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Misunderstood Apprehension

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The faint smell of diesel weaved towards the front of the car and through the open window as I opened Alanna: The First Adventure. I leaned against the side of the door trying to push back the ever there nauseous feeling. Which happens every time I smell gasoline or any other of its family members. It was a very inconvenient aptitude when we went on long drives to Sacramento, Santa Clara, or Twin City to visit friends and family. Before and even sometimes during my elementary and middle school these trips were frequent but rare in the past years. During those trips I would detest reading, as it caused me headaches, which was very exasperating, so I eventually spent most of the drives watching the scenery, sleeping, or arguing with my brothers.

I turned my attention back to the book in my hand, it was one of my favorite books of all time. I had and have a lot of those. I was working on a project using the book and planned to turn it in as extra credit but the work was hours long. I had a lot of homework and even taking time out to read a book was very hard pressed. Guess I was returning the book. It wasn’t so a sad parting as I usually have with other books. I knew the exact place to find this one or another version of the book in my local library. As good as having it for yourself.

I flipped through the books, nonetheless, trying to consume its contents in the few precious minutes we had before we reached the library. Speaking of the library, we had been parked in place for more than three minutes and it was past time for the car to have warmed its old creaking circuits. No offence Dad.

I looked over at my father who was trimming a bit of his beard from here and there while looking at himself in the car front mirror. He’d been doing that ever since I’d entered the car. I sighed. “Dad, let’s go! What’s taking sooooo long?” I managed to do all this while still flipping through the book.

“Hmm,” he made that noncommittal sound he does every time he was on a rocky road with his thoughts and it took him a bit of a leap to get back to where I,the stranded daughter, was. My dad had a way of talking calmly and soothingly like the waves of the placid sea. Most of the time. I always loved listening to my father, and had countless memories of going to sleep recounting his voice in my head and his faerie stories of history and lore. “Sweetie, you have to look presentable. You can’t just take your face somewhere. Other people might not mind, but the person himself feels weird and uneasy.”

Ugh! My parents are always after me about washing my face, brushing my teeth, and stuff! Not necessarily a bad thing, but still!!! “I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and am all presentable to go!” I might have mentioned that I don’t smell either, but that would sound too over defensive even though I was. Why scream “Wolf!” when he’s on the other side of the big shore?

“I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about my self,” my dad said.
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“Huh?” when it finally hit me, I cracked up. I’d noticed my dad was trimming his beard, but sometime even when the answer is in front of you, you're incapable of deducing it.



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