Routine
Latenight is my favorite time of day. Whenhe is sleeping and the TV is off, I can breathe. All is silent. I am left to me. Not even he can bother me. He fell asleep on the couch hours ago, givingme time. There are those moments, beforehe passes out in front of the tube, I wonder if I'll go insane. I can't even watch television without ahassle. I just wish he'd leave mealone.
WhatI wouldn't give for a good book right now. I wish I had a book to read so I wouldn't have to think so much. Some days all I do is think of all that ishappening and wonder. I wonder why mylife is like this and why Mommy went away. I wish my favorite writers would write faster. I read all they write and read the books Ihave again and again, but my eyes get tired and I end up sitting and thinking,thinking and sitting and waiting, waiting, waiting for sleep.
Everynight I go through the same routine, with few exceptions, until he goes tobed. The routine is so rigid that I haveit memorized. After dinner I do myhomework for two hours. My father hasthis idea that I should study for two hours. I don't know where he got the idea that 7th graders were supposed tostudy for two hours, (probably from some paper sent home from the school) buthe thinks it is an unwritten law. Hemakes me sit at my desk for two hours even if I finish early.
"Readsomething, he'll yell up the stairs if I ask if I can watch television. "At least use all that damned shit Ibought you. That computer wasn't fuckingcheap you little ungrateful witch."
Itusually goes something like that for two hours. It is the same every night except Friday and Saturday nights. I get to do the weekend homework on Sundays. And yes, he was nice enough to buy me acomputer. He says it cost him fifteenhundred dollars, but I always have thought he stole the damn thing. On the nights I finish my homework early, Itype in my computer journal. (Liketonight) I like to rant and rave aboutschool, but usually I bitch about my dad. I never run out of things to say about him.
Well,back to the routine. I just told it upto the homework part. After I finish myhomework, which he of course checks, I am allowed to watch exactly one hour oftelevision. When he is in a good mood,I'm allowed to choose the shows. Thosenights are rare, but when they occur, I take advantage. I turn it to MTV and watch videos. He hates them so much. He sits next to me on the couch and gruntshis disapproval. He even goes so far asto bash a song or two, but when he has let me control the set, he doesn'tchange the channel. He just sits thereand watches, right beside me. Sometimesto show my gratitude, I'll lean my head on his shoulders, and on nights that heis really pleasant, I'll let him hold my hand. I may not get along with him, but since mommy died two years ago, he isall I have.
AfterI watch my hour of television, he tells me it is time to get ready forbed. Bedtime around this house, for me,is nine o'clock. I can't tell you howmany hours I have spent arguing and pleading with him for a later bedtime, buthe is stuck on his routines. Bedtime isnine o'clock. Sharp. This means that after the MTV news is over,(which ends a few minutes before the hour, every hour on the hour, 24 hours aday!) I have to go upstairs. I can'twatch the next video because it will run into the next hour. How anal. I have pleaded just to have my rights extended to that next video, buthe is adamant. Nine o'clock.
Soup the stairs I go to get ready for bed. Now getting ready for bed isn't a simply thing for me. I have to look my best. Imagine going to bed for the night withsnarled hair! I just wouldn't haveit! No. Not at all. I have to carefullygroom. The routine will probably boreyou, but here it is anyway.
First,I put on my pajamas. There is no sensein brushing your hair when you have to pull a shirt over your head! I brush my hair for ten minutes. I love the way the brush feels in myhair. I run the brush through, fromfront to back, again and again, one hundred times forward, one hundred timesbackward. I love pushing down the newlybouncy hair with my hand. After I brushmy hair, I tend to my nails. I clipthem, file them and wonder how they would look with those fancy nail polishes Isee advertised on MTV. My dad won't letme wear nail polish (or make up for that matter). He says it would make me look like atramp. I don't want to look like atramp, like that girl Jesse at school, but I do want to paint my nails. It would make me feel more grown-up.
AfterI do my nails I go to the bathroom. Ibrush my teeth, (five minutes! I can hear him now.) Floss, and use themouthwash. He likes me to use spearmintkind. He is very particular about mybreath. Then, I wash my face. I go back to my room, check myself in themirror, and hop into bed, with the light on. Dad always shuts it off for me. Icount the minutes until he raps on the door with his usual knock. One, two, three quick, light knocks.
"Areyou sleeping?" He asks every night.
"No,daddy."
He opens the door, shuts off thelight and gets into bed with me.
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