Cracks

Two cracks. There were two cracks in the ceiling of my room. Obviously caused by the earthquake, I thought to myself. My gaze followed the path one crack had made. It zigzagged all the way to the door and ended where the doorframe began. Now I was looking at the door. From where I lay on my bed I had to crane my head painfully to look at it. I strained my ears for sounds beyond the door. Yes, I thought, they were still fighting. I could hear my stepmother shouting. I turned my eyes back to the ceiling.
The fights were always because of me. Always. Even if I was on my best behavior something would happen that would trigger another fight. This fight was definitely because of me. And this time I was definitely not on my best behavior. Let me tell you something, in movies, when the son is caught drinking with his friends and his father talks him through it and forgives him? Yeah, that's a big lie. A big one. In real life fathers ground you for the rest of the year and instead of talking you through your ‘issues' they go and placate your stepmother. Trust me, I speak from experience.
I could understand why they were both mad at me. I mean, what father likes to get a phone call from his sons tuition academy saying that the aforementioned son had been caught consuming alcohol with his friends? What stepmother likes having her husband leave her in the middle of a dinner party because of another one of her delinquent stepsons ‘antics'? None I tell you.
So I lay on my bed. Paralyzed by the stupor that was descending upon me (don't get me wrong, the effects of the alcohol had long since worn off and weren't responsible for my current state).as my brain sank into slumber my hearing sharpened. My bedside clock was ticking. The phone in the hallway was ringing. The door of my fathers' room opened...
His footsteps approached my door and he knocked. I kept looking up. He came in and sat down on the edge of my bed. I kept looking up. He took my hand and gently squeezed it. I looked into his face. He looked tired. And sad.
"I know I haven't been there for you much," he began. I clenched my teeth. Took him long enough to realize, I thought to myself
"I know this remarriage has been tough on you. Especially with all these fights. And I know you miss your mother. I know that the fights disturb the household. A little bit of me can even understand why you did what you did today. Alcohol...make your problems disappear for a while-" I tried to interrupt but he held up his hand and kept on going-"And of course, what teenager doesn't like trying stupid things?"He said this bit with a smile.
By this time I found myself trying to hold back tears. Darn it, I thought to myself, I thought I was tougher than this. I hated crying. My eyes were full of salty water. I tilted my head sideways to get it out given my horizontal position. Thank God he was looking the other way.
"I love you and"-he stopped as my stepmother called out to him. He looked at me apologetically.
"go" I said. What can I say? Some sacrifices you just have to make
He got up
"But that doesn't mean you're not going to be punished. You're still grounded till the year ends," he said in his sternest manner possible. He kind of ruined the effect by giving my hand a last squeeze and left.
The moment was brief. His speech short. The emotions restrained. But it showed that my father understood me, although he wasn't going to get off that easily for not being there for me. Sure, things were far from perfect. I was still punished and my stepmother was still angry. Oh and I had been kicked out of the academy (had I forgotten to mention that before?). Yes, the next few days were going to be tough but what my father had said had comforted me. Things could only get better I told myself. I mean, what family doesn't have problems? What family doesn't have cracks? None that I know of.