It’s Monday again, somehow. I managed to sleep away the weekend, but even that wasn’t enough. By lunchtime, I’m dragging myself through the halls, praying for the day to come to an end. But clearly God has marked himself “on hiatus” and isn’t even checking his DMs.
My parents went to church yesterday, like usual. I don’t know how they can stand it. All the gushing and cooing and “she’s in a better place.” Fuck that.
They didn’t fight me on it, which was amazing. Perhaps I’m suspended in some kind of grace period, where I get away with things that would normally be unacceptable. In my family, getting out of going to church is harder than getting out of going to school.
The last straw for me fell a while ago, I’ve just been unable to admit it. Stuck in a pattern of obedience that I don’t know how to break. And the relief I feel now comes with a hefty side helping of shame. Yesterday, for a few minutes there, I was happy. Even in spite of the ad jingle playing in the back of my mind: This carefree Sunday morning made possible by the death of Sheila Sanders.
The smell of mystery meat from the cafeteria spikes my existing nausea. I go toward the à la carte line and grab a couple of dinner rolls and a tub of ice cream. Who needs real food when you have gnawing guilt to sustain you?
My phone lights up with a text message. It’s from Simon. After school, he writes. Be ready.