me off more, which makes me even more annoyed. Yelling means I'm not completely in control of the situation, and maybe not myself either.
It does serve as a sort of warning for those who know me well to back off, so I suppose it's not all bad. The only thing I really like about it, though, is how it makes most people look up, truly notice me, flinch, and back off. Beck and my father are two notable exceptions.
"Daddy, you have to help me get my Potato Patch Pal back. Mommy gave it away to some stupid orphans, but I want it back and she won't get it back for me." I frowned, tapping my little foot on the ground, my arms crossed.
My father, seated in front of his computer with both hands flying across the keyboard, barely spared a glance for his seven-year-old-daughter. "If you want something, you have to go after it yourself. Everyone in the world is looking out for number one, and usually only number one."
"But you're my Daddy. You're supposed to help me with things like this." I had already learned that this sort of guilt trip worked on Mom, and sometimes on Nanny when she wasn't preoccupied with that disgusting gurgling and vomiting being they called my baby brother.
"I'm supposed to do a lot of things, according to lots of people. That doesn't mean I'll do them."
"Daddy!" My voice rose to a shrill pitch, with a note of desperation.
"Don't yell. It means you're the underdog. You're a baby, trying to get attention. Yelling means you've already lost."
Those words dried up any beginnings of tears, and my tone was quiet as I said, "No, I haven't lost."
"That's my girl. Go on, figure out how you're going to get your doll back, and leave Daddy to work in peace."
I hated going to the orphanage, but I hated the idea of my mother and some kids I didn't know winning this more. So I hatched a plan. My first time ever laying one out in my head. I played the role of a changed rich girl who wanted to help those poor orphans and give them more toys, new ones too. My first time ever acting as someone I wasn't. And I snatched up my Potato Patch Pal while those other kids were ripping apart the bag and shoving at each other to get the toys. My first time ever working to get what I wanted. It all felt good, right, invigorating. I suppose I should be grateful to my father.
"Daddy, why are you leaving Mommy?" I crossed my arms, taller now, though still in the same position by his desk in his home office I always occupied when I was in there—off to the side, out of his direct line of sight, where he insisted we stay. Children shouldn't be seen and rarely heard, seemed to be his motto.
"That's between me and her." He had a lot of papers spread out on his desk he seems to be concentrating on. "Divorce" stood on them, in large, bold letters.
"It doesn't have anything to do with us?" My voice was slightly hopeful. Now I would chop my own tongue out if I ever sounded like that towards him. "So we'll still see you?" Not that Jacob would really care, since he was still a toddler and barely saw Daddy, but I figured asking on behalf of two kids instead of one had more clout.
"I won't be fighting your mother for custody, you can be sure of that. I can live well enough with getting weekly calls from the school about you scaring or emotionally scarring the other children, and you're burden enough on your good days." The words stung, and I felt my eyes beginning to water. He always was brutally honest. At least I could rely on that.
I was old enough and well-read enough at the ripe age of eleven to know what custody meant. "So you don't care about seeing us? At all?" I was young, and dumb, and pushing, eager to have some small token of affection.
He stopped and looked at me for several seconds. This rarely happened, and I wilted under his scrutinizing gaze. "No, not really." This he said matter-of-factly, before returning his attention to those damned pieces of paper.
I lost it. "But you're my father. How can you not care about me, not even a little bit?" My voice rose in pitch as I tugged at his sleeve, desperate for him to look at me again. Maybe if he looked at me, and I stood up straight, and met his eyes instead of flinching, he'd like me again, and—I tore his sleeve, just a little, but he noticed, and looked at it, and looked at me, then swore. "Fucking bitch. This was an expensive suit. What did I tell you about disturbing me? And about crying and yelling?"
I stood stiffly, my jaw set, and stared back at him silently.
"Get out of my office, Jade Catherine West."
I turned my back on him and walked out, slowly, thinking about how I would respond.
The first thing I did after that was sign up at the kickboxing gym. The second was to tell Mom about the young blonds he had had sleep over while she was on business trips—the ones he'd tried to hide in his bedroom, as if I was blind, deaf, and stupid. She'd known about one, but hadn't realized there had been more, and flew off the handle again. It made Dad raise his voice against her, which made me grin from where I watched in the doorway.
The third thing I did was to call Catarina Valentine, pack my bags, and sleep at her house for a week.
That was the end of any interaction with my father for a long time. Until I received my acceptance letter to Hollywood Arts High School. I figured I would surprise him at work. I figured I would see whether or not he could be proud of me, though we had already established he was unable or unwilling to like me.
"Your father is currently meeting with his boss, Miss West. You're welcome to take a seat until he returns." My father's large-busted, platinum-blond-haired secretary was far too perky for my tastes.
I was preoccupied, though, so I just sat down in one of the black leather chairs she indicated, setting my bag down by my feet, and carefully folding and unfolding the letter I clutched in my hands as if it were a sheet of gold.
I stood again, quickly, as I spotted the man who had spawned me walking down the sleek, white-painted and chrome-plated corridor, gesturing as he conversed with the man beside him. He slowed his pace as he spotted me.
"Jade, what are you doing here?" With an insincere smile plastered on his face, he gestured between me and his boss. "Michael, this is my daughter, Jade. Jade, this is my boss, Mr. D'Alessi."
As expected of a good corporate daughter, I held out my hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. D'Alessi."
The other man grinned at my firm handshake. "I like a kid who can look me in the eye. What are you here for, kiddo?"
"Don't call me 'kiddo'. My name is Jade." I kept my tone polite, but it was still firm, the same fake smile plastered across my face as my father had. "I wanted to share some good news with my father. Dad," I turned to him, a tentative smile on my face, holding out that precious piece of paper, "I got accepted into Hollywood Arts."
My father opened his mouth, but his boss, the more portly and jovial of the two, beat him to it. "That's fantastic, kid-ahem, Jade." He offered his hand for me to shake again. "Only the best of the best graduate from there. You've got yourself a talented little girl here, Lucas." Mr. D'Alessi slapped him on the back. "I'll leave you two to celebrate. My congratulations!"
My father laid a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it in a show of support for his boss's benefit, before using his grip on me to propel me into his office. I shrugged his hand off before he closed the door.
"I thought I had made it clear that I do not like being touched. At all." My tone wasn't so much hostile as wary, as I turned and eyed him.
"A performer, Jade? Really?" He scowled. "You've fallen prey to the hype and the smoke and mirrors? You want to get rich quick by standing up on a stage and wiggling your ass for the audience? Or crying a little bit for a camera? Acting, singing, putting on a show—all that's bullshit, and I have no respect for anyone who does that."
I simply stared at him for several moments, wearing what I'm sure was an expression of shock and dismay.
Most parents were ecstatic when their children had a shot in the entertainment business. The glamour, the money, the recognition—everyone wanted it, if not for themselves then for those close to them. Or they were at least somewhat supportive of their kids' aspirations.
Everyone except my father, apparently. It strikes me now that I never really knew my father—I still don't actually. But that's not so much my fault now, is it?
"No, Dad. It's not smoke and mirrors. It's art." My voice was slightly choked, and I cleared my throat, blinking several times to ensure that the tears stayed off of my cheeks.
"Art, schmart. A baby can crap on a canvas, smear it around with his butt, and someone would hang it on the wall and call it 'art' nowadays. The word means nothing. And no daughter of mine is going to devote her education to that kind of bullshit." He looked me in the eyes, accentuating that last word as he ripped my acceptance letter in two, balling it up and dropping it into his wastebasket as he walked back to sit behind his desk. "I hear that mobile development and IT is the future. You should look into that, and let me know what you find interesting. I can probably get you an internship here with our computer guys a year or two early." The remark was offhanded, his eyes already on his computer screen.
I lifted my chin, feeling my cheeks heat up with my anger and resentment. "Ripping up the letter isn't going to do anything. They've already got me marked on their lists."
"Just know I have no intention of supporting you with pipe dream of yours or this so-called school."
"Your child support checks will probably be at least partially used for tuition."
"I'm going to have words with your mother about that, don't worry." He lifted his head slightly to eye me over his computer screen.
"At least she supports me in this, so I doubt you'll get very far."
"We'll see." He returned his attention to what was presumably work. "We'll also see how long you stay at this school if you pull the same kind of shit you have at others."
"They couldn't handle me."
"And you think this school can? When no one else seems to be able to to? When you seem to revel in it?"
I hated that my voice trembled. "This conversation is over."
I saw his eyebrow arch briefly as I turned. I knew he would wince as I slammed the door behind me, though.
I think that was when I first started thinking about body ink. I wanted to mark myself on the outside, make myself different, as much as I felt marked and different and scarred on the inside.
I still tried, later, with the one play I thought was good, with the one play I thought might get to him. His admiration, that one word-"Excellent."-felt fantastic, vindicating, but hollow. It didn't really change anything. By then the gouges ran too deep to be bandaged with a few words.
Author's Note: I feel like I have to at least mention phoenixfire44 here, as one of their comments during our brief correspondence inspired me to add some elements and think a little more about Jade's relationship with her parents.