PARENT-ADOLESCENT CONFLICT Staind - For You

With Linkin Park in my list of top ten favourite bands, it can't come as much of a surprise that I like some of Staind's finest too. I wanted Pink's track: Perfect - but Youtube said I had to ask your Mum's permission, before I fixed it here.


Portraying relationships:
Parent-adolescent conflict can serve an adaptive function; conflict can be an impetus to change. ;)


THERE'S NOT MUCH SILENCE IN LACEY'S HOUSE ANY MORE. DUTIFUL, SHE MAY HAVE BEEN, BUT LACEY SNAPPED.

Mum settled herself on the sofa, patted the space beside her, “You just have to – ”

She patted the seat? How many times, since last November, had she done that before beginning a little chat?

Lacey folded her arms and painted an expression of over-eager on her face, “No. No. Let me guess: I just have to give it some time? Did I? Did I get it right? Did I?”

“Lacey, please?” Her mother flushed. Her eyes rounded and tears welled. She felt hurt?  “I know the timing of the job offer was unfortunate, but I couldn’t turn down the opportunity; you know that.”

Lacey used every finger to tug her straight, blond hair back until her scalp hurt. She stared at her mum’s brown linen dress and flat, rubber-soled shoes. Her wild and witty mother was unrecognisable these days. Teaching in a monastery school, The Abbey d’Or, had done that. Her promotion to the highest order.

“You’ve only been asked to do one Re-sit class. You could take the exam in a month or two. Things will get better.”

“Do you know my school, at all? Do you have any idea? No, you don’t, do you?”

Lacey turned. She’d had enough. Starting with the stupid bow-tied monstrosity they made her wear. She littered the front room with the navy and red uniform. The jacket hit the coffee table. Her wrap-over, bow tie ended up in the fireplace. The pleated, kilt she kicked off at the door sent it half way up the stairs before she tripped over it.

“LACEY!”

With a stumble and a curse, her mum slipped on the skirt. Good. It slowed her down. But not for long. She arrived, rubbing her shin, as Lacey hopped her second leg into her jeans. Keeping one eye on her Mum, who leaned against the door eye narrowed and lips squeezed tight like a draw-string bag, Lacey squatted beside the bed-high, pile of clothes. She flung tee-shirts, sweatshirts, dresses and shorts in all directions. Three or four tops landed on the foot of the bed.

“What are you doing?” True to form, her Mum didn't step any closer than the doorway. She always said she couldn't find a route through the debris littering the floor, in various stages of decay.

The pale blue tee-shirt Lacey pulled on was short, the striped cardigan she put on over that was too large. She leaned so she could see herself in the full-length mirror; wrinkled her nose as she checked each view, “I’m screwing up my look; obviously.”

“Where do you think your going? Get into your uniform, Lacey. Go to school.”

Lacey stumbled over plates and the soft thing that gave underfoot, during the few steps to the shelf. She stamped her feet into boots and zipped them, “I quit.”

Not even caring that her mother was there, Lacey took the key from its place and unlocked the pink, lockable box on the lower shelf. Her passport was under the old cards, and letters and stuff. With a loud huff, she retraced her steps. Rummaged through the bin, looking for her official Exam Results' notification letter. She reached and tugged a large leather bag, from under the bed. Kicked the shoe box back under. She stuffed the papers in, and glared around the room.

“What?” squealed her Mum. She blocked the doorway, a hand on the frame at each side.

“I’m not going to school. Offa’s School? Fucking awful! Get a refund; whatever.”

Lacey got close, considered pushing past her Mum.

Her Mum stared at her, eye to eye, fingers curving around the white painted wood.

“What are you going to do, Mum? Really? Are you going to drive me to school every day? Stand across every door way? There are windows too.”

The unhealthy pink that had marked her mother’s face paled.

“I thought not.”

“STOP. Lacey, we need to talk about this. You can’t rush into...”

Lacey stepped back a pace, stood stock-still – lower lip down, eye brow up – and glared.

Her mother blushed again.

“I wouldn’t have got a bloody D if you hadn’t made me move! Stop panicking, Mum. Right now, I am going to college. See if I can persuade them to let me in.”

I'm editing one novel, re-writing another and writing a third - by hand - to keep the momentum going. It could be said there is one-thing-more-than-enough going on.

What are you concentrating on, at the moment?