Page 58 of Eyes Like Angel

Disinterested, it’s an obvious sign.

The only thing I couldn’t defeat on, or caught an expected outcome, is when the school principal notified my parents regarding to my winning at the tennis match. So does their friends in a knit-tight social circle, yapping about how I’ve passing the ball and strike, two in three strikes in a match. Possibly more.

None of them which knew a certain aspect on me winning the rounds transpire to be as a new champion in theschool. Onlookers, old and new faces, participated in the tennis match, and the girls—classmates, peers and admirers alike were cheering on for me, overshadowing and rewriting the history marked on miseries I’ve gone past through.

Girls lauded me, all over, and all which asked for my number, asked for my social media account, and sent an invitation for an upcoming party, though I didn’t give in, much a certain extent on being born in high-achieving goals and nonstop money machines, a myriad method where I’m supposed to looking below with arrogant disdain.

But seeing the crowd may unlock doors and gained access to a newer possibility for my upcoming future. Spreading a word was a good start.

The principal called me into his office and offered a grand reward; it meant this will be a gold ticket out.

Tennis meant getting a scholarship, too, a huge deal on my part, as a gifted reward, like I was a new God reborn. I heard I could get into a prestigious college in certain countries. I’ve overheard my classmates that the scholarship would cover up from $10,000 to $30,000 in total. Meaning, living securely in a high-end dorm, eating food at a college cafeteria without paying, not being overly concerned over the debt piled through and through in the aftermath like how regular folks had to struggle on.

I couldn’t picture what my parents’ reactions were, since it’s easy for them be displeased and dismissive, considered how they addressed to me the last time we ‘expressed’.

But when I got home, in a late afternoon before sundown, the party poppers flew off, confetti splashing over my exudate scalp, my mom popped another party popper and my dad gave a huge and rough scruff over my head, patted me on the back, saying, “That’s my boy! I’m so proud of you! I knew I had it in you!”

And he pinched my cheeks, shaking my head within his pinch, side-to-side.

Meanwhile Bjorn was futile; masking his placid face with a glare brightened behind his square-framed reading glasses, and gave a cold shoulder on congratulating me in order; rather he strode far and pounced back at the sofa with a silent huff, turning the page over a newspaper.

“I’m so proud of you, Michael,” my mom squealed loudly, pinching my other cheek, rocking my head.

For one moment, I couldn’t care less on correcting my mom’s choice on how she prefers to call me as.

But a light strings tugged into my heart, like, I’ve done a better job. A better chance to overwrite the wrongs and their past attempts—their words might not mean anything hurtful; it meant they cared about me and still is. Maybe they’re apprehensive in a harsher way to snap by somber antics.

Their smiles and laughter, it uncoiled the infliction and agony that was once placed on me, to carry as a burden.

To my disbelief, Mom and Dad prepared a banquet for me—fried chicken, roasted goose with heirloom tomatoes, Maryland blue crabs with cranberries, and a tiered red velvet cake, coated in white glaze and banana split.

I tasted the glazed-fried chicken in one tiny bite, and the taste buds mangled with saliva, happily munching in numerous bites the next.

The fried chicken was spicy. Anything spicy was a dream to my senses.

Mom giggled as my dad snapped a photo of me on his newest iPhone, clicking with a bright flash.

I was loved and worshipped, something that I should have long ago. But all the tribulations I earned in the past years are finally here.

“Congratulations, my baby,” Mom cooed again eerily shouting, jumping over joy. “I’m proud to call you as my son. You deserve this, Michael.”

I didn’t care when she referred to me as ‘Michael’, happily digging into my favorite cuisine, not minding Bjorn when he exited and caved back into his room, slamming his bedroom door.

I was happy, extremely happy.

Everything has fallen into place.

And I’ve returned home once more.

Mom and Dad spoke to me, as if nothing unstable that transpired and divided between us.

“So, what are you planning to do next? Are you planning to do more tennis matches this year?” Mom intervened excitedly, proud with honor as I went to savor my dinner meal like a barbarian.

“I’m doing that soon,” I answered genuinely, hope glimmered in my eyes as she patted me on the head. “I’ve been taught by my coach. He’s an amazing.”

Then Dad’s eyes were flashing, as if he’s…offended at my casual statement.

“Well, I think its swell you did your part, for the Rivers family,” Mom uttered. “Your grandfather would be so proud of you. As did your…grandmother,” her teeth gritted, cringed at a mention of my grandmother. “Your father called her right after the principal gave us the biggest news. A fine job, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked Dad.