Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
I sat in the library for over an hour before Mom finally showed up. By that time, my stomach was roaring, and my head was light.
For most of the drive, I don’t say anything. I keep to myself and close my eyes.
“How was your first day back?” she finally asks.
I slump into the passenger seat, pulling my hoodie up over my head. “What do you think?”
She shifts her weight forward, clutching the steering wheel a little tighter. “Do you have a lot of homework?”
“Mm-hmm.”
She glances over at me, still smiling too big.
“So, you’re tutoring now?” She’s trying to have one of those perfect mother-daughter relationships like I’ve seen in the movies, but I can see through her.
All of her concern and attention is fake.
She’s only trying to be close to me now because her favorite child is gone, and I’m all that’s left.
“I have to,” I say.
“Well, I think that might be fun for you. It’ll force you to make some new friends.” She laughs.
My eyebrows fly up. “You think this is funny?”
“No. I just—I think it might be a good opportunity for you since it’s hard for you to break out of your shell. This will help you.”
She can’t be serious right now. I’ve had the worst day.
It’s been one thing after another, and all she wants to talk about is how I need to be making friends.
As if I have any desire to do that. My insides are burning, and I clench my teeth, grinding them together as I rock my jaw.
“I need you to drive me to school tomorrow.”
Her brow furrows as she glances over at me again. “I thought we talked about this? I already have to drive thirty minutes to work, and your school is in the opposite direction.”
“Well, I’m not going to take the bus,” I say, crossing my arms.
Rain beats down on the windshield, and Mom turns on the wipers. “You could always ask Caleb to give you another ride.”
“No,” I say. “That’ll be awkward, and besides, his little brother hates me.”
Mom chuckles again. “No, he doesn’t.”
“I don’t want to ride with them. I want you or Dad to drive me. Dad’s office isn’t even that far.”
The corners of Mom’s mouth dip slightly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”
“Why?”
“Because he has a lot on his plate already.”
I turn toward her as my heart beats faster. “Why can’t he drive me? That’s a terrible excuse.”
“You know why.” Her sweet tone is darkening by the second.
“No. No, I don’t, so why don’t you tell me?” My breathing is jagged and loud—almost as loud as the rain hitting the glass. What is so terrible about Dad that makes driving me to school a bad option?
“He’s . . . he uh—”
“Spit it out!”
“The drinking!” she says as she slams on the brakes. The car skids to a stop in front of our house.
I jerk forward, throwing my arms out against the dash to stop from colliding into it. My chest heaves as I unfasten my seatbelt. “You just can’t stand the fact that Dad and I get along more than you and I do.” I shove the door open, leaping to my feet.
“Becca, wait. That’s not true!”
I run into the house and straight up to my room, locking the door behind me. My hands shake as hot tears pour down my cheeks. I collapse onto my unmade bed and clutch my pillow to my chest. What’s left of my mascara smears against the pale pink pillowcase, and my nose starts to run.
Mom tries to open the door, but it won’t budge. “Becca, let’s talk about this.”
“Leave me alone! You’re the last person I want to be around right now!”
She doesn’t say anything else.
My brain spirals. Every second of today replays—from the bus ride to my lunch with Sadie. When I think about doing it all over again tomorrow, my chest tightens, and I struggle to breathe.
My breathing is ragged while shivers run down my spine. My mouth gapes open, trying to get more air, but I can’t. It’s as if something is pushing against it, crushing my lungs. My vision blurs, and a sharp pain throbs in my head.
I need it to stop, but I’m completely consumed.
This isn’t the way things are supposed to be. He was the better child—the one that never caused trouble. The one that everyone loved.
I’m the one that can’t do anything right.
It should’ve been me.
The day of the crash I sat in the hospital room with bandages on my arms. No broken bones or major injuries, but I was covered in bruises and cuts. I held my legs close to my chest as tears poured down my face. No one was giving me clear answers about Ethan.
Mom’s voice filled the hallway, and I remember wanting nothing more than for her to wrap me up in her arms and tell me everything would be okay.
“Take me to see my kids right now!”
“Ma’am,” the doctor said right next to my door. “One of them was seriously injured and in surgery—”
“Is this the room?”
“Yes, but—”
“Ethan?” she said as she barged through the door.
I met her eyes, only to see the devastation on her face when she realized I was the one who was okay. That I wasn’t my brother. She wanted me to be the one in that operating room.
My stomach lurches, and I gag, covering my mouth.
I stand, swaying as I walk toward the door. I wobble down the hallway to the bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet. Gripping the side of the bowl with shaky hands, I throw up.
It should’ve been me.
I rest my head on the cold bathroom floor, clutching my sides as my stomach continues to cramp, trying to force more out of me.
My mouth trembles as I fail to keep it shut. My sobs are silent.
I can’t do this anymore. Thinking about him hurts too much. I want to run away—to find somewhere I don’t have to feel guilty about being alive. Somewhere I can close my eyes and not be haunted by memories.
College.
College is my way out.
If I can make it through the next few months, I’ll have my ticket out of this nightmare.
I take in a deep breath and focus on the tile on the walls until my vision begins to clear.
Think about something else. Think about your art.
It’s my escape. It’s the one thing I’ve loved ever since I was little. When I had a bad day, I’d paint and all of my problems would melt away.
I pull myself up off the floor and lean against the vanity. I wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeves and scrub my teeth with mint toothpaste.
Then, I leave and head back to my bedroom. I sit in front of my easel and the blank canvas that stares back at me.
My head is still pounding, but my tears have slowed, and I can see properly again.
I take out my brushes and paint.
I close my eyes, letting my mind roam. Vivid colors and textures have always been something that have filled my thoughts. Inspiration has never been something I had to wait for. I had a surplus.
This time, my mind is black and void. All I see is his face.
My eyes fly open, and I choke, hitting my chest with a fist as my blank canvas mocks me.
While there’s nothing to paint in my mind, there’s plenty on my phone. I cringe at the thought but search the web anyway. I need to think about something else, even if I have to force it.
I settle on a picture of a sunset over the ocean. It’s simple, and I don’t have to think about what I’m doing. I’ll set myself on autopilot and just get through this moment.
I pick up one of the brushes and trace the bristles across the palm of my hand—a habit I’ve created through the years.
My paintings are traditionally more abstract, with wild colors. I love creating portraits with blocks of colors to create people’s faces. It’s ironic, considering I normally wear dark colors. No one would ever guess that my art was so colorful by just looking at me.
Mom loves my paintings because they go along with the bright colors she has throughout the house.
Slowly, I dip my brush into the pink and place my first stroke. It’s terrible. I add hints of purple and orange to help blend this atrocity into a passable sunset. It helps a little, but it still looks like a five-year-old did it. It’s lifeless and stiff.
This isn’t helping. I’m wasting my time.
My lip quivers. I don’t want to cry again.
I stand and knock the canvas over. I kick it, and my foot rips a hole right in the center of my terrible painting.
I tug on my hair, staring down at the mess.
My heart beats faster. This was supposed to help, so why do I feel worse?
It’s just another reminder that I can’t do anything right. I’m a failure.
I pick up the canvas and my entire bin of paint supplies, marching them down the hallway and outside.
Rain drenches me in seconds, but I barely notice.
I rip the top off the garbage can and shove everything into it.
I slam the lid down, but the canvas is still poking out the top, refusing to let the lid close properly.
I open and close it repeatedly, pushing with all of my might, but it still won’t close.
Rain is running down my back, and no matter how many times I try to shake my head, my hair is still in my face.
I scream as I push the garbage can.
It teeters over, spilling everything from last night’s dinner scraps to soda cans onto our driveway. I crouch down, hugging my knees. I bury my head in my arms, trying to ignore the world around me. I want to disappear. I want to close my eyes and fade into the dark.
The sound of the rain continues, but it isn’t hitting my head anymore.
I look up.
Caleb stands next to me with an umbrella over my head. Rain soaks his bangs. “Are you okay?”
“Go away.”
He sits down next to me on the wet concrete, keeping the umbrella in place over me.
I grab it and toss it to the side. “I told you to go!” I scramble to my feet and lift the garbage can.
He picks up some of the loose garbage on the ground. “I’m not going to do that.”
I step closer to him, trying to scare him away. “Why? Why won’t you leave me alone?” I yell. My heart is pounding in my ears, and pressure is building in my chest, aching to explode.
He doesn’t budge, taking a second to reply as if trying to choose his next words wisely. “Why would I want to?”
“Because I deserve to be!”
He steps closer, only inches away from me now. “No, you don’t.”
“Really? Like you know. I’m a screw up!” There’s no stopping my tears. Once the dam breaks, there’s a flood.
“You’re just in pain,” he whispers.
I cower, unable to maintain my confidant stance in front of him. I shake my head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do. I’ve been there.”
Droplets of rain trickle down his face, but he stands there, unaffected. He’s an immovable wall, watching me with intense brown eyes. He’s sincere. I know he is. It’s been four years since his dad died, and he must have the delusional thought that he can help me move on the way he did.
A breeze sends chills through me, and I shiver.
“Just tell me what you need,” he says.
I stare at my muddy shoes and soaked pants because I can’t bring myself to look at him. There is one thing. “I need a way to get to school the rest of the year,” I mumble, peeking up at him.
He studies me, eyebrows dipping together. “You want me to drive you?” he says, stepping back.
I already regret saying it. There’s no way he’d say yes to such a long period of time.
I turn to leave, but he grabs my hand, pulling me back toward him.
“Hold on a second,” he says.
“Why? So you can make fun of me—”
“I’ll do it.”
“What?” I try to shake his hand off. “It’s fine. You don’t have to. Forget I said anything.”
His touch is gentle but firm, and he refuses to let go. “I want to.” His stare changes. It isn’t the playful and witty way he normally looks at me. It’s a genuine gaze, and it’s too strong. I can’t stand it. I need him to look away.
I scoff. “You’re just saying that because you feel bad for me now, so forget it.” I jerk my hand away.
“That’s not it,” he says.
“Then why?” I demand. “Tell me why on Earth you’d agree to be stuck with me every day for the rest of the semester.”
He sucks in a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Are you really going to make me say it?”
“What are you talking about?”
His face is turning red, and he can’t seem to look me in the eye anymore. “I like you, Bec.”
My eyes grow big, the tears stop, and I jump back. “You what?”
He smiles nervously. “I’ve always liked you.”
My mouth gapes open while I search for words. I squint, leaning to the side to look around the side of him. “Did you hit your head? Do you have a concussion or something?”
He grimaces, shaking his head. “What? No.”
There is no way he’s serious. This must be some ridiculous prank. I wave my finger at him. “Wow. I didn’t expect you to make a joke at a time like this, but you got me.”
He doesn’t laugh. His face just turns redder and redder. “I’m serious.”
“No,” I say, waiting for him to break this ridiculous character.
“I’m not messing around. I like you.” He pauses. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for the longest time.”
I blink a few times, trying to comprehend what he’s saying. How could Caleb, the boy who’s seen me at my worst, possibly like me? Why didn’t I see this coming? Am I completely oblivious? “Why are you telling me this now?”
He takes in another deep breath and rocks on his heels. “Because, if you agree to go out with me a couple of times, I’ll drive you to school for the rest of the year. Even if you decide that you hate me after that.”