Being interrogated by my parents was the equivalent of North Korea’s threat to invade the United States. Hearing all week in history class about the warning to the U.S. set me on edge, but nothing felt more real than being grilled by Mom and Dad.
I listened to my father whistling loudly as he ground his coffee in the kitchen.
A few minutes later, both of my parents were watching me from my doorway, my father sipping his extra dark organic brew.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” my mother asked.
Dad stood, p***y-whipped, at my mother’s side. You couldn’t get anything past her, not even a crumpled bed of peonies.
“For the third time, I don’t know what happened.” I silenced the Mad Hatter with ear buds, cranking on music so loud I knew I would be deaf by the time I went to college.
