If I’m lucky, they’ll be here a few weeks. A month, tops. How long does it take to get your life together, anyway? I thought that’s what Sober Living was for. Why would they need to invade our house to get it together?
There’s a knock at my door.
I’m hit with a sudden burst of déjà vu. Most nights before I went to bed, Grams would come in and chat with me for a bit, usually as I was picking out my clothes for school the next day. It was nice talking to her about things, like what I should wear to homecoming and if I could see a dermatologist because my pimples were getting out of control—things that were awkward to talk about with my dad.
Once she’d come in as I was getting ready to perform with the Wavettes at a Saturday game. I was frustrated because I couldn’t get my eyeliner to match perfectly with both eyes, and I really wanted it to look even.
“Here,” she’d said, her hand gesturing for my bottle of liquid liner.
“I’m running late,” I’d replied, somewhat annoyed. Grams didn’t ever wear eyeliner, and letting her attempt to apply it would only hold me up.
“Trust me.” She took the bottle from me anyway, so I gave up and closed my eyes. I felt the cool tip glide onto both eyelids. “Now, look.”
I did. It wasn’t perfect, but it was way more even than my prior attempts.
“Wow,” I said, surprised. “Thank you.”
“See?” She was smiling, and her tone was only somewhat smug. “Sometimes you have to take a step back. Let someone else help out.”
I blink away the memory, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling her absence all over again.
It would be polite to answer whoever is on the other side of my door, but I don’t feel like putting on a smile and entertaining someone named after a piece of fruit. I just want to be left alone.
I hear descending footsteps. Whoever it was gave up.
Exhausted, I set my phone alarm and crawl into bed. I’m about to turn off my lamp when the collage of pictures taped on the wall catches my eye.
There’s one of Whitney and me pushing up our nostrils and flaunting unflattering pig noses. I find the one of Jay and me posing in my front yard before homecoming freshman year. There’s another of Raegan, Whitney, Lin, and me on our front porch swing with popsicles in our hand. It’s all evidence that my life is here, that I belong here. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.
THREE
THE INTRO TO “WE WILL ROCK YOU”bangs through my skull and into my brainwaves when I wake up the next morning. I’m disoriented for half a second before remembering I’m back in my old room. But the music doesn’t quiet. And it’s unnecessarily LOUD.
I stagger out of bed, my tired eyes still adjusting to the morning light. I didn’t sleep well. I’m nervous about starting school again, which is ridiculous. I should be bursting with joy. Last night I tried to tell myself I was worrying for nothing, but my mind didn’t drift off until around one in the morning.
I wander down the upstairs hallway only to discover that the music is accompanied by very loud, very off-key singing. The source is coming from my bathroom, where I hear Nonnie belting lyrics from under the blasting water.
“Morning!”
Peach is walking up the stairs. She looks like she started her day hours ago. Her pale hair is tied back in a French braid and she’s wearing a crisp floral blouse with a knee-length, conservative green skirt. She’s even wearing magenta heels that match her lipstick.
“You look like you could use some coffee,” she says, placing an armload of clean towels in the linen closet.
“I don’t drink coffee.” I’ve tried, but it tastes like bitter sludge. I prefer mine blended with massive amounts of sugar and mocha, which is less like coffee and more like a milkshake. A milkshake that’s socially acceptable to drink in the morning.
The music stops and the bathroom door swings open. Nonnie emerges in a pink, zebra-print bathrobe. A shower cap covers her massive curlers, and her glasses are fogged from the lingering humidity.
She smiles, gesturing toward the door. “All yours!”
I lock myself inside, eager to make my escape. The digital clock on the counter reads 6:52. Crapsticks. I’m behind schedule. I flip the shower on, annoyed. I make a mental note to tell my dad that since these arehisfriends, he can sharehisbathroom with them.
I’m not in the shower for even five minutes when the water turns cold, further cultivating my irritation. Do these people know our water heater is older than this blessed country?
When I’m done, I rush to my room and throw on some makeup, keeping it as natural as possible. Unfortunately for me, a colony of zits has invaded my forehead. I consider cutting my bangs to hide them, but then decide against it. With my luck, I’ll end up at school sporting a hack job.
I turn to the suitcases I’d shoved in the corner of my room. I can’t wear any of the clothes in there. They’re all wrinkled. I resort to my closet and rifle through the outfits I left behind. Most are winter clothes, which definitely won’t work since my weather app is reporting temperatures in the high nineties today.
The tops I do have aren’t super trendy anymore, but I settle for a coral button-down that allows my lotus charm necklace to peek out. It was a gift from Grams on my tenth birthday, and I rarely ever take it off.
