Page 20 of The Kat Bunglar

Chesterton, Indiana

Kat Kar

How had she ended up back here? Kat scowled up at the One Direction poster on her ceiling. She had always been partial to Zayn—he was obviously the hottest.

Her gaze drifted over to the inhaler and retainer case on her nightstand. She hated high school. She hated who she had been in high school—self-conscious, shy, and uncomfortable in her own skin.

The smell of fresh rotis and vegetable curry wafted in from the doorway. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since the apple juice at the hospital.

The only problem? In order to get to the food, she would have to face her parents. Her devout, traditional, judgmental, and unhappy parents. She wondered how their life had been without her. Surely, they must’ve pined for her every day, missing her exuberant, vivacious personality.

Gathering the willpower to face them and their misery, she propelled herself off the bed and headed to the bathroom.

Her hair had turned into a frizzy mess overnight. Why had she thought cutting it into a bob was a good idea? She should have bought a wig.

With what money?the little voice in her head whispered.

She closely examined her skin, scanning for any signs of clogged pores. Oh God, was that another blackhead on her chin? She quickly squeezed a bit of toothpaste onto it before brushing her teeth and reciting her morning affirmations:

“I am beautiful.”

“I deserve to be loved.”

“I can cut a bitch with these cheekbones.”

“People will listen to me!”

She growled out the last sentence before spitting and rinsing. Now, onto her nine-step morning skincare routine.

Twenty minutes and one gallon of water later...

Feeling refreshed, she made her way downstairs. The sound of laughter greeted her.

Christian was sitting in her chair, eating offherspecial yellow polka-dot plate.

“Oh my gosh, Mr. Malik, you were quite the rebel in your youth,” Christian chuckled.

“Well, I had to get Mrs. Malik to notice me somehow. Mango trees grow everywhere in Bangladesh, and there happened to be a very large one right outside her house. So, I climbed it and—”

Her father looked up as Kat entered the room, halting his story.

The whole kitchen went quiet.

“Um... don’t stop your story because of me,” Kat said, making her way to the stove with agenericplate she grabbed from the cupboard.

“What story? There was no story.” Her father gave her mother the look she hated.

“I’m not trying to interrupt anything,” Kat protested.

“Oh, like when you interrupted your cosmetology school studies and ran away to Los Angeles?” Her father latched onto the opening like a dog finally sinking its teeth into a bone.

Kat set her plate down with a heavy thud. “You’re still upset about that?”

“It was $5,000 for the semester, Khatira. That we paid. In cash. Because there were no loans available for that type of schooling. You didn’t want to be an engineer—fine. You didn’t want to be a medical assistant—fine.” He waved his hands in utter confusion. “And yet you still dropped out and ran away. After everything we did for you.”

Her father loved the phrase “everything we did for you,” like her childhood was a loan she would never be able to pay back. The explicit implication? That she was supposed to forfeit her entire adulthood and shape it to their terms and conditions.

Her jaw clenched in frustration. She owed them nothing.

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