You Make Me Sick

Chapter One

Rosalie

Some of us are born lucky. We get the whole picket fence and the yappy little dog in the backyard, a doting mother and father who don’t waste their money on alcohol or scratch-offs, and the regular family dinner.

It’s a picturesque lifestyle.

One I only have the privilege of seeing from the outside with my nose pressed against the glass. I’ve never considered myself a part of the ‘lucky’ few blessed with a normal existence.

My mother fled Mystic, Connecticut, the moment the hospital released her.

She was still high—buzzing from whatever she’d shot up last—and more focused on her escape than the infant she left behind.

My aunt Kathy was the one who stayed, cradling a newborn swaddled in hospital-issued blankets and clutching a handwritten note with vague instructions on how to find my father.

Aunt Kathy wasn’t meant to be a mother. She didn’t think twice about handing me over to a man she didn’t even know.

She tells me she regrets her decision over our twice-a-year phone calls, but hasn’t made a move to come and scoop me up.

Not even during our last chat when I was huddled in the bathroom with fat tears streaming down my cheeks as I begged her to come.

The whole time, I was curled up with my knees tucked under my chin and my body shaking with every slam of my Dad’s fist on the locked door.

He had been on a bender the previous week and was now having withdrawals. He spent every last dime we had on cheap booze and a pack of cigarettes. When the liquor ran out, he was a live wire and looking for someone to terrorize.

He targeted me, and I locked myself behind the door so he couldn’t reach me.

It was my first mistake.

The second was believing him when he said he wasn’t going to hit me, and I crawled out of the bathroom with my burner phone tucked safely into the back pocket of my jeans.

“Look at her clothes,” comes a wicked snicker from Jordan Elsher, the bane of my existence, and all-around mean girl who haunts the halls of Mystic High School.

She tosses her shiny, platinum blonde hair over her shoulder as scrutinizing blue eyes narrow on me. Unlike my hand-me-downs, two sizes too big and riddled with holes from my distant cousin who lent them to me, Jordan’s cute pink blouse fits her perfectly and is tucked into ripped boyfriend jeans.

I once considered her beautiful.

It’s hard not to with her straight teeth and infectious smile. It wasn’t until we started eighth grade that I realized how nasty she was. All it took was one poorly executed joke, and I became the laughing stock of our classmates.

Now, I only see a hollow shell where Jordan’s light once resided. She’s soulless and colder than any glacier.

Stephanie Thurnbrook, her right hand, and a leggy brunette with light brown eyes of honey and thin lips, sneers at me. “Her clothes? What about her face?”

As if just noticing the deep bruise on my right cheek, Jordan’s features twist in disgust. “I try to stay away from the danger zone. I hear she can turn you to stone…”

They giggle behind raised hands, but I walk past them as if the horrible things they say can’t touch me. Inside my head is where I’m the safest. In here, no one can hurt me.

Except myself.

I shake the thought away, banishing that little voice that often tries to drag me down.

It’s gotten louder over the years, constantly clawing away at my insecurities until I’m abandoned in tattered shambles.

I’m always left to patch things up—holding those torn bits of what once made me smiling and carefree as I scramble to piece myself back together.

I’ve spent too many hours speaking affirmations out loud to let it drag me into the darkness.

I’ve repeated every word like a lifeline, holding onto hope with trembling hands.

Because I don’t know if I’ll come back from it.

I have to keep pushing.

As I take in the scrambling students on their way to their first hour class, brightly colored backpacks, notebooks, and smiling faces pass, but it’s all background noise. There is no place for me. Not here, and not in the single-wide trailer I live in at the Oak Woods trailer park.

There are no friends to greet me, and there’s going to be no one when I get home.

I’m alone.

Utterly alone.

Someone shuffles past me, knocking my notebooks from my hands as I’m jolted forward. I almost trip over my ratty tennis shoes and curse quietly at the loud slap of my belongings hitting the dirty floor.

The boy who did it, Mike, I believe, turns towards me. An apology sits on the tip of his tongue as he bends down to help me. Until his dark eyes connect with my green ones and he hisses.

“Oh, I thought you were someone else.” He draws back, leaving my books on the floor before shouting for his friends to wait up.

I stare at them, scattered and useless as they lie in the middle of the hallway. Even as the long corridor begins to clear and the first bell rings, I’m stuck.

Seeing my things scuffed and treated like I am daily is surreal. Like I’m watching my own life from the empty space above me—an out-of-body experience. It causes bitterness to churn in my stomach as I squat down and snatch my song notebook first.

The bridge of my nose stings with unshed tears as I open it to the first page. Lines of music I wrote are neat and bleed my deepest, darkest secrets. Each song I’ve spent countless hours scribbling out is an ode to what no one will ever see. It’s what I keep locked away in the recesses of my mind.

Writing music is my only escape.

I’ve been in love with it since I first heard a pop song over a speaker in the local grocery store. I remember leaving the trailer just to walk to the mini mart down the street and sit near the registers as song after song flowed from the overhead speakers.

Aunt Kathy told me that my mom could have been a musician if she had wanted more from life. Her voice was beautiful, or so I’ve heard.

The most I’ve done is sing in my room, tucked away from anyone discovering my inherited talent. It’s the one thing I refuse to let anyone taint. They can destroy my dignity and strip me bare, but I won’t let them crush my dreams.

“What do we have here?”

My hackles rise, sending my flight response into overdrive as I slap my notebook closed and fumble to grab the other one.

Kairo Ridley is what nightmares are made of.

He’s conniving cruelty all wrapped up in a pretty boy, blonde package.

He has the most haunting eyes I’ve ever seen—the color of steel and almost as dull as Jordan’s.

Pair it with the heart-stopping, half-smirk he usually sports, and he’s brimming with mischievous intent.

It doesn’t help that he’s followed closely by his two best friends, Roman Briggs, the tallest of the bunch, and far more cynical and scrutinizing than the loud blonde stands to his right.

Maddox Campbell takes up the left wing of their entourage, his dead brown eyes searing into me from behind like they always do.

He’s quiet, but just as horrible as his friends.

They’re my hell on Earth, and I should have known better than to linger behind.

“What’s the rush, Dirt?” Kairo croons as he leans over me.

The smell of his cologne, something deep and rich, nearly makes me gag.

Being conditioned to hate anything that smells remotely close to him hasn’t been hard.

I can’t even walk near the men’s side of department stores because I feel like I’m going to vomit or have a panic attack.

I stay quiet, shuffling my things neatly before standing. Kairo moves back, cautious not to get too close to me as I trudge towards my first class.

Three pairs of footsteps follow closely behind, and I wince with every footfall. The fear is embedded in my bones, threatening to make me skip class altogether so I can hide out in the girls’ bathroom until the end of the day.

“She’s not talking,” Kairo chuckles bitterly.

“That’s new,” Roman jabs. “She usually can’t stop mumbling to herself. Do you hear voices, Dirt?”

Dirt.

The nickname these assholes gave me four years ago is a constant reminder of what I am.

Dirt poor, and treated worse than the soil beneath one’s feet.

I don’t think anyone has said my actual name since I started high school.

I tried to convince myself that by senior year, the nickname would have fizzled out.

But here I am, four years later, and it’s stronger than ever.

I ignore them, turning down the East wing of the school so I can get to trigonometry before Mrs. Adele locks me out of the classroom for being late again. None of them has first hour down this hall, but that doesn’t stop the three boys from trailing closely as they mock me.

“Do you think she’s crazy?” Maddox asks quietly.

Kairo’s distinctive, hearty laugh fills the hall. “Think? I know she’s got a few screws loose. If my old man beat me half as hard as hers does, I wouldn’t be all there either.”

Something unpleasant and sharp pangs in my chest as my teeth grind. If they experienced half of what I dealt with, they would buckle under the pressure. Going to bed and not knowing if you’re going to wake up in the morning isn’t for the weak.

“Hey, Dirt!” Kairo calls as I begin to walk faster. “We’re fucking talking to you!”

He lunges forward and snatches my forearm, the grip unrelenting. Pain flares beneath the bruises hidden by my loose, long-sleeved shirt, and I suck in a sharp breath as his fingers dig into tender flesh. The ache shoots up my arm, tightening in my jaw until my teeth grind roughly.

My eyes connect with those lifeless ones, and he smirks viciously. “Oh, look at that shiner. Your old man has a hell of a right hook, doesn’t he?”

I yank my arm out of his grip, trying to hold it together as I near my stop. My tears threaten to slip, and all I can think of is getting away from them.

I can’t let them see me cry.

They would eat me alive.

“Aw,” Roman pouts mockingly. “She’s scurrying away like a little rat.”

“That classroom can’t save you,” Kairo sings as I open the door and slam it in their faces.

I don’t even get a chance to breathe as twenty sets of eyes land on me, searing into my skin with looks of disgust and mean-spirited mirth.

Mrs. Adele turns to me, her marker half-raised near the board as she scowls.

The wrinkles between her thick brows deepen, accentuating the sag of her face.

She’s riddled with signs of aging, from her crows' feet to the streaks of grey in her dark hair that’s nestled tightly into a bun at her nape. “Rosalie. You’re late.”

“Sorry,” I mutter before ducking my head and speed walking to the back of the classroom. I’m almost to my lone desk in the corner, my mind entirely focused on getting to a safe space that I don’t notice when someone shoves their foot out into the aisle, and I stumble right over it.

My books slap onto the floor again, and my song notebook flips open. My heart revs in my chest as laughter drowns out my panic. I quickly snatch my things up, wiping at the tears I can’t stop. They roll down my cheeks, hot and heavy as I ungracefully slide into my seat.

“That’s enough!” Mrs. Adele rallies everyone, drawing all eyes to the lesson plan as she continues like it’s another day.

I fold my arms, burying my face in them as I sob quietly in the back. I spend my first period trying to piece myself back together. The mask I assemble is nothing more than an illusion, but it’s what I need to get through the rest of the day.