Jeans
Krithika Patrachari
Genes. The single worst lesson in my biology class. Because genes are what determined that my first sip of alcohol would probably be never-ending as my father lovingly passed down his addiction. Genes decided that, even though I never met my mother, I would have to learn to deal with her gift of bipolar disorder. Genes littered my house with empty beer bottles and tear-soaked bed sheets.
Maybe that’s why I hate wearing jeans. I refuse to let my legs be subject to the same constriction that genes impose on my life. The dent in my room that I’ve come to accept as my closet consists only of baggy sweatpants. Partly for comfort and partly to hide the strong calves that I supposedly got from my mother….and the scar I got from my dad’s bottle. I was born simply as a jumbled mess of my parents’ botched-up genes. Like I was made in a factory and branded with a Levi’s stamp. Imagine if I were born as my own person instead.
For once, I wish I could look in the mirror and not see my dad’s tan skin and chiseled nose. Or the way my hair resembles my mom’s streaky light brown hair in the worn-out picture that I look at more than I would like to admit. The permanent hatred in my hazel eyes that I assume I was born with. For once, I wish I wouldn’t be told that I was messed up like my mother. But alas, here I am, the flesh and bones of Derrick and Hayley, the perfect blend of both of their worst qualities.
It’s funny, isn’t it? That my dad’s gift is his addiction, while my mom can’t love anything enough to stay. Two opposite characteristics…and I got them both. It gets confusing at times: the need for consistency but the urge to get up and leave at the same time. To leave this town that is way too small and reeks of weed on every corner while we all just pretend we have a skunk problem. But I would miss it. The way Miss Jeanine drops off cookies every Christmas while her son would be graffitiing the holiday greetings sign in the center of the town every year without fail. Who am I kidding? No one makes it out of Ridgebren.
I eye my window. The cold air outside breathes heavily against it as if it wants to come in. As if it doesn’t know that the world outside is better. I think about it a lot. I run through the plan every night: how to sneak out. That window is reserved for my ultimate escape. I never dare use it to sneak out for Meghan’s Friday night parties or to smoke with the neighbors at 2 a.m. I will never touch that window until I’m ready. In the morning light, you can almost see the hills far in the background if you look closely enough. Surely not too far from this dump. I am going to make it to those hills. Away from Ms. Brenner’s stupid class about genes and away from this room that my mother decorated for me. Even my room isn’t mine. The pink walls were painted before I had the chance to decide I hated pink. The floral bed sheets act innocent, as if they don’t hear me scream every night. Tonight, I will leave it all. I will.
Tonight, unlike other nights, my body moves faster than my thoughts. I instinctively grab the prepacked backpack from under my bed before my brain can tell me to sit down and get back into my bed. It was almost routine by now, but I surprise myself as I crack open the window–tougher than the other windows, rusted after waiting so patiently for all these years. The cold air hits my face. I half expect it to wake me to my senses, but my leg still swings out the window. Maybe I am in my right senses. I am alert. This is right.
I feel like I have night vision as I land on both my feet—unevenly cut grass beneath them. I slowly creep around the side of my house, following the path that I had so vividly made over and over again in my mind every night. I stop. My dad stands on the front porch, beer bottle glued to one hand, smoking out of the other. He sees me. Our eyes lock for a second. For the first time, I realize his hazel eyes are different from mine. They are sadder. Colder. I freeze, not having planned for this encounter. But he coughs up a spit, watering the grass with beer-flavored saliva, then turns around and walks inside.
He saw me. He knew. He didn’t try to stop me. He didn’t care. I wonder if I reminded him of my mother at that moment. I wonder if it hurt. Why didn’t it hurt me? I walk along the poorly placed pebble path for the last time and let out a sigh. The cold air from my mouth acts as proof I’m still alive. That I can breathe. That I can leave. My legs never feel so free. I can go anywhere. I can run. The backpack feels lighter than it used to. Maybe because I decided not to take my mother’s picture with me. I left her on her floral sheets in that pink room. The corner of my lips curls into a smile, and a laugh escapes my mouth. If I knew it would be this easy, I would’ve done it a while ago. Heck, I would’ve just used the front door.
Krithika Patrachari is a sophomore at Rutgers University, graduating in 2024. She is working towards a major in Civil Engineering and a minor in Philosophy. Krithika grew up in Marlboro, New Jersey, and has always been interested in anything involving creativity, such as drawing, painting, sculpting, and writing.