I OPEN MY EYES Monday morning, and everything is, like, blurry. My head pounds and my mouth is like sand and O-M-G, my entire body screams at me when I move. Ow, ow, ow. But my mind is clear and for the first time in, like, months, I feel like me.
Me: Seventeen. Favorite color: Pink. Favorite Singer: Taylor Swift. Favorite Book: Little Women.
Also me: Killer of father. Redeeming my future. Making my mom proud.
I need to get out of the oversized t-shirt I slept in and find something proper to wear. Something my size, which isn’t this ratty. I should toss it, but it has The Strokes fading across the front. I’d hate to throw out something that supports a charity organization… I think?
My closet is a mess, and I stare at it dumbfounded. This is not me. I am not a mess. It’s as though someone rifled through my clothing, pulling things off hangers in a hurry. I take a quick inventory; nothing seems to be missing. School uniforms freshly pressed. Weekend clothes in all my favorite bright colors hanging at the ready. My Mary Janes all nicely lined up in a row. But something feels off. A little out of place.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and habitually grab for a crisp white blouse and my uniform skirt. I pull them on snuggly, admiring myself in the floor length mirror. I look like I do every morning. Carefully coiffed hair, just covering the scar from the accident above my right eyebrow. A bright morning glow. A perfectly average seventeen-year-old. I study myself a moment longer, my lips pulled tight in a judgmental tilt.
I reach for my phone, usually on my bedside table, but it isn’t there. I grab my messenger bag, but there’s only books and pens taking up the inside space. If I lost it again, Mom is going to kill me. But we aren’t allowed to bring phones into the classrooms, I probably just forgot it in my locker.
Mom is in the kitchen when I make my way downstairs, happily humming to herself, and cooking something for breakfast. The concerned expression she wears as I walk in quickly shifts to a smile, something I mirror.
"Good morning! That smells amaaaaaahzing." I sit at the table. Mom is working at the butcher-block island, up early yet again to make me breakfast, to see me off to school. Despite the accident, despite killing my father, she greets me every morning with love and a warm meal.
“Good morning darling. You look bright and chipper this morning,” she offers, placing a plate in front of me. My stomach grumbles right on time.
“I slept well last night. I feel rested.” I realize it’s the first time in a while that these words are true. My sleep has been fitful and restless, full of strange dreams, though I can’t quite remember what about.
“I’m happy to hear that. You’ve been… not quite yourself lately. I’m relieved to see that you’re finding your way back.” Mom looks at me a beat too long and I’m flushed with insecurity.
What does she really see when she looks at me? How much more can I do to make everything up to her, to prove to her that I’m trying, I’m doing my best. That I am the daughter she always thought I was, and everything that happened is in the past?
I take a bite of toast, the peanut butter settling onto my tongue in a thick coat. I’m overcome with gratitude for Mom, for my new life, for this second chance. How many kids get the opportunity to rebuild themselves?
I pick up my bag and head to the front door, ready to leave for school, but something stops me. A tugging, pulling me back to the kitchen.
“I love you Mom, you know that, right?” I ask, my mouth still sticky with peanut butter.
“Honey, of course. I love you too. So much. You have no idea,” she returns a look that’s soft and genuine and my heart floods.
We’re going to be okay.
The morning sun warms my face as I make my way to school. I swear I haven't seen my friends in weeks. Though it was just a few days ago, we were sharing beers at Brian’s party. I'm stoked to see them waiting for me as they always do when I approach the front gate.
“Good morning!” I call cheerfully as I approach.
Kim is standing with Kyle, the two of them having a tense conversation. I’m not sure if they’re together, together, but they have been the best of friends since coming here, apparently. Something that stretches beyond friendship, whether it’s romantic or not.
You’d think that would make me a third wheel, but it doesn’t. We’ve been friends ever since my first day here. I clumsily dropped all my books at my locker and Kyle stopped to help me pick them up, later introducing me to Kim. Seeing them waiting for me at the gates as they do every morning warms me.
“And a good morning to you!” Kyle returns cheerily, relieved to be able to pull his attention from whatever spat he and Kim were having.
But she seems less enthused at my interruption. Her eyes narrow, scanning me from head to toe with an air of judgment.
“You alright Kim?” I ask, confused by her cold shoulder. “How was the rest of your weekend?”
“Fine…” she trails off, as if giving me more information about it arms me against her somehow.
I give her an uncertain look, but I’m not going to let my surly friend ruin my good mood today, so I let it go.
There are a few other students lingering around the gate, not quite ready to take the steps into school to start yet another week. Hannah Collins is leaning against the stone wall. Her cardigan pulled down over her hands, her eyes darting around in a panic.
I imagine she’s looking for Kayla Porter. Hannah is basically attached to Kayla’s hip, her own personal flotation device in this rocky, turbulent high school sea. But that’s the cost of popularity. You can cling to the Queen Bee, but you’re also in debt to her status. She can take you or leave you at will. My heart clenches momentarily, imagining how Hannah must feel if Kayla abandoned her at the gate and left her to fend for herself.
“Shall we, ladies?” Kyle asks, making a show of lifting his elbows into wings, offering one to each of us. I immediately take his arm, struck by how grateful I am to have such true and loyal friends. Friends who won’t just leave me if something better comes along. Kim grabs his other arm, a little more hesitantly, but I can tell that whatever she is mad at him about is starting to fade.
We skip past the gate, my friends completely oblivious to everyone else. But I feel like I’m being watched. I look around self-consciously and spot Hannah eyeing us as we pass her expression one of worry and suspicion. When I look away, I can tell her stare is still boring into my back, studying my movements.
It sends a shudder through me, but I keep walking.
The hallway is crowded, but I try to greet everyone as usual. A perky smile, a waved hello. These are my peers, the people I am growing with, learning from, connecting with. But the hallway is stuffier than usual; people seem to bump into me, staring at me like I interrupted them talking about me.
“Did… something happen? Am I missing something?” I ask Kim, but she shrugs, slamming her locker shut and adjusting her bag on her shoulders. Her perma-grin wavers a touch and it does little to settle my thoughts.
Usually when kids act like this after the weekend, it’s because someone got drunk at a party and did something stupid. But nothing out of the ordinary happened at Brian’s party Friday night. Kim, Kyle and I took our usual spots along the wall, observing our peers, too afraid to mingle with them. Kayla was there with that college boy she’s been seeing on and off, Hannah at their heels as always. There was drinking, dancing, a few younger girls in tears. But nothing big happened. Nothing that should put everyone on edge. Definitely not anything that would make them stare at me. So why is everyone staring at me?
I’m thankful that Kyle and I have programming class first. At least I’m not left on my own. We take our usual seat behind our computers, but I can’t focus on today’s coding lesson. I swear, anytime I look up, someone is staring at me. Whispering about me.
“Kyle, have you heard anything? About me? People keep staring at me,” I whisper, running my eyes across the room, heads turning any time I land on them. All of them except for Headmaster Johnson’s son, Scott. We’ve never spoken before, but he’s the only student not chicken enough to hold my gaze.
“I think… well you should probably talk to Kim about it? Not me,” Kyle offers, unhelpfully.
“If you know something and aren’t telling me, Kyle, I’m going to punch you,” I respond, which makes him bristle.
He smirks and I want to slap it right off his face. “Well, they’re just waiting for the show.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. I stare at him blankly, waiting for him to continue. “Have you seen Kayla yet today?”
A bolt of dread zig zags down my back at the mention of Kayla. She’s not exactly someone I socialize with, either. We are on completely different planes of existence in this school and Kyle putting her name in the same sentence as mine must be a trick.
“What about Kayla?” I whisper, trying to make the pieces fit.
“Word has it, she’s on a hot rampage looking for you. After what you did at the party last Friday.” He studies me, waiting for the light bulb to flick on above my head but nothing happens. I still have no idea what he’s talking about.
“You’re going to have to give me more than that. Nothing happened Friday night,” I nudge, but the blood is rushing through my ears and I’m not even sure I will hear him when he answers.
“Her boyfriend—or whatever he is—that college guy? Everyone saw you swapping spit with him in the backyard. Kayla’s out for blood.”
“Wait, what? No, that’s… no, there is no way that happened.” But as I’m saying the words, my mind is reeling, desperately trying to think back to everything that happened that night. I was drinking, sure. But there’s no way I drank enough to make out with a college boy I don’t even know. Especially not the boyfriend of the most popular girl in school. “There is no way.” I try again. But it doesn’t help convince me of anything.
I squeeze my eyes shut, bringing myself back to the party. The loud music. People everywhere. And there is a boy. Brawny arms, a woodsy smell. Reaching for me. A tether pulling from my gut.
I snap my eyes back open. No. I would remember making out with someone at a party.
“I… I have to go,” I mumble, grabbing for my books and standing up so abruptly that my chair falls to the ground. Mr. Morrison barely raises an eyebrow as I bolt from the room.