Kaitlyn's POV

"Kaitlyn! Dinner time!"

Mom's shrill, loud voice is definitely getting on my nerves. Why can't she just act like anybody else? Which means stopping embarrassing me whenever she can and supporting me more. She and Dad are busy arguing all the time and threatening to divorce. And, what's worse, is that I have no siblings to complain to. Being an only child sucks, that's it.

Anyway, I obey and go to the kitchen, where my extra-small family (at my school everyone else I know has at least one or two siblings) and I are used to having meals, almost always separately. This is the first time in ages we are having dinner together. Every day we are getting a different meal, something alternative compared to the usual steak with fries or salad everyone else would have as dinner.

In fact, today we are having something... different. Not from the usual: we never have the same dishes twice in a row. "So, we are having a starter of scallops with pea puree and some endive salad as starter, an entrée of grilled octopus with potatoes, and fruit," announces Mom. Dad looks a little disappointed, as he expected that there was a dessert, too. So, when she states, "No dessert, tonight, darling," he looks back in dissatisfaction. Meanwhile, I can't help voicing my disdain at Mom denying us the dessert. "Mom! Come on! We haven't had a dessert in three days! We had nothing the first day, then cheese the second day, and yesterday... guess what... jelly! And fruit today! Not even a fruit salad, or an ice-cream! Nothing!"

"Kaitlyn, please avoid complaining," replies Mom, whose annoyance is not only evident, but is also bothering me.

"But Mom..." I protest, but she shuts me up cold, "Listen careful, you ungrateful young lady. You have two choices: eating what I made for you without complaining, or going to bed without having dinner. Your choice."

"Ok, I am staying here and having dinner," I decide, mostly because I am starving and staying without dinner would me make very moody during the night, causing little to no sleep.

We eat in silence, as usual, without even looking at each other. However, Dad somehow manages to break this silence and asks, "Kaitlyn, what about your essay?"

Oh, God. The question he shouldn't have asked. Both he and Mom are furrowing their eyebrows and giving me stern looks. I am a bit, no, let's not joke, very embarrassed, because I am not in the mood of talking about this topic. I'd rather stay silent forever.

"Uhm... I think I handed it in time," I answer pretty casually.

"You think you handed it in time," repeats Mom. "Are you sure? You have a 3.8 GPA and you must keep it that high, if not raise it. We all count on you."

Great. Expectations. Something that really makes me wonder whether my parents have been teenagers or what. Can't they just let it loose for a while? After all, while this essay is good, it doesn't count that much on my final grade, though several other projects do, so I must always succeed, if not for their expectations, at least for my personal achievements.

"Right? Because, if you fail..." Mom is pretty reticent after this sentence. She doesn't even want to think of me failing this essay. I know it's important, but I think she is paying much more attention to the grade than the content of the essay itself.

I wish she and Dad would be a little more laid-back about this. I know they only want the best for me. I am their only child, so there is no competition for their attention. No, no, I am not a little spoiled brat. I am just a girl that hardly ever obtains their attention, though.

Also, come on! A B is a failure for them. They only want me to have A's. Everyone think being good at school is quite easy, that it's only all about studying hard than anyone else. Wrong. It's not about just studying, but also about bearing with pressure from parents and relatives. This is something I can't stand at all.

What's worse, anyway, is that Mom and Dad are turning dinner into a third-degree, which I can't put up with either. After eating just a couple of scallops, three or four potatoes and some mouthfuls of grilled octopus, I take an apple and leave the dining room. I go back to my room, and eat my apple in peace. However, Mom is still pestering me. "Kaitlyn! Don't tell me you're eating in your bedroom!"

I don't answer. I don't wanna lie, but I don't want to admit it either. I am not giving her the satisfaction of keeping being so fucking overbearing!

I throw the apple leftover in the little rubbish bin in my room. Then, I check off all the homework I did, and, lastly, I lie on my bed, and sigh. Why can't I live an ordinary life in an ordinary way? Why are other people calling me names? Why are they never listening to me?

I know. It sounds so stupid. But I can't do anything to make it sound less stupid. I can just hope people are not mocking me tomorrow. I don't give a fuck about what they say. I am who I am. That's it.

***

Later...

"Kaitlyn!"

Again! What do they want from me? Don't they know I need my own spaces? Don't they know I wanna stay on my own for a while? No! It seems that I am always obliged to spend time with them, and, to be honest, I am fed up with them. I wanna stay on my own! Ok, I sound somewhat repetitive, but they must understand.

"Come here!" My mom's stern voice is echoeing through the house, much to my annoyance. I wish she would leave me in peace. Ok. I am repetitive. I should stop.

Anyway, I obey and go downstairs, only to be announced something I think it's very uninteresting.

"The Larkins' house is getting fumigated this weekend. So, we have to host them for a couple of days."

Ok. I regret saying what I said. This may be cool. Staying in touch with other people is always good. But, anyway... hold on. The Larkins have a son, Matthew. He is the most irritating moron on Earth. He is a Mr-Know-It-All of the worst kind. And, what's worse, he's my schoolmate! I have to deal with his poor attitude at school, why do I have to do so even at home? Why does it seem the word 'peace' is unknown in this house?

I only have a couple of words to describe my feeling. I am desperate.