Today was the worst last day of public education, ever. Yes, I am talking about my horrible first day of senior year in high school, and let me tell you one think: it was absolutely horrifying. Last year was pretty good; I remained invisible, off of the guidance counselor and principal’s radars, and actually got through the year pretty okay. But this year, I could tell that that was all going to change.

Last year, when I was a junior, I was basically invisible, in a social sense. I sat with some people at lunch, barely tried to hold a conversation, and tried to avoid any drama that would draw attention to me. Because if there’s one thing that I have learned in my pretty boring life is that people can’t betray you, if they don’t know you. And that sounded pretty good to me.

But today, I realized the down side of my plan: the people that I sat with last year actually remembered me. That really isn’t much of a problem, for they are pretty nice people. Nice, funny, smart. You can’t really get any more cliché than that. So when they beckoned me to join them at their lunch table, I accepted, still wary of any social activity. They discussed their summers and I sat there, as usual, listening to them. Eating my ham sandwich. That was when I realized something was off: there was a person missing from the usual lunch table.

I looked around to see who it was, but I couldn’t remember. So when the conversation died down, and people had split up into little conversations inside the big conversation, I turned to the person sitting next to me. It was Nicole.

Let’s talk about Nicole Jackman. She was a complete and utter idiot of all types. No offense, but it’s true, and everyone knows it. Her dad is a really well known scientist that discovered the cure to some disease, and that’s why all of the teachers sort of bow down to her father, her mother (a talk show host), her brother (now attending Stanford), and her younger sister (a piano prodigy.) The school system loves everyone except for Nicole herself. Because of two main factors: one, she cannot interpret or remember any information, and two, her personality is basically one straight from death himself. She gets extremely cranky when people don’t listen to her, blocks out any unwanted conversations, despises all teachers and adults, and well, you get the point.

So I did not want to talk to Nicole Jackman. But it was too late. The devil had already noticed me trying to talk to her, great.

“Talk loser, before I lose interest,” she said, not looking up from her phone.

I gulped. “Oh god,” I muttered under my breath. Those two words were the death of me, because there’s another major thing about Nicole Jackman: she’s more religious than a priest.

“What was that beef-brain?” she asked me, now looking up. Staring into her eyes was like staring into fire: it hurt.

“Nothing,” I said quietly.
And the rest of the conversation went a little like this:
Nicole: No, what did you say?
Me: I didn’t say anything.
Nicole: I’m pretty sure you said something, Riley.
Me: No, I’m sorry if you did
Nicole: *voice gets darker and louder* What. Did. You. Say. Riley. Adams.
Me: *looks around cafeteria, sees people starting to notice the conversation* Nothing, I’m sorry.
Nicole: *voice gets darker than pure evil, and much louder* I just want to know, what you said, Riley Adams.
Me: *sees lots of people starting to witness their conversation, a small circle has enveloped my conversation* It was nothing, Nicole.
Nicole: *stands up and walks up to my face, points finger at my nose, crowd starts to ooh and ah* You said something, idiot, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that nice.
And that was when I stood up too, and screamed, “I said, ‘Oh god.’ Nicole. You gonna arrest me, Ms. Religious-Is-My-Middle-Name?” I walked away, and soon everyone was talking about that little cafeteria conversation. Soon everyone knew the name “Riley Adams.”
My social level went from piece of gum under a history desk to piece of gum on the bathroom wall. The only difference was that when you are under a desk, everyone acknowledges the gum but doesn’t see it, but when you are on a bathroom wall, everyone sees and acknowledges you.
From there, my year could only get worse.

After lunch that day, my day had gone from horrible to disastrous, all because of one call from the principal.

Getting called to the principal’s office is different every year. In elementary school, the whole class is joking around with it, oohing and ahing, laughing. In middle school, it’s a little more serious, because everyone knows that middle school is pretty important. Well, at least according to their mothers. But in high school, its like elementary school, but ten times worse because the classes contain more than double the amount of students.

As soon as my name was called, the whole class erupted into chorus.

“Ooh Riley,” Brad, a D- average jock, called out. Everyone joined in the fun.

“You’re in trrouuble,” Casey who was arrested last year for selling drugs to first graders, yelled. Typical Casey.

I left as soon as I could. Throwing my backpack strap around my shoulder and giving a slight nod to Mr. West, our world language teacher. He barely understood basic English commands, so body language was much easier to communicate through.

Mr. Craston, our principal, was waiting at his desk when I got to his office. “Sit down Mr. Adams,” he stated in his usual monotone voice. I took a seat in one of his really tough, apple red chairs. They were worn out at the armrests, and the legs could barely stand. I couldn’t afford to get comfortable in this trap of a chair. Mr. Craston leaned forward, placing his hands on the edge of his desk, which was piled with papers and files, probably a scare tactic. “I called you down today, Riley, because I would like to talk to you.”

My mind started to overflow with possible situations he would like to discuss with me. Only one stood out in my mind: the cafeteria conversation from earlier. I cleared my throat, my voice was quiet, “What-” I gulped. “What about, sir?” Oh no, should I have said sir? Was that too formal? Well, too late now.

“I have to ask you for a favor, Riley,” he replied, his voice getting a little lighter than his usual robot self.

Good, he didn’t hear about the incident yesterday. Maybe I’ll be able to survive this last year. “Okay…”

“There is a new girl this year, her name is Hailey. And she just moved from,” Please don’t say France, or China, or Romania or some country I don’t know the language of. “Vermont. And she doesn’t know her way around the school, or anything about here. So, since you have been living here since kindergarten and you both have almost the same exact classes, I was wondering if you could just guide her around the school for a few weeks, and teach her about town. Also, if you could have her sit with you and your friends for a few weeks too, that would be great. Just, make her feel welcome. Can you do it?”

“Yeah, I guess,” my voice wavered.

“Great! Well, I’ll see you around Mr. Adams. Have a nice day.” I left the office, and walked back to class. It felt like I was stuck in a dream, and I just wanted to leave. Realizing that there were still twenty-ish minutes left of class, I decided to go where I could always find myself: the supply closet.

Pause the story because I need to clarify the supply closet meaning. The supply closet in the senior wing is right between English and history, so nobody really notices its there. It all started when I was a freshman, and I felt so alone. (because that was the year my mother left me, but I’ll get into that later) So I wanted to just be alone for a little while and found this sanctuary. It’s extremely cramped, smells like disinfectant, and has a damp floor, but it’s where I get to be me. I realized that year that I felt the most safe when in small spaces and not at all claustrophobic. So sometimes I would just leave class “to go to the bathroom” and just sit there. But soon I became bored of sort of living the Harry Potter life (where he sits in his little closet under the stairs and does nothing because he is forced to, you know the story), so I brought writing material.

The best thing about writing is that it never changes. It’s always going to be words written by someone on a piece of paper. The style and words may change but the essence doesn’t. I sit in the supply closet in my high school to write. That’s not that weird of a sentence. Okay, continue with the story.

But today, I went there to think. My mind was basically a tornado, it started to spin slowly and only took in small thoughts, but as it raged on, it grew bigger and started to destroy all of my thoughts. I was confused out of my mind. Literally.

Two things really confused me about what just happened. The first one was that why would someone transfer to a whole new school senior year. I mean, I’m guessing that it was probably because of her parents, but seriously, moving senior year is so unusual. You’ve lived somewhere all your life, completed 11/12ths of your schooling there, but then all of a sudden, it all changes. You’ve built solid relationships with basically the whole community and then one day your parents are telling you that the family is moving to a different state.

The second thing, which was even more confusing than the first, was the fact that Mr. Craston chose me to show her around. Me. Riley Adams. Socially awkward, friendless, kind of dark (sometimes extremely dark), Riley Adams. Out of the hundred or so seniors in our school, he singled out me. And I know that most people would be thrilled to be singled out, to be able to add that to their college profile or something. And I guess I’m thrilled. Okay, not exactly thrilled. Okay, not even a little excited, but hear me out. I’m not exactly excited to help a new student because I can honestly do nothing for her. Mr. Craston had requested a lot from me, and I was fine with everything he was saying, until he asked about the lunch situation. The problem with sitting with me and my friends (or “friends”) is that, as witnessed with Nicole, the people I sit with at lunch, aren’t really my friends. I just sit with them everyday because if I sat alone, even more attention would be drawn to me. I honestly don’t even know how that even works in a high school cafeteria, but it does.

Also, if I were a new high school senior, I would hate to be shown around by the awkward kid. And not that I’m actually “awkward” it’s just that I look awkward, and in high school looks are everything.

Why Mr. Craston? Why me?

That day was the absolute worst, but I’m glad it was the last first day of high school I ever had to live through. The bell got louder over the summer, so when it rang to signal the end of my session in prison, I literally jumped out of my seat. Thank god everybody jumped a few feet as well.

I rushed out of the building, my feet sprinting across the field, my lungs filling with fresh oxygen. The good thing about being six feet tall is that you can see above the heads of everyone. It helps you run faster, too. So I dashed around the corner of the high school, and ran for about ten minutes straight to my apartment.

Pause the story once more, because my apartment is a whole other story that has to be said eventually. I live alone, specifically in 2-C. Also, I should have mentioned this earlier, but just to clarify, I AM OF THE MALE GENDER. Thank you. My mother walked out on my sister and I when I was graduating eighth grade and my sister was finishing sixth. After my dad died when I was in sixth grade, my mother couldn’t handle anything, she just gave up. That’s the gist of it, but I’ll go into specifics later.

So, freshman year, I’m basically homeless for about a week, wandering the streets, using up my savings to survive. That was until I found Samantha. Samantha was 27 years old back then and owned an apartment building that she rented out to people that are “of age”. I am not of age right now, so I was definitely not of age three years ago. But she saw me one day, on the bench outside of her building, and asked where I lived.

“I really shouldn’t be answering you, since it really isn’t that safe to give private information to strangers,” I started, “but, since I really don’t care, I’ll tell you. I am currently living on this bench.” She gave me a look. “Don’t believe me? I even named the bench. Meet Apple. Her glow is magnificent, don’t you think? This is probably the closest thing I will ever get to a girlfriend.” Her face grew worried.

“Come inside um, what’s your name again?” she asked me.

“I didn’t say,” I paused, and quickly studied her. Sam had a head of artificial, dark pink hair that was held up in a messy hair tie. I could see the roots of her natural blonde hair starting to come out. Her face was extremely pale, and had two piercings by her eyebrow, and one that encircled her upper ear. She looked more of an average teenager than a serial killer, so I decided to trust her. “It’s Riley. Riley Adams.”

“Well, Riley, how about we get to know each other a little better? I own Building 240 down the street,” she said and knew that I was starting to feel hesitant. “I swear that I won’t kidnap you and drown you in a bathtub.” She paused and looked me in the eye. “Promise.” So I nodded my head and walked with her. When I stood up, I realized how short Sam was. I towered at least a solid half foot above her.

When I reached 240, I was extremely surprised. With a girl like Sam owning an apartment building, you would probably think that this building was falling apart, dirty, had some relationship to illegal drugs, you get the point. But 240 was absolutely beautiful. It was a rustic, three-story brick building that had little white accents everywhere.

“Wow,” I exclaimed quietly.

“Surprised?” she responded. “Come on in kid.”

And that sparked a relationship between a freshman high school student with, as I found out soon enough, a punk rock enthusiast/apartment owner. I told her the whole story about my life up to this moment, and I could tell that she felt extreme sympathy. And, when people are in this mood they make very rushed, and sometimes remarkable, decisions. Samantha decided to give me an apartment in her building. But, there were two major problems about this.

One: I had absolutely no money. None. And without money, you can’t really go far. But, as we toured her building, we found a really small room on the third floor that only had a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small room. So she let me live there since she knew that nobody else would ever want to.

Two: I was not, well at least legally speaking, allowed to live on my own. But Sam had a friend (who’s name I am not allowed to speak of because he may or may not do many illegal things) who made (okay, so this is very illegal) fake licenses and ID’s. And within a matter of days, I got my first fake ID. Which really isn’t a celebratory type of occasion, but it was still exciting. Apparently, I was 23 years old.

So three years later, here I am. Sam has turned into the older sister I never had. And that is the apartment situation. Okay continue with the plot.

So I rushed home, and immediately set my backpack down on the floor, ran to my room, and took a thirty-minute nap. When I woke up, I ate a bowl of Froot Loops, which I actually hate the taste of, but I was hungry and it was all I had. Then I called my sister.

Now here is where I must pause again, because you probably have no idea who my sister is. And you probably are very confused. So, meet Alice Adams, my sister.

Alice is two years younger than me, was born on January 2, and is basically a girly-er, shorter me. She has a lighter hair color than me and greener eyes than me, but everything else physical was like me. That is physical Alice.

And now to confront the elephant in the room, Alice does not live with me, or even see me often for a number of reasons. The first, main one is going to cover my whole life, so eh, might as well tell my life story.

Once upon a time, seven years ago, I was in the middle of my fifth grade year. That year was great. My father was talking to me, my sister, and mother more, my mother got a new job, my sister (in third grade at the time) was going to start a new dance, and I was getting all A’s for once. That was until December 16th. December 16th was the day everything changed.

So picture a fifth grade me, at a basketball game, doing basketball stuff. And as I finish changing back into normal clothes, after the game, I hear my coach talking to someone on the phone. And, you see, in fifth grade I was crazy curious about everything. So, typical me decides to eavesdrop on the conversation, but that ends up not exactly working out as planned when my coach sees me. But hey, at least I tried. He beckoned me to see him. I felt sweat drip down from my forehead to my shirt, whether it was because I was nervous or just sweaty I don’t precisely know.

I’ve never been much of a religious kid. My family celebrated Christmas, but all we did was get presents. Nothing more. But all of a sudden, at that moment, I started to pray that my coach wasn’t going to kick me in the shins or something.

“Dear god. I’m so sorry that this is the first time I’ve contacted you personally, but hi,” I prayed in my head. My feet walked toward the muscular, sweaty man ready to pound me to a pulp. “Please, can you just do something real quick for me. If I die right now, make sure that my sister doesn’t touch any of my stuff. And if she touches any of it, I give you permission to punish her. I don’t really know how to end this conversation but yeah. Thanks again.”

By then I was literally two feet away from him. His face had this weird emotion painted on, it was like a darkish, moody, saddened look. And in that moment, I almost peed my pants.

I searched for saliva in my mouth. Clearing my throat, I began to speak.

“Ye-yes, co-coa-coach?” I managed to whisper. “What-What’s up?” My efforts to talk in a cool and casual voice failed. He brought his face to my ear. Please don’t scream. Please don’t scream.

“Go to the main office. Good season,” he stated quietly. His hand patted my back gently. “I’ll see you next year Adams.” And with that, I picked up my bag, and sprinted to the office.

“Well that was something,” I mumbled as I ran through the white halls. The next ten minutes were a blur.

All I remember was one minute my mom was rushing me into her car, where my aunt Christie was waiting in the driver’s seat, and the next she was crying. One minute I was in the car, soaking into the silence, and my sweat, the next I was, apparently, sprinting into the Walker Hospital.

The Walker Hospital is the major, and only, hospital in my town. I was born there, my sister was born there, basically if you have been living in this town for most of your life, you were most likely born there. They renovated the main building last year; now everything is a creepy white, and the floor tiles make so much noise whenever stepped on. And they renewed the seat cushions in the waiting room. But they are already incredibly dirty.

My aunt Christie was basically pushing me into the hospital as my mother was rushing in. I only saw her face for a second, but I could see her makeup running and her complexion was a light red.

Christie had me sit down on the ugly cushions. The one I was sitting on was warm. Three and half minutes later, I, like most ten year olds, got bored. So, since Christie and my mother had disappeared into one of the rooms, and the lady at the front desk was texting someone, and was getting very involved into the conversation, I wandered down the creepy, white hallway.

I looked in each room, most were empty, and found that they all looked exactly the same. A painting over the reclining bed, a small desk by the bed, and a television hanging on the wall opposite the bed. Then I came upon room number seven. My head poked inside, and saw something very surprising: people. Not just any people, my mother, my aunt and a man lying in the bed. Doctors and nurses hovered over the man, talking to each other in worried tones.

“Mom?” I quietly asked. “Aunt Christie?” They turned around. And, no offense, but my mother looked like a gorilla that had just experienced intense allergic reaction despite her rather thin frame. I stepped inside the room, not that anyone even acknowledged my presence. My mother was holding the man’s hand, tears streamed down her face and onto the sheets. The doctors told her that everything was going to be fine, her sister held her other, not wet hand.
And that was when I realized who that man was: my father.
I began to speak but was interrupted by a sharp noise and a flat line.
+++

All I could hear was that constant beep in my head. I couldn’t hear the screams from my mother, or the sobbing from Alice, who came a few minutes after via grandfather. I couldn’t hear my mother shouting at the doctors, I couldn’t hear my mother shouting at me. Her finger was pointed straight at me, at my heart. Her words were loud, but the noise in my head was louder. I saw Christie pull my mother away, I saw Alice wanting a hug from her older brother, I saw the front desk lady still texting furiously, but I no longer could see my father.
It seemed that when the heart monitor went flat, when his brain signals died, when the blood was no longer pumping through his body, he disappeared completely. I could no longer see his strong smile, nor hear his reassuring words. I could no longer feel the warm embraces he would give me when I felt sad, nor could I feel the love he always had for me. All I could feel was lonely.
+++

We carried on like that for a few years. The dining table would be forever one short. My sister grew older, taller, wiser. I grew older, taller, wiser. But my mother seemed to stay in the same state of shock. And I hadn’t realized how bad that could be until the middle school graduation ceremony.

That day had been a good one. No homework, an extended lunch period, a break between classes, I could not ask for more. And as the evening ceremony neared, I began to feel pure happiness.

The ceremony took place in the auditorium, instead of the field because of the rain, and the guests were to sit in the bleachers opposite the stage. As the music started to play, we started to walk to the stage. I took my seat, wearing a green robe, and gazed into the audience. I immediately found my sister, who was wearing a pink sundress, and my grandparents, who were carrying boxes of tissues and cameras. God they looked like super tourists.

I scanned the crowd once more, searching for my mother’s long, thin face, yet I couldn’t find her. No harm done, I half expected her to show up late. The next hour was a bore. The principal made speeches, star students made speeches, crying eighth graders made speeches. And all through that I kept my eyes locked on the steel doors at the side of the auditorium. Sappy music started to play and the super intendant of our town started to call names up to the podium.

We’ve been mastering our stride to the podium for a week now. And I knew that I had to walk slowly to the stand, give a slight nod, a slight smile, a slight shake of the hand, and then walk confidently, but still at a turtle’s pace, back. I knew that they would call the names alphabetically by last name, which is, when you think about it, a really abnormal way of listing. But all I was really thinking about was my mother being an hour and a half late. So when the superintendent called my name, I was startled to see that I was already walking. I could hear hands slapping hands in a manner of clapping, I even heard Alice cheer a little in that voice that hasn’t changed since the third grade. And I could see my grandparents taking a picture of me every step I took, even though I was only walking. And I felt happy, for I was finally leaving that maximum prisoner facility, but I felt something missing.

Yeah, my mother hadn’t really been the best mom in the whole world the past years, but I at least expected her to be here. Oh well. I think my grandparents took enough pictures to last a lifetime. I nodded at the esteemed guests behind the little stand, I shook hands with people I had never seen before, I slapped on a big, fake smile, and walked back. I was officially on parole.

The ceremony finally ended and I joined my sister and grandparents by the chairs.

“Oh, Riley,” my grandmother practically whispered. She pinched my cheek like all stereotypical grandmothers do. “I am so proud,” she sniffled, “of my little Riley-Poo.”

“Good job, kiddo,” my grandfather told me. He slapped my back hard and gave a really loud Santa Claus chuckle.

“Riley-Poooo, oh Riley-Poooo,” a small voice behind me said. The obnoxious voice came from the one and only Alice. “Come here my little Riley-Poo. Let me pinch your cheeks and bake you a chocolate cake.”

I turned around as fast as I could and picked up my little sister and spun her around. Her giggles and little snorts made me happy. “You proud of your big brother, squirt?” She kept on laughing. I put her down so she could catch her breath.

“How-“ she took in a breath of air. “How- how did those school people even allow you to graduate.” I gave her a sharp, yet joking, look. “Just kidding. Just kidding… Riley-poo!” Alice took off to the room next door, where refreshments were being served.

I was too tired to chase her around the school, and the long robe would probably have me on my face within a matter of minutes. So I stayed put. And then I realized that I was still missing something. I tapped my grandmother’s shoulder, who was busy taking pictures of the chairs. The chairs.

“Yes honey.”

“Grandma, where’s my mother?”

She nudged my grandfather “subtly” and gave him a look. No, the look.

“Oh, she couldn’t make it Riley. She- um- she had some very important- um- business! business to attend to.” Just the way my grandfather said the first business already meant trouble. And my mom was the one to get into constant trouble.

But it was my graduation day; nothing could bring me down. I carried on. I found Alice, vanilla crumbs and sprinkles covered her mouth, which was spread into a devilish grin. I tussled her hair and walked toward my friends, who looked as though they were starting a cake throwing war.

“Yooooooo, Riley. My main man!” It was Robert Flan. He sounded drunk. “How you doing? How you been man!” Yeah, he sounded really drunk. “I haven’t seen you in like forevvver!”

“Rob, we have three classes together everyday. We saw each other yesterday.” He slapped my back playfully and laughed in a booming voice.

His mouth was centimeters away from my ear. “I’m just playing, mannn.” He came closer. “I’m just playing.” His breath smelled of something that was surely not fruit punch.

“Okay. Um, nice seeing you. See you next year? Okay, bye.” And with that I sprinted in the other direction.

I walked through the hallways for a while, alone. It was nice. I looked through the windows of some of my old classes, smiled at passing people, got a last look at the disgusting prison bathrooms we were forced to use. And then, as I neared the corner by the auditorium, I heard some very familiar voices. They were both female, or they were both male with very high-pitched voices and very high laughs. One of them surely belonged to my grandmother, the other, maybe one of my past teachers. I leaned my ear against the wall to “slyly” eavesdrop on their conversation. Why? Because I had nothing better to do.

“You take care now, I’ll see you around Marlene.” Marlene was my grandmother. “Wait, do you know what happened to that boy’s mother?” Now this was getting interesting.

“Oh yes, tragic. I feel great sympathy for the boy. I cannot believe that his mother just left! And right before his graduation!”

“I heard that she wasn’t right in the head. But she could have at least given him a goodbye. Poor child, all alone. Did you know the family at all?”

“Actually quite well. The woman was married to my son! I never liked her, not one bit. I knew that she was going to do something like this someday. And that boy is my grandson! I have no idea how I’m going to break it to him.”

“Lure him in with a dessert or something, my grandchildren always fall for a chocolate cupcake.” They laughed.

“Will do, well I best be on my way! I have to get the children all ready to leave, and then break some horrible news. See you around Jen.”

“Nice talking!”

And while my grandmother walked away to tell my sister and I, she had no idea that she just had.
+++

The following weeks went by slowly. After my grandparents told us for the “first time,” we knew that everything was going to change. They left after a week, still worried about leaving us alone.

“Are you absolutely positive that you’ll be fine?” Alice nodded her head. “Are you absolutely positive that you’ll be fine?” I nodded my head. “Okay. Kisses for grandma!” We kissed her cheeks. “Call your old grandpa if you need anything. Stay safe! Love you!”

“Love you too grandma,” Alice and I said in unison. Car doors slammed, engines got warmed up, last minute waves were given, and then Alice and I retreated inside. For a month, the same routine was used everyday:

7:00 AM: Riley delivers newspapers around town, Alice wakes up.
10:00 AM: Alice goes to friend’s house for the day, Riley eats a bowl of Cheerios.
10:30 AM: Riley plans the rest of the day
12:30 PM: Riley cleans house a little
2:00 PM: Riley eats cold pizza/pasta/chicken/any left overs from night before
4:00 PM: Riley takes a nap
6:00 PM: Riley orders pizza/anything that can be delivered/eats left overs
9:00 PM: Alice comes home, greets Riley, goes straight to room/bed
10:00 PM: Riley goes to sleep


And during this month, where the schedule went a little like this, you can imagine why I felt like a housewife in a teenage boy’s body.

August came closer, and I realized that I needed to pay bills and all that jazz. But there were two problems:
A: I did not have a single clue how to do it.
B: I did not have cash

And eventually, as the middle of August appeared, so did bills. And what I have realized is that bills are the worst. So I had to tell someone about it, or else Alice and I would probably be living on the streets in a week or two. Who better to tell then my aunt Christie!

So I called her up on the home phone and had a long discussion. She agreed to help my sister and I, and said that she would be over in an hour. I felt happy for the first time in my long months of being a stay-at-home-month.

But what I did not know about my aunt Christie is that over a course of years in which I have not seen her, she became a different person. The knock on my door was loud, and it echoed through the empty house. When I pulled the door open, I saw a whole different person. I did not see the thin-boned, kind aunt that bought me itchy sweaters for Christmas. What I saw was a whole new person. This new person enjoyed smoking and blowing puffs of smoke into my face, liked to wear tons of thrift store jewelry, and wore enough makeup to cover an elephant. She looked gross, and her smell was even worse. It consisted of a large mix of perfumes, most of them overused, with a hint of sweat, filth, and cigarette smoke. What Christie had become was a monster.

“Alice!” she called. Her high heels dragged mud through the door which meant more work for me, the housekeeper. She called for Alice, “Darling! Come give your favorite auntie a big hug!” Alice came running down the steps, obviously excited to see her aunt. But as she got closer to Christie, her look of awe was replaced by one of confusion. She lightly hit my chest with her elbow, as if to signal me to ask her what happened to her face. But I was still in shock of what happened to her.

“Hi aunt Christie,” Alice politely said. She nudged my ribcage.

“How have you, er, have you been?” I asked in the friendliest tone possible.

“Alice, have you missed me?” Christie asked, oblivious to the question I vaguely threw at her face.

My sister looked at me. Her facial expressions were asking me, “How do I reply to that?”

“So how are you going to help us?” I blurted out.

“Riley, you have gotten so rude. But, I’m going to help you by taking some weight off of your shoulders.” I gave her a puzzled look. “Riley, you are so unaware of what is happening.” Oh really. “I’m taking little Alice away from you!”

Alice and I looked at each other simultaneously. “WHAT?” we both practically screamed in her face.

“Yep! So pack your bags mushy,” she pinched Alice’s cheek, which was already wet from tears. “Come on, get to it.”

“How come you aren’t taking me as well?” I wondered aloud.

“Because you, Riley Adams, are a very dislikable person. And I hate your guts.” Subtle, aunt Christie, very subtle. “You are going to take all of your precious belongings, put them in a box, and then vacate your home immediately. Because that is much easier than having the IRS kick you out, believe me.” She reached into her purse and pulled out ten dollars. “This will probably take care of a bus ticket somewhere, or get you a sandwich, or I don’t know. Now get your belongings, help Alice pack her belongings, send Alice to my car, and then leave.” Christie walked out of the door and to her car.

“Riley, I don’t want to leave you!” Alice sniffled. “Please, please.” We both knew that there was no way to convince Christie, especially after she changed into a new personality, so I just stroked her smooth, wavy hair.

“Let’s go start packing.” I took her to her room and for the next hour, we cried and remembered the past: two very common activities.

I gave her my cell phone, and said that I could easily get another one. And I instructed her to call me everyday, and visit me as often as possible. And as the hours started to tick away, I realized that sooner or later, Alice had to live a new life with Christie.

We hugged one last time; I gave her a kiss on the top of her head. She got in the car, I waved to her, tears had already started to pour down my cheeks. I called out, “See you later alligator!” This had been a tradition in my family for years, my father would say it to us as he left for work in the morning, on my first day of school my mother said it to me as I walked through the kindergarten classroom door, I whispered it to Alice right before her first piano concert. Those four words had become a part of our lifestyle.

“In a while crocodile,” Alice replied, remembering the times we would repeat that phrase over and over. The car pulled out of the driveway, Alice waved, I waved, she drove away, I stood there. And while I wanted to get back inside, for it was getting to the point in the day where everything is covered with a muggy fog, but all I could do was stand there. Stand still and scream.
+++

A few days later, I met Sam. A few days after that, I was settled. A few hours after that, I called Alice. We spoke regularly from then on, she visits very rarely, but calls often. And to this day we still speak every week, and to this day I still remember that day. The day my life lost a purpose, because without family, without people to care about, who am I?

The next day I woke up, took a glance at my alarm clock, and then buried my head in my pillow. It was 5:50 AM, so I still had a solid five minutes before the alarm sounded. But after those five minutes, my alarm clock would buzz, and progress to get louder, and louder, and louder until my whole building would be vibrating. So I just sat up in bed, and stared evilly at the little machine until it rung.

After that I did my normal routine of first going to the bathroom, taking a shower, brushing my teeth, and all that jazz. Then I go to my kitchen, which is about one big step away from my room, grab a glass of water and take my pills. Ever since my father died, the psychologist prescribed three medications, which might be illegal considering only doctors can prescribe, and my psychologist barely helped my condition. I strongly doubt that she was even licensed. But ever since then, I had been taking three pills: the pink one, the long one, and the circular, striped one. I take the pink one and the long one in the morning and the circular, striped one at night right before I sleep. They all taste like mud with a hint of paprika. I hate pills.

Then I stuffed my backpack with all of the forms that were given out last night to be signed by parents. So I guess you could say that I stayed up last night signing forms. And finally, I locked my apartment door, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and ran downstairs. According to my watch, which I shouldn’t really trust considering its been through hell and back over the years, I had thirteen minutes to get to school. So, if I sprinted and disregarded all traffic lights and stop signs, I could make it to school with time to spare. And lucky for me, it was 6:15, which was basically rush hour around my street. I started to run.

I show up to the main office with twenty-six seconds to spare, well at least according to the correct clock that towers over the building. I sighed with relief.

“Riley Adams?” Mr. Craston’s secretary asked me quietly.

“Is. My. Name,” I replied. I crouched at my knees, holding my stomach. If this is a sign from God that I should exercise more, it’s working.

“Follow me,” she said. Her Russian accent was as thick as my uncle’s beard. Considering that my uncle had a slight beard and not a thick beard, she barely had an accent. “She’s in the room,” she gestured her hand to the guidance counselor’s office as if she were directing me to my death.

“Thank you,” I replied. As she shut the door I heard her groan. Unlike most people, I consider the feelings of Mr. Craston’s secretary. Just the fact that I don’t know her name says something. And she probably hates her job, I mean, she came from Russia to live the “American Dream”. For most people, that dream is crushed as soon as you step off of the plane, or in older cases, the dirty boat you’ve been living on for weeks. So I feel bad for Mr. Craston’s secretary. I vow to know her name.


When I stepped inside the guidance office, I saw that it was unusually small. A lot of people in my school have drug abuse problems and addictions, you know, the usual, so I would think that the person that’s helping them should work in a large area. But honestly, this room looked more like a bathroom than a soothing place to work out problems.

I also noticed that the back of the guidance counselor was strikingly attractive. That’s why those freshmen were looking through the window to this room the other day.

“Hmm, hmm,” I heard someone clear his or her voice behind me. “Are you Riley?” I was scared to turn around because the voice sounded like one from a fight club. The guidance counselor spun around. Wow. She was young. I had to turn around sooner or later. So I slowly started to look back from the feet up.

This MMA fighter apparently had height because of his shoes, which had three-inch heels. Also, he enjoyed wearing pink dresses and had long, brown hair. That was when I realized that he was a girl. Her face was cloaked in makeup, like the majority of the girls in my school, and her voice was as deep and angry as, well, I guess you can’t really put into proportion how deep it was. Let’s just say, it was deeper than a very good analogy (unlike the one I just wrote). And it was angrier than when Stuck-Up-Margaret didn’t win junior prom queen last year and Caroline, who passed away this summer from leukemia, won instead. Margaret was furious. God I hate Stuck-Up-Margaret.

“Hello,” I quietly said to Ms. Fight Club Leader. She scared the living daylights out of me.

“Riley, I’m Ms. Hills,” Extremely proper. “I’m the guidance counselor.” My mouth fell open.

“So that’s why this room is such a horrible working environment. Oh, and that’s why nobody ever comes to the guidance counselor anymore.” I thought to myself. But if that was the guidance counselor, then who was-

“Hi, I’m Hailey,” the pretty girl said as she reached out her hand. “I’m new here.” I tried to refrain from screaming, “YOU’RE HOT.” Thank the heavens that my mouth listens to my brain. I took her hand in wholeheartedly and started to shake it ferociously.

“Hey, I’m Riley,” I tried to act casually, but reaching to lean against the table and then missing the table by at least two feet, eliminated all chances of a casual greeting. Welcome to my life. She laughed, we laughed, Ms. Hills had a “why-do-I-have-to-work-here-I-hate-my-life-god-kill-me-now” face on. She looked more like a half human, half monkey than ever.

“I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Adams,” Ms. Hills said. She clunked her feet out the door, which she slammed shut a few seconds after. I would say that Ms. Hills and I have just the greatest relationship.

For the next hour we swapped schedules, which were almost identical except for one class, walked around the school, and had the most awkward conversations. Like ever.
Here’s an example:
Riley: *gestures to classroom* So this is world language
Hailey: Cool
Weird pause
Riley: We have world language seventh period
Hailey: Yeah
Riley: The teacher doesn’t speak English very well
Light, awkward laugh from Riley and Hailey
Hailey: Yeah
Riley: So
Hailey: Nice
Riley: Yeah
Even weirder extremely long silence
Riley: So, let’s go to the next class
Hailey: Sweet

See what I mean? So our conversations usually consisted of facts about teachers and classrooms via me and forced laughs or one word replies via her. When the bell rang to signal the start of homeroom, I was half thrilled and half scared. I brought her to her locker, which was on the other side of the hallway, and instructed her to find me in homeroom.

Here’s the thing about homeroom: it’s basically walking into the show Survivor. There are two teams, or two social classes. The first one consists of the really quiet, but also really smart students (I like to call them the butter knives because they don’t seem that big or important, but are actually really dangerous). The second one consists of the really loud, extremely fit, not as nearly as smart “students” (I like to call them the mosquitos because, to be honest, they pretty much are evil, blood sucking creatures). I think we all know butter knives and mosquitos. And basically, every morning, the classroom is basically an island and our teacher, Mrs. Bricket, is basically Jeff Probst. Except A: Mrs. Bricket doesn’t participate in Survivor, instead she sits at her desk and texts Mr. Larson (I think they might be having an affair, but who knows) and B: Mrs. Bricket isn’t extremely attractive to the female type. The butter knives sit in the corner and study like college level information and the mosquitos throw like toilet paper and M&M’s across the room. So it’s not like people are fighting other people and are getting voted out of homeroom to live in the hallway or anything, but in some sense, it is.

And where am I in this game show? I guess you can call me an executive producer because when things get rough and people want information, I stay hidden and keep my mouth shut. Or you can call me a lettuce leaf, because that’s basically the same thing.

So yeah, I’m pretty freaking scared for Hailey. Because if I were new and walked in on these “people” I would look for someone like Riley, someone that is supposed to help me in these situations. But Riley will be hiding behind a garbage can or maybe behind the desk, making no noise and curling up in a little ball. That’s another reason that I should not have been assigned this helper position, but then again, its not like the butter knives would do anything. And I am one hundred ten thousand percent sure that the mosquitos would be eating her alive as soon as she stepped through the door. I live a taxing life.

I hurried to my locker, which was hard considering it was 6:50, which was rush hour for my school, got my pencils and a piece of gum. (This is a time when I kind of wish I were a senior druggie so that I could get my hands on some heroin or something to calm my nerves. But god knows that a kid like me could never get away with something like that.) I sprinted as fast as my weak, but long, legs could, weaved my way through obnoxious teenagers, and finally made it to homeroom. It was scary that I was so early; even the butter knives weren’t there yet.

I took a seat in the back row and put my backpack on the seat next to mine to reserve it for Hailey. I felt like a little kid spreading his or her arms on the seat next to them for their best friend. A few seconds later the butter knives started to neatly file through the door and take their seats in the front, right corner of the room. Soon enough, the mosquitos clumped together and pushed their way to the back and front left corners. Thank the heavens that I chose the right corner (no pun intended.)

Eventually Mrs. Bricket showed up, her eyes glued to her little four inch screen like always, and finally Hailey clumsily fell through the doorway. All eyes turned toward her. The jocks were checking her out, like they always do to new meat, and the other, female half of the mosquitos were smacking their pieces of gum loudly and giving looks of disapproval. Jealousy stung each and every one of their faces. The butter knives only lost their gaze for a millisecond, and then they turned back to their notebooks. I have always admired their way of staying focused even in the hardest times.

“Hailey,” I attempted to catch her attention, “Hailey, psst, over here.” She looked at me and smiled. It looked like a smile of relief. Then she walked toward me, her boots clacking on the floor.

“Hey,” she said. Her eyes wandered around the room as if to analyze what was happening. “So this is homeroom?”

“Pretty rough, right?”

“I expected worse.” Huh, maybe overthinking is only a characteristic of some people. Then again, realization of other people’s feelings is only a characteristic of some people as well.

“Well, this is how it’s been like since the beginning of freshman year. You know, the two territories, the oblivious-to-life teacher,” she nodded her head slightly, still taking in the information. I gestured to the front, right corner and explained the layout of homeroom. When I finished, her mind was still wandering around the room, lost. I waved my hand slightly over her gaze. Hailey snapped back to life.

“Oh. Cool,” she said as she looked towards me. I have always hated direct eye contact, and this moment was no exception of my hatred. “So, which group do you belong to?”

I tried to subtly break eye contact, but I was locked on her pale blue eyes. They appeared to be blue at first, but as I looked closer, I saw that they were actually a mixture of blue and green. The two colors swirled together, mixing perfectly around her pupils, which grew bigger and smaller by the second as they focused and unfocused. Her upper eyelashes, which were obviously enhanced with the chemicals found in whatever girl’s use these days to look like Barbie dolls, brushed against her bottom ones like a well oiled, dirty-blonde machine. I was spiraling out of my mind. I stopped my fixation with her eyelashes and decided to answer her question.

“I belong to neither,” I replied hastily. She looked confused. “Let me explain. I found it much easier to belong to my own group. If I join the butter knives, some of my mutual mosquito “pals” would turn against me. If I join the mosquitos, the butter knives will think I’m a traitor. So I remain neither,” She still looked confused. “It’s just like politics,” I started to explain. “You belong to the Democrats, your best friends turn against you. You belong to the Republicans, your grandmother won’t speak to you for the rest of her life, which at this point, should be for about fifteen more years.” The way her eyebrows started to point up slightly gave me a signal that my dark humor would never really settle with her. “Just, if you need to join a group, ease into their inner circle of trust. Don’t just sit down with them at lunch all of a sudden, spark little conversations, laugh at jokes, listen thoughtfully. To become a member of their pack, whether it’s the mosquitos or the butter knives, you have to be invited. Or you can always just be a drifter, like me. There are more of us out there.”

“Okay. Shouldn’t we be getting to class?” I checked my untrustworthy watch. I then checked the big clock above Mrs. Bricket’s desk. They both said that we were going to be late if we didn’t hurry to first period.

“Let’s run.”
+++

The rest of the day had ups and downs. Here is a sloppy list of pros and cons of being a new kid’s buddy:
PROS:
•
You have an excuse for being late/not doing ___________
•
Teachers who you’ve known for three years finally know your name
•
You have a new friend
CONS:
•
You have to introduce that person e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e y-o-u g-o
•
You have to introduce that person to your lunch table, and because of my current lunch table position, that was even more annoying
•
You have to teach that person everything about school/how to do stuff/homework/school policies
•
Teachers who you’ve known for three years finally know your name
•
You have a new friend

But all in all, my last second day of school wasn’t that bad. At least it was much better than my last first day of school. I couldn’t wait to call Alice when I got home. I wondered what she would think about my day.

The following is 100% true. Including all of my thoughts. Just keep in mind that I go through even darker phases as it gets colder. And since the following discusses my life from September through December, I think you know what to expect. Yeah. Read.

September was good. And I mean that in the simplest way possible. It was good. I helped Hailey get accustomed to the school system and discovered a lot about her within the two weeks of school I had in September. These things were rather shallow; such as I discovered that she had a book tooth. But not the normal type of book tooth that most people, like me, have (the type of tooth that gets infected with one book and suddenly his or her life revolves around this one book and all of a sudden you have a shrine in your room for the author of this book). Nope, Hailey had a rare book tooth: the informational one.

Having an addiction to informational books is very uncommon, so uncommon that some even categorize it into a mental disorder. Hailey has a laptop, like most people in my cliché-snobby-rich town do, and often she will sit in the library all of study hall staring at that screen, web searching the history of my town. Which actually is the least interesting town in the world. I live in a little town on the outskirts of Boston, and because Boston is so big and attracts so much attention, nobody ever bothers to come to little Upper Qreek one mile away from it. (I strongly believe that the person who named our town did not think twice about checking for the correct spelling of Creek. HOW DOES SOMEONE SPELL CREEK WITH A Q LIKE WHAT?) Nothing historical has ever happened in Upper (stupid) Qreek, which is rather surprising since like everything in the American Revolution happened in Boston (well not really, but you get the point), and believe me, nobody important would think twice about living in a town that has a spelling mistake within the name of the town. I sure don’t. And since my town doesn’t even have a Wikipedia page, which is extremely shocking since basically everything is on that website now, I’d think that Hailey finished uncovering the roots of Upper Qreek before September ended. Then, she would most likely continue to the history of people in my town.

The thing about those people is that they are all the same. All of the girls are backstabbers that constantly talk in super high voices that are “cute” to the jocks in my grade, but in my opinion, they’re creepy as hell. Just imagine coming home one day and you hear a creaking noise. Nobody is home but you. You grab your iPhone and turn on the flashlight option with the new IOS-7 update and start to gaze around the front of the house. “Hello?” you ask. Nobody replies. A floorboard makes the sound of a dying hyena. You gingerly tiptoe into the kitchen. The pantry door is open. “Hello? Anybody there?” you ask once more. Nobody replies. Your feet start to slowly make their way out of the room when all of a sudden you sense a presence behind you. Your back turns around so fast that it cracks. You think to yourself, “God I’m old.” Once turned you see someone starting to emerge from the pantry. The darkness cloaks the figure, making him or her invisible. “Wh-who are you?”

A high cackle fills the room. “I’m your worst nightmare,” a voice that sounds like its been sucking the helium from a balloon for an hour straight replies.

“Nooooo!” you scream as your throat gets slit by a teenage girl in high heels with a mouse like voice.

Pretty creepy, huh? Okay back to describing my stereo-typical grade. The other 50% of my grade consists of male athletes. They suck the fun out of fundamental physical education. And now you’re thinking, “Why would athletes make physical education a boring activity?” Honestly, I have no idea, they just do. Maybe because they are overkill sports enthusiasts that get so into every little game we play. Maybe because they make fun of the few people in my class that aren’t star basketball players, me included. Maybe because they are obnoxious, hormonal, stuck-up, wealthy brats that get everything they want. Maybe because all of the female teachers love them because they have muscles the size of hot air balloons. Maybe because they are shallow, D average “students” that will get nowhere after graduation day. Maybe because they go into these horrible evil mood swings that have them destroy everything in their wake. But I’m just spitting out random ideas; who knows why they enjoy killing happiness with their bare hands.

But there is always a third group, and in my school situation, this third group is the smallest and least noticed group of all. It consists of four main groups of people. 1: the smarts. 2: the scaries. 3: the happies. 4: the nobodies. These groups are very different from each other, yet are very similar. But before I get to that, I have to explain why they are called what they are called.

The smarts are called the smarts because, as you could’ve guessed, they are extremely smart. They get basically perfect grades on everything and are, as you could’ve guessed again, they are all teacher’s pets. The smarts are almost as annoying as the male athletes when it comes to showing off their features. And I would probably be able to easily slide into their group of intelligence because of my pretty good grades and such, but I can’t because then I would probably also go insane from all of the information that gets passed between the group members daily. If you’ve never tried to soak in a textbook’s worth of information in one night, don’t.

The scaries are people that enjoy staying isolated and dark. Their outfits are all black with metal thrown in here in there. Believe me, I would love to be a part of their group because come on, I enjoy wearing dark colors, they enjoy wearing dark colors, I enjoy thinking about dark topics, they enjoy thinking about dark topics, you get the point. But I can’t join their clan because then I would lose the sense of social invisibility that I maintain. Or what social invisibility that I have left.

The happies are basically the really chill, but highly addicted, drug users. Most have criminal records and rehab pasts. To be honest, they scare the crap out of me. I’m afraid that one night I’m going to wake up to hear rhythmical snapping coming from my window. And then when I look outside, I’ll see like ten of them in a group, rhythmically snapping and holding knives. Most of them aren’t actually happy, but the drugs they use make them “happy” for periods of time. If most of the population didn’t consist of skinny/muscular athletes, they could easily run the school with happy drugs.

And last and, in most situations, least, the nobodies. I am one of the select ten members of the group. And I really shouldn’t say “select” because nobody selected us to be socially awkward, but you get the point. So we are the nobodies, the people that nobody care about, the people that nobody notice, but that’s okay because I find that people live better lives when they are invisible to the quick eye. And by the quick eye, I mean if you were to scan my whole grade, you would easily notice the synchronized cheerleaders and jocks, and you would easily notice the scaries in their all black clothing, you would probably notice everyone, except for us. Why? Because, like how some animals camouflage to their habitat, we have adapted to our high school environment to blend in with everyone. It’s really easy. You should try it sometime.

And of course Hailey knows about this, along with the pasts of everybody in our town. Knowing her, she probably comprehended everything within three months. But we’ll get to December later, for now, its November.

November was the month when Hailey and I got to second base, of friendship of course. And I know that I should be really pissed that we were nothing more than friends, but to be honest, I could never really date her. Because if I were to do that, I would have to give up my place in the nobodies. Why? Here’s the thing about Hailey: she’s absolutely freaking gorgeous. When I first met her, I was basically fanaticizing over her beauty. If beauty could kill, I would already be in heaven, or hell, via Hailey’s face. And when she first walked down the hall, the boys swooned. They were like pathetic little chimps, reaching for the last banana. So, if she ever went out with me, which I know is hard to resist considering that I have a bone structure as weak as toothpicks, people would know. So I did the unthinkable, I basically committed relationship suicide: I friendzoned her. It’s actually rather simple to do. You start by having a typical conversation, in this case that conversation was about the feelings of muffins. It got intense.

“You know what’s really annoying?” I asked Hailey at lunch.

“No I don’t, because you haven’t told me yet,” she replied. She took a bite of her chocolate fudge, lava cupcake. Saliva covered the inside walls of my mouth. That thing was beautiful, speaking of the cupcake of course.

I shot back to life and said, “Muffins get no respect.”

She snorted. “What?”

“You know, muffins, the breakfast food.”

“Yeah, I know what they are, I’m wondering why they get no respect.”

“I was just getting to that. You see, when you are making cupcakes, you have to bake the cake first.” She nodded. “And when you back the little cake, you are, technically speaking, baking a muffin.” She took another bite of the cupcake. “And then, people go to cool the muffins, and that muffin is probably thinking, ‘Yeah, I’m gonna be the best muffin ever!’” She nodded again. “But then, the chef puts icing on the muffin and then boom! it’s a cupcake! What if that muffin really wanted to be a muffin, but now it’s a cupcake! Has anyone ever considered the feeling of that muffin?” By now, she was dying with laughter. I joined her.

“Riley, that is literally the stupidest thing I have ever heard.” She took her hands and placed them on my shoulders and shook me back and forth while saying, “Muffins are not living creatures Riley!”

“I think someone may have slipped pills into my orange juice,” I said while gesturing to the carton on my left. “Those nasty muggles.”

“Scared, Potter?” she asked me, quoting from one of my childhood favorites.

“You wish, Malfoy,” I replied, a grin was plastered on my face. We continued to eat and talk, and eventually, I knew that today was the day that I would friendzone her. Step two of the friendzone process: Just do it.

“So today,” she said as we walked the halls to the library, “I was in world language and you know Billy?” I nodded furiously considering I have world language with her. “Well, he, oh my god, he went up to the board and took one of the markers and-“

“HAILEY I AM FRIENDZONING YOU.”

“Um, okay,” she confusedly replied. She made a contorted face and said, “Wait, what?” I was strongly hoping that she wouldn’t say that, but the things we get in life are too often what we do not want.

“I was just thinking, we have been spending a lot of time together, and um, well I didn’t really want you to get the wrong idea.” She gave me a warm smile and lightly laughed.

“Oh my god, Riley. You. Crack. Me. Up.” Hailey replied, still laughing slightly. “I would never ruin our friendship for something as silly as high school love.” And that was one thing that I absolutely loved about Hailey, she understood that some things in life are too insignificant to obsess over. She understands that fads will fade and that high school will just be a memory one day. She understands.

“Well, good.” She gave me a thumbs up and smiled. “We should probably get to the library before we get caught or something.”

“Yeah. Let’s go.” We fast walked out of there, and by “there” I mean both the hallway and the possibility of Hailey and I to ever be a thing.

As long as you follow those easy steps, you can get into the friendzone! Yay!

Okay, back to friendship second base. Second base of friendship is after you become friends. Like first base would be the awkward, shy relationship phase. You, know, when you first meet someone and you have like short conversations when passing through the hallway, or when forced to do a report or project together. That’s first base. Then, in between first and second, there is this imaginary Base 1.5, which is when you start talking to that person on a daily basis, sit with them at lunch, and text them. Second base is when you start to call each other everyday, have, what pre-school mothers would call, play-dates, and talk about/reveal deep information and stories. Hailey and I just got to second base. I am scared.

Every Thursday, we walk to my apartment and she stays over for a few hours because her mom has to take her younger sister to dance. We usually start by sitting on my floor and taking out our homework. Since we have basically identical schedules, doing homework works out pretty well. As soon as she types a letter on her keyboard she will, I promise you, lie down on the floor and practically yell to the ceiling, “I’M HUNGRY.” Then we will probably look in my fridge for food. 97.26% of the time, there is nothing edible. So we then walk to the little store by the corner and pick up chips and water and other non-spoiled goods. That takes about an hour because Hailey can never decide whether to get organic chips, or sea salt and vinegar ones. I honestly have no idea why girls take so long to choose the simplest of things. When we get back to the apartment, after eating and contemplating the mysteries of life, we “start” our homework. By start I mean procrastinate for another hour talking about other life mysteries. I swear, if someone were to walk into my apartment at that moment, they would probably call the cops and we would be tested for illegal drug use.

And throughout those days of solving life mysteries, I have learned a lot about Hailey. For instance, her mother and father aren’t divorced like the 87.92% of my population, and she has a very fluffy cat that enjoys scratching people’s furniture and legs. She has a twelve-year-old sister that loves to dance and loves to sing in the shower, and she has a one and a half year old adopted brother. Hailey’s aunt died last year of some cancer that took over her limbs, and her grandfather has a giant collection of purple buttons. Note: every single button is purple. Her dream occupation would be to be able to, surprisingly, create an invention that could provide clean water for children in Africa instantaneously. The world needs more Haileys.

Another thing I love about Hailey is that she actually listens to me. Whenever I talk about missing my sister to anyone that lives in town, they shake their heads, give me a concerned smile, pat my back, and tell me that it will be easier to understand one day. I really would like to respond to them that I am a senior in high school, take very high level classes, and definitely know that my sister is living with the wicked witch of the west, and then walk away like a diva, but instead I nod and say thank you. Also, if I ever share that I had a very interesting conversation, that is relevant to what we are learning, with Alice the other day with like a teacher, I get the same, sigh, the same shake of the head, the same look. Does it look like I just got out of a mental asylum or something? Does it look like I’m just imagining these phone calls or something? And they think I’m the crazy one.

But Hailey listens, like really listens. She’ll nod and make suggestive comments and laugh and do all of the things that a good-minded person would do. She doesn’t tell me weird stuff about understanding my sister’s current condition, she doesn’t give me looks that people make when they are speaking to someone who is not mentally sane. Hailey knows how to make someone feel like they belong, an asset that has been forgotten over the years.

She probably knows everything about me as well, not because I’m an open book or anything, but because she has a way of finding information. She probably knows that my father died when I was younger, my sister was taken away, and my mother left me to die. She also probably knows my grades since the fifth grade. The power of the internet. So you could say that Hailey and I are snuggly on second friendship base.

But something extremely peculiar happened as winter rolled around the corner of hell (God I hate winter), Alice started to lose communication with me. Alice and I have a rule that I never try to contact her, she contacts me. This is because if I contact her at a bad time, then Christie might pick up, and then she’ll probably smash her phone with a sledgehammer, thus eliminating the last way I will ever be able to communicate with my sister.

In September, when school first started, we would speak to each other almost every other day. Typical conversations were:
Alice: So today, Aunt Christie had a fit when Amazon didn’t to deliver her package.
Riley: I can imagine
Alice: She screamed at the customer service helper person, “THE ONLY REASON I PAY EXTRA FOR AMAZON PRIME IS SO THAT I CAN GET MY PACKAGE WITHIN THREE DAYS OF MY PURCHASE. HOW CAN YOU MIX THAT UP?”
Riley: Dear lord…
Alice: I felt absolutely horrible for that customer service guy because he was actually telling the truth. He said that she ordered something that wasn’t Amazon Prime eligible, so it would deliver within the next two days.
Riley: So what did she say in response to that?
Alice: She said that he was talking BS, and would be speaking to the owner of Amazon. She was so high that I don’t think she remembered that Amazon was a multibillion-dollar company.
Riley: Is she treating you nicely?
Alice: Riley, for the millionth and tenth time, I’m fifteen now, I can take care of myself.
Riley: Okay, okay.
Alice: I got to go, I think Christie just broke another glass.
Riley: Stay safe!
Alice: When am I never? Bye.
Riley: Bye.
*Dial tone*

These conversations continued for the rest of the month, but mid-October, she started to call less frequently. November is when I really noticed a change.
Riley: Alice, how are you?
Alice: Good, good. You?
Riley: Pretty good myself.
*Awkward pause*
Riley: So the weather is getting colder, huh?
Alice: Yeah… Um Riley?
Riley: What’s up?
Alice: I have to go now.
Riley: Oh. Okay.
Alice: Bye.
Riley: B-
*Dial tone*

These conversations continued until December, and occurred once a week. I felt that I was losing my sister as I did my father. December was when it got really bad.
Alice: Hi Riley.
Riley: Hey Alice.
*Alice screams, bottle breaks on the floor*
Riley: Alice, are you okay? Is everything all right?
Alice: Riley, I’m fine. Worry about yourself.
Riley: Um, okay?
Alice: Riley I got to go but I’ll ca-
*Dial tone*
Riley: Alice? Alice?

These conversations continued until January, and occurred once every other week. I wanted to break our only rule, I wanted to call her everyday, but if I don’t keep this one, last promise I made with her, then I won’t be a good brother. So I kept staring at the blank screen of my smartphone, waiting for Alice’s caller ID to illuminate the screen. It never came. She had officially left figuratively. I had lost my sister.

The first semester crawled by (on the floor, knees bruised, elbows bloody,) extremely slowly. But as it came to a close, I couldn’t help but feel that my life had changed so much over the previous months. I made an actual friend, stood up to a typical stuck-up girl that was, somehow, a nobody like me, and managed to survive the wrath of Mr. Craston. He was always watching.
First big milestone: I made an actual, living, breathing friend. She was, of course, Hailey. You know a lot about Hailey, and you could probably tell that she could pass off as an A+ mosquito. (If you do not remember specific points of this, allow me to enlighten you with our first encounter with each other. Ahem. “YOU’RE HOT.”) But she actually chose to stay invisible with me. It was as if, she had a pyramid of importance, relationships would be at the top, while popularity would be in the basement. I will say once more, the world needs more Haileys. So we built a pretty solid relationship on, what used to be, loose soil.
Second big milestone: I stood up to a nobody mosquito. And now you’re probably tremendously confused, because how could somebody that could be a mosquito, be a nobody? Answer: Hailey. But seriously, there’s this girl at the table of nobodies that is the most conceited, rich kid I have ever met. Her hair, which is unnaturally very blonde, sits in this high ponytail that reaches her really exaggerated cheekbones, which I might add are cloaked in this weird gel that is supposed to camouflage with her skin tone. I didn’t spend any of my precious time to know her name, but I bet it’s something very average.
Anyway, she thinks she knows everything and it’s the most annoying thing. One day she started talking about this movie she watched over the weekend. It was the classic of all classics, sort of confusing, but also very chill-causing films in my opinion: The Matrix. Note that I watched this when it first came out, when I was four years old. Not that I understood half of what was going on, hell, I barely understood the alphabet, but my father was watching it and I thought it was a good idea to build a fort behind the couch and watch with him. So I was basically a fan of this beloved movie before I knew the colors of the rainbow. But, she being the type of person she is, she thought she was the world’s most die-hard fan of this movie. Not on my watch.
“So the movie is really confusing, I doubt that any of you will really understand,” she said. I groaned. “But it’s soooo good, you should watch it.” She took a big bight of her sandwich. “Oh and that actor that plays the main guy, he’s so good. I can’t even.” I groaned again, a little too loud. Not that she even noticed, her ego was deafening her ability to hear the real world. “Oh and there’s apparently a sequel or something, I think its called like The Matrix Two.”
“Its called The Matrix Reloaded, idiot,” I said to myself, and even though I said it as quiet as possible, she somehow heard. Of all things.
“What?” she asked me, her eyes were staring at mine; it felt like she was digging out my soul to give to the devil. This girl was basically Nicole Jackman; only this girl had different priorities.
“You’re wrong. You think you know everything about everything but you’re wrong. Its not called The Matrix Two, its called The Matrix Reloaded. And the reason that nobody has corrected you before is because, well, you’re scary as hell. Nobody really likes you.” (Pun sort of intended.) Her face went blank. Shocked. I felt good. But the only problem of standing up to a fellow nobody, is that everybody who sits at your lunch table doesn’t really listen, let alone care. The only people who heard me stand up to her was that devil herself and Hailey.
Hailey gave me a small smile and then mouthed the word, “RUN.” I was confused on why I should run, but when I refocused on the girl, I could see fire in her eyes. A normal person would run away, run to the hallway, run outside, run to the bathroom, but let me remind you of one fact: I am not normal. So instead I just sat there, holding my spoon, wondering what this human being would do to me. Usually girls don’t fight, like at all. They cry and sob and throw fits in the hallway but they don’t ever throw punches at their friends or other people. Too bad this girl was on the wrestling team.
She threw me on the floor and kicked me in the stomach, my back reflexed. “Ow,” I murmured. A small crowd started to form around this beast that was making my insides feel like soggy mashed potatoes.
“You gonna stand up to me again?” she yelled as she continued to kick my precious inner organs.
“If-if only th-this b-b**** would sto-stop kicking me.” I replied between breaths. She scoffed and then walked away. I stood up and, with the help of Hailey, I made my way to my locker. If I went to the nurse, then everybody would know that I went to the nurse, which brings even more attention to my already horrible situation. So I went to my locker, sat down, and brushed the dirt off of my back. Hailey stood above me, a concerned look was plastered on her face. But soon enough she started to laugh quietly, that laugh grew into a roar and then quieted down. Then I started to laugh. We laughed together, in the silent hallway.
“You got,” she took a breath, “beat up by-by-by a girl!”
“Are you calling me a weakling?” I asked, still laughing.
“’Are you calling me a weakling?’ Hahahahah,” she mimicked.
I stood up and said, “You’re so annoying.”
“My pleasure,” she replied.
We laughed for the rest of lunch and by the end of the day, my stomach was extremely sore from A: Laughing and B: Getting beat up by a girl that has more muscle than I will ever have. But it was worth it.
Third big milestone: I remained under the radar. With all of these amazing adventures in my totally amazing life, you’re probably thinking, “How could nobody notice me?” Simple. Very simple. Whenever you have an incident, for example The Matrix incident, you take two steps to remain invisible.
Step 1: Take a four day break from life. Not as in kill yourself and then magically rise from the dead four days later, but as in make sure you don’t do anything stupid/crazy/huge/etc. for the next four days.
Step 2: Whenever you pass by the office, nurse, even the bathroom, go incognito. Crouch a little, talk quietly, do whatever you need to do to make sure that nobody in these rooms realizes that you are there. Gossip travels fast, so if someone catches you in the nurse’s office with an ice pack on your head or something, that turns into, “Riley was in the nurse because he fell.” Which turns into, “Riley fell.” Which turns into, “Riley fell off of the roof.” Which turns into, “Riley died.” Which turns into, “What are you wearing to Riley’s funeral?” So basically, don’t ever get caught in any office of authority, or else you’ll be nicknamed as the kid who died and then resurrected a few hours later.

With those simple steps, you’ll be able to stay invisible. Usually it takes a year or two to get used to this, which is why I’m proud of the fact that I’ve spent the whole semester like this. Yay.

Everything was going greater than good, until the first fight.

The typical friendship is full of fights, so I expected that one was going to come down the road for Hailey and I. It couldn’t come at a worse time.

It was the middle of March; if spring hadn’t come earlier then I swear to god I would’ve murdered a tree or something. Spring break was coming up, which meant that I could go into hibernation for a week and a half. It was Tuesday, which is normally a good day for me, you know, Friday is coming up in a short three days; life was pretty good. But that Tuesday was horrible.

I got to school on time, which is very surprising, survived season four, volume seven, episode sixteen of Survivor, and got through half of my morning classes. But then, when I walked into, well, I honestly don’t remember which class I walked into, but that’s not important; let’s just say I walked into a classroom. And I see the mosquitos, and the butter knives, and everyone in between, but I don’t see Hailey. Laughter fills the classroom, all credit to the mosquitoes. I walk to the source.

“She’s so annoying, right?” someone asked. Cue laughter.

“I’m so glad that she had to leave school early; she always ruins the fun of making fun of people,” someone else added. Cue more laughter.

“I saw her talking to Mr. Phillips after school, such a teachers pet. Am I right? Am I right?” another voice said from the back. Cue heavy laughter. At that moment I realized whom they were talking about: Hailey. That moment I did something very crazy, very un-Riley, but very right.

“Stop,” I stated clearly. Heads turned to me.

“What’d you say, kid?” a jock asked.

“I said stop. It’s not cool to talk about people behind their backs.”

“What do you know about cool?” he asked once more, now up in my face. Ever heard of personal space?

“I may not know much,” I stood up in his face, “but I do know that what you are doing isn’t right.”

“Oh really,” he replied while clenching his fists. Rule number like 89 of Riley’s never said rules: never get physical if you know it’s coming. I knew it was coming.

“You know what, just stop.” I eyed the doorway. One sprint and I could get out of this situation. Might as well try. “Well, gotta run boys. See you later.” I made a beeline for the door and almost fell, I ran to my safe place: the little closet. I hid there for the rest of the period.
+++

You know how I said that gossip travels fast? Here I am going to really prove my point by giving a real life example featuring Hailey, the mosquitoes, and me.

Apparently me standing up to them was very big news, and big news traveled fast. It was, at first, “Riley stood up to John about Hailey.” I like that sentence. But it made a horrible turn. It then turned into, “Riley stood up to Hailey about John.” Which then turned into, “Riley stood up to Hailey.” Which, eventually by the end of the day turned into, “Riley was talking smack about Hailey.” How? Honestly, what?

Which brings us to problem two: Jocks v. Riley.

After school they started to chase me around the block, screaming some very violent and fairly inappropriate words to me. While running I got a call from Hailey. I was scared for what was going to happen next.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Riley? You there?” she replied. It sounded like she had been crying.

“Um, yeah. I’m a little um, busy at the moment.”

“So I heard,” she sniffled, “that you were talking about me behind my back.”

“Can you repeat that, I can’t hear you well.” I heard the jocks screaming behind me. Oh no.

“I heard that you said some stuff about me behind my back today after I left school.”

“Um.” I couldn’t hear half of what she was saying, but I had bigger, very physical, human problems chasing me.
“Tell me I’m wrong Riley.” Her voice, loud and clear, transmitted through the phone. I ran faster down the sidewalk. Over my shoulder I could see them running after me. I was running out of breath. “Tell me I’m wrong Riley.” Her voice started to tremble. I started to walk even faster down the edge of the street. “Tell me I’m wrong Riley.” Her voice was barely understandable, and I could tell that she was about to break down. I started to run across the street. “Tell me I’m-“ I dropped my phone and braced for the impact of the speeding car.

Everyone was giving me commands. “Breathe slowly, look up, don’t move.” And I couldn’t comprehend why they were telling me these things until I noticed where I was: the Walker Hospital.
I tried to look down, but all I saw was a flash of the floor and all I heard were even more commands from the nurses. “Someone, stop him from moving,” one yelled. I felt restraints being put on my arms and neck. I began to feel extremely dizzy. Not the dizzy you feel after riding The Boomerang five times at the carnival, but the kind of dizzy that slowly started to devour your whole body. As I attempted to look down, I realized that I was on one of those moving carts that transported people around the hospital.
Extremely confused about why I was on one of these things, I started to ask questions. “Why am I here?” I saw the frantic nurses look at one another. “WHY AM I IN A HOSPITAL?” I practically screamed in their faces. I realized that nobody was ever going to answer my questions so I started to think deeper into this situation.
“Call my sister.” I commanded to the nurse pushing my cart. It looked as though she were the head nurse, for she wore a hat that nobody else wore. Also, her little name badge stated that she was the head nurse, and that her name was Andrea. “Call my sister. Her name is Alice. She’ll be able to talk some sense into this hospital.” The other nurses started to look at Andrea, their faces stunned with worry. “Call her, now!” I screamed once more.
Andrea started to speak, “Riley,” She gulped, “Alice is dead.”
The dizziness took over my body completely and I couldn’t see the ceiling anymore. I barely managed to get one word out of my mouth before I fell into a state of unconsciousness, “No.”

Sunlight hit my closed eyes. I awoke. I tried to open my eyes, to look at my alarm clock. “Was I late to school?” I wondered. Something stopped my eyelids from performing that rather simple function they do everyday. My body ached. I tried to move my arm, to grope for my clock so that I could check the time. I couldn’t move my arm.
The door creaked open. “That’s strange,” I thought to myself. “My door doesn’t creak. And I don’t live with anyone…”
“Alice?” I tried to ask, but my voice was weak.
“Andrea,” a light, airy voice replied. “But I take no offense. You were asleep for a few days.” My voice regained strength.
“Not to bother you, but why are you in my apartment?” I questioned with a hint of annoyance in my voice that I was positive she noticed.
She chuckled slightly, “Riley, you aren’t at your apartment. You’re in the Walker Hospital.”
“What? How did I…” My voice trailed off as I looked to my right. There was a window, light poured in through the cracks of the blinds. Next to me was a little nightstand. On it were “Feel Better” cards. Dozens of them. I was still confused. “Andrea, can you hand me that pile of cards?”
“Of course.” She walked from the door, her high shoes click-clacking on the floor tiles. When she managed to walk around the bed and through the little space in front of the table, she neatly handed me all of the cards. She asked me something, but I couldn’t hear her because my brain was busy sorting through the cards, looking for one from Alice.
“How long did you say I was sleeping, Andrea?” I asked in a rushed whisper.
“Um, I think six days. Almost a full week.”
“And another question for you.” She nodded her head. “If I have all of these cards mailed from my classmates, how come I did not receive a letter from my own sister?” My tone was panicked and angry; I felt like a wreck.
“Riley, I don’t know if you remember this, but the evening you were brought here, you requested for your sister. Do you remember this?”
Memories from that night started to reappear. “Yes, I… do.”
She sat down at the edge of the bed, a concerned look covered her face. She looked like she was about to tell a little girl that she ran over her puppy. “Riley, do you remember when I told you what happened to your sister?”
I began to become even more panicked, angry, a group of mixed emotions. “What. Happened. To. Alice?” I started to become furious. Furious that people were not giving me answers. Furious that I couldn’t remember. Furious that something happened to my baby sister.
“Alice has been dead for years Riley. There’s nothing you can do.” Confused. Shocked. Enraged. Angry. My thoughts were mixed up. My heart rate probably doubled. My face was turning red. My hand reached for the closest thing on the table, which was a plastic cup full of water. Not really what I had in mind, but I threw it to the ground, splashing Andrea. She started to give demands through her communication device. Soon people were holding me down and were telling me to calm down. It took a while, but soon enough I was stable.

For the next few days I wouldn’t speak to anyone. I stayed on that little bed, ate the actually not that bad hospital food and spoke little to none. Finally on the fourth day since my incident, I decided that this was going to get me nowhere.
That afternoon, when Andrea brought me my lunch, I confronted her. “Can you tell me what happened?”
She was shocked that I spoke, but replied instantly, “Of course. I think I better sit down for this story.
“Do you remember, back in the sixth grade, when your father was in that horrible accident? He got into a car crash, and your sister was in the back seat. Riley, your father was a horrible man.”
“No,” I stubbornly replied. “My father was the best man you could ever meet. You should be ever so lucky if-“
“Riley, just listen.” I shut my mouth. “You probably were told the story that your father was coming to pick you up from basketball practice when a texting driver hit your father’s car, fatally wounding him and your sister.” I nodded slightly. “But that’s all a lie. Your mother was supposed to pick you up, like she usually does, but your father insisted that he would instead. Alice, your sister, wanted to join your father since they never get to spend time together. What you didn’t know was that your father was planning to commit suicide that day by driving his car off of the barrier on the highway. He wrote a suicide note and everything.
Ever since he came back from the war, he was so affected by what he saw. He couldn’t stand to see his family happy when he realized that there were people suffering around the world, and that his friends died for that. Yes, that does make him, in some sense, someone who wants to help, yet he still made a plan to die that day. When your sister wanted to join him, he was actually even a little happy, that he would be ending the suffering of himself and take his own daughter as well. That day, December 8, was one of the worst of my whole nursing career. Your father and sister were cut up with glass, and metal pieces went through internal organs, Riley, it was done.” She began to tear up. “I’m so sorry.”
Her voice cracked as she started speaking once more, “There was nothing I could do. She, Alice, was so young, so beautiful. And your mother was absolutely appalled that this man she once loved would do such a thing. She was in a state of vulnerable shock and her first indistinct was to protect you from this pain. Your mother was an amazing person, Riley. She made up the story about your father and sister’s death to protect you from the truth. When this event started to take over her life, she got into a bit of trouble. People wanted things from your mother, so she had to leave. She knew that if she stayed with you, you wouldn’t be safe, so she left you. Your mother loved you, and she still does. I know you think that she was cruel to leave you in the eighth grade, but she set you up at the apartment in Building 240, with Sam, and had people watch out for you.” She stroked my hair. “Even though you didn’t need it. I’m so sorry Riley. I’m so sorry. Life is cruel to the best of people, and that’s a fact. But only the best of people can defeat the cruel in their life.”
I was stunned. My whole life was basically a lie, and that was not a hyperbole. Everything I wondered about what happened was answered except for one question, “How did I not know that my sister was dead for more than six years now?”
Andrea took a deep breath, “After the incident, you were sent to a psychologist, so that you could get through that time in your life. But you went into a serious state of denial. When the psychologist asked you questions about your father’s death, you answered those questions perfectly. But whenever your sister’s name popped up, you would go on and on about how she was doing well, but was struggling with your father’s death. Concern grew overtime as you still couldn’t accept the fact that Alice was gone. Eventually the whole town knew the gist of what happened. Have you ever wondered why when you spoke of your sister being alive, people would give you worried or strange looks?”
Only everyday. I thought to myself. I suddenly remembered walking into the hospital room to see my dad, lying still. I saw my mother and Christie surrounding him, like usual, but then as I looked around the room, I saw a second bed, one right next to my father’s. It contained a small child, two years younger than me. She was weak, tubes went through her arms and legs and everywhere in between. She looked more plastic than human. She was unconscious, her heart monitor was barely beeping. She was my sister. A few minutes after my father died, she did as well. I remember seeing my mother hugging her little body, screaming. Crying. I remember walking out of that room, feeling dizzy, unaware of what had just happened. Shocked. I snapped back to Andrea.
“It was because you were in denial,” she said. I tried to speak once more when she told me to stop. “Rest, Riley. That was a lot of information. Take it all in and just rest for a day, can you do that for me?”
I reluctantly agreed with a sea of questions floating in my head.

The next day, I saw someone that I completely forgot about: Hailey. I woke up like any other day, had some breakfast, took my pink pill, and then started to get some of the work done that I missed. While mid-sentence, I looked up when I heard a nurse give directions to a room. Let’s get one thing out of the way, I’m not that kid. I’m not the kid that has people visiting him everyday, friends and even distant family honestly do not care that much to give up a part of their day to see if I’m alive. Don’t get me wrong, my community is very supportive and caring and all that (if you do not believe me, then consult the pile of cards that I threw on the floor the other day), but just not that supportive and caring.

So when I heard the nurse directing someone to my room number, I was completely and utterly shocked. I sat up a little straighter, tossed around my hair, and then pretended to be so into this book about some small event in history. My ears sensed a small knock on the door, so my eyes looked up. What my eyes saw was a human being by the name of Hailey. She was wearing a lavender blouse that flowed down mid-mid-thigh, light blue jeans, and black All Stars. Her hair was down, which was very unusual considering she hated putting her hair down. I guessed that her mother made her dress nicely because she was consulting a friend that had just been hit by a car. I heard her boots walk lightly upon the floor, pitter-pattering like falling rain. She stood next to me and held my bandaged left hand, smiling like always.

“Nice establishment, don’t you think,” I broke the ice. She laughed.

“Very nice. I especially like the rusted radiator that I passed while walking through the hallway. It’s an exquisite touch.”

“Extremely exquisite I think. Especially the molded water fountain in the waiting room.” I kissed my right hand and gestured it into the air. “Absolutely beautiful, sets the tone.” We laughed together.

“I’m so sorry, Riley.” The tone of her voice hardened, and now it was tougher than my grandma’s “delicious” fruitcake that she made every Christmas when I was younger. “When I heard, I thought they were joking. I thought that you hung up on me, and at first I was really… angry. You didn’t answer my question, and I got caught up in all of the rumors and all of the gossip that went around. I actually thought that you talked about me, behind my back, with the jocks. I made a plan not to talk to you, and to avoid you at all costs, and then, when I got to school the next day, you weren’t there. ‘Afraid to face his fears, what a wimp.’ I thought to myself.” She took a deep breath, and continued, “And then one by one, they called most of the grade to the guidance counselor. And I was confused. I was confused when I saw Stuck-Up Margaret, sobbing, holding a box of tissues as she walked in those super loud shoes that she always wears. I was confused when I saw the exact opposite reaction coming from some of the football jocks. And I was especially confused when our guidance counselor, who’s name I already forgot, told me the news.

“She said that there had been a terrible accident, that someone was in the hospital. And I thought, ‘Oh great, one of Margaret’s minions is in the hospital because she snapped her ankle from walking in her usual, immensely tall black heels.’ So I slapped on a worried look on my face as I waited for Ms. Whatever-Her-Name-Is to tell me which snobbish follower was in the hospital. But what she said next was just mortifying. She said your name, Riley.” Hailey paused for a moment, took a sip from her purple water bottle that smelled like lemons, and was practically crying. “I was so stunned, that I refused to believe it.”
“Join the club,” I thought to myself.
“And I just left the room. I carried on with the day, but I felt different. I walked home like usual; I had an all-vegetable dinner like usual, but something felt unusual. I’m sorry Riley, that I hadn’t visited you sooner, I was just so caught up in myself, and I just lost it.” Her voice was completely inaudible once more as she asked me for tissues. I immediately handed them over, scared out of my mind, because nothing is scarier than watching a girl cry, especially one that you have known for quite some time. Tell me otherwise. Please. If you have figured out a way to just overcome this lifelong fear, then I tell you: you’d be a millionaire. But I just sat there like a complete idiot, incapable of expressing emotion, until she settled down.
“Ms. Hills,” I said.
Her face turned into one of confusion. “What?” She asked.
“Ms. Hills is our guidance counselor. You called her Ms. Whatever-Her-Name-Is.”
She laughed. She laughed a volcano laugh. And if you are unaware of what a volcano laugh is, allow me to tell you. It’s the kind of laugh that starts off really quiet, like a dormant volcano. And then suddenly it just grows really, really loud and soon the laugher is just like slapping things around him/her, like an active volcano. And then, after a lot of erupting and such, it goes back to the dormant stage of quiet laughing. There you have it: a volcano laugh.
We “hugged it out” as Hailey called it, and then went to the vending machine down the hall. It was hard trying to get my Hershey’s Bar out of the little “Thank You” slot with my arm in a sling and a broken leg, but I got it out eventually.
I told her about my whole parent and sister situation, and she listened carefully. We “hugged it out” some more, and then talked about the latest school news.
Apparently, Mr. Johnson had given out a five-page essay about some history lesson that I missed, and a lot of people didn’t hand it in. So Mr. Jonson being Mr. Johnson, he counted it as an assessment. Let’s just say a lot of A averages plummeted. We talked, we ate, we laughed; it was like nothing had changed. Yet we both knew that everything had.

For the next two days, I remained completely oblivious to what was happening around me. I didn’t think of school, I didn’t think of Hailey, I didn’t even think about Alice. I just emptied my mind of all thoughts possible and sat in bed. But on the day after that I was forced to think about reality because I had a visitor: my mother.

I heard her before I saw her, which proves many theories that the speed of sound does indeed move faster than the speed of light. Or something like that. I wasn’t in the mood to think about scientific theories. Her voice changed over the years, it was much rougher than I remembered. It also sounded like she picked up a strange accent while she was wherever she lived, it sounded southern.

“I have to fill out all of this?” she asked the secretary. I heard intense paper flipping and remembered that when you go to the hospital and you are under age, which I am by just a few months, your parent or guardian has to fill out medical forms. But I didn’t consider my mother to be either. And to think that I thought that she traveled all the way here just to see how I was doing. She was pathetic. She was a horrible person. She was heartless. She was crying. She was crying.

I heard her sobs in the hallway, echoing off of the walls. “Why did I ever leave him, I should have been there,” she whispered to herself. She kept on crying; it was much heavier than before. “I should have never accepted that job. Look where that job has gotten me,” her pen moved quickly on the page. If there’s one thing that my mother and I have in common is that we both have the ability to hold stable conversations with ourselves. I got up from bed and slipped into my shoes. My feet delicately moved to the doorway. My eyes searched for my mother and instead found the complete opposite. The last time I saw my mother, about four years ago, she was this frail woman with light brown hair and hazy blue eyes. The last time I saw my mother, all she would do is sit at home in baggy clothing and wear tons of makeup that would too often run down her face with tears. The last time I saw my mother, she was this isolated, broken woman who didn’t care about anything. But now I see this woman sitting in the hallway wearing blue jeans, a white blouse, tall boots, and a very little amount of makeup. Her face wasn’t nearly as bony as before, and her hair, which was now a lighter blonde, was straight and lay at her shoulders. This woman was not my mother. This woman was more than my mother. She sniffled and said, “If only Riley could ever forgive me. If only my sins could be forgotten.”

I decided to speak up. “Hi.” I half whispered half said. She turned completely to me and gave a warm smile.

“Riley,” she replied. Her arms were wide open, as if she thought that the past could be forgotten with one quick hug. The past. The past. And suddenly I remembered everything that I pushed to the back of my mind. I remembered the countless amount of times my father came home at two in the morning, drunk out of his mind. And I remembered the countless amount of times that my mother had to calm him down after that with a hushed tone. And I remembered the countless number of times I had woken up to my mother screaming and then to see the scars my father put on her arms the next morning. And I remembered the time when he started to throw kitchen utensils across the room and chuck knives at the doorway. I remembered that after that, my mother came to my room and told me everything was going to be all right.

“Daddy is just tired, okay?” I heard her voice echo through my mind. I felt her hug flow through the veins in my body. I remembered all of the times my mother had been the strongest she ever could.

But I also remembered everything she did after my father and sister passed away. I remembered that the dining table was two short, not just one. I remembered when my mother started to act like my father, intoxicated and cruel. I remembered her coming to my room at midnight and slurring words at me. “You are the reason that the people I love are dead. I don’t love you,” she spit at me. I remembered when I cried myself to sleep for a month straight, hoping that it would wake up my mother so that she could comfort me. But she took so many sleeping pills that I knew that would never happen. And I remembered her sobs a month before graduation. I remembered hearing her whisper into the phone a week later about some job that she had to do. And I remembered when she got the old suitcase out of the attic, pushed me aside, and started to pack the night before graduation. I remembered staying up until four in the morning, waiting for my mother to come home after she left. But she never came.

I had finally left my daydream, my denial that had turned into my life and started to face the truth. But the truth about the truth is that it hurts. It stings more than sunburns from the beach. It’s more shocking that finding out that your grandfather died. And it most certainly hurts more than being shot in the chest. It’s easier to forget the past, to forget the truth, but what I’m realizing now is that without the past, how could we have a future?

“Riley,” she said once more, her arms were still outstretched. A smile had been painted delicately on her face. She looked to innocent to be my mother.

I started to step forward, but then stopped myself. I shook my head. Her smile faded away. “How,” I choked, “how could you do that to me?” My eyes felt like they had been drowned in the ocean. Twice. “How could you forget about me? How could you push your only child to the back of your mind? How could you leave me when I needed you the most?” I felt a tear slowly fall down my cheek. I blinked the tears away. “Y-you left me.” I looked her straight in the eyes, which were starting to form tears of their own. “I hate you. I HATE YOU.”

“Riley I-” she started to say, but I turned around as fast as possible and ran back to my room. For some reason, I couldn’t bear to see her expression.
I locked myself in the little hospital room and put my back against the cold, white wall. I sunk to my knees and fell apart.

The next months rushed by me surprisingly. I got caught up on all of my work in no time, and was actually doing pretty good. Of course my accident put a huge dent in my social status, but I could live with that. I just had to remind myself that in a couple of months, in a few weeks, I would be permanently out of this hellhole. Which reminds me, I have to really start understanding how the whole “college” thing works. I know that I got accepted into a few, not that I visited any of them, nor have I really put any effort into those applications. Oh well.

But anyway, after the accident, things started to change. I understood why people would give me weird looks whenever I talked about my sister, and I understood everything that my mother has ever done, and I understood why my father died. A few days after the encounter with my mother, she left the state. I’m sort of glad because, like a lot of crazy teens these days, my mother is only a burden to me. Wow that sounds cynical.

And because of my accident, the hospital prescribed new medication. (I also discovered that the pills I used to take were to help soothe reality, or dumb it down. Which proves my hypothesis that the pills were most likely illegal.) So my new medication helps me face reality better. My nurse also recommended that I go to therapy sessions with this lady that resembles Christie, who I found out is actually living a pretty good life with her husband and three children in like Michigan or something. Therapy is good I guess. Its basically when I spend an hour “releasing my feelings” or something. Most of the time the lady just tells me about her past while we eat pizza. I like that therapist lady.

Right before I left the hospital, with my doctor’s consent of course, Andrea told me wear my dad and Alice were buried. I never visited my father, and I obviously have never visited my sister, so I didn’t really want to take the little card containing the address of the cemetery. But my hand reached for it anyway.
+++

In the middle of May I decided to visit Alice. It was a warm Saturday, pollen dusted the sidewalks and children ran, free in the park a few streets east. I knew then that that day was the day I would do it. I picked up my phone and dialed Hailey’s number. The line rang.

“Hello? This is Hailey speaking,” she said.

“Hey, its me, Riley,” I replied.

“Watsup Riley! How’s it hanging?”

“Pretty good, thanks for asking. Um, well I was wondering, if you were doing anything today?”

“Let me check.” I heard her yell something to her mom, who probably was downstairs. “Nope, why?”

“I was wondering if you would, um, like to come to a cemetery with me?”

“Ooh, are we going grave robbing?! Cause, secretly, I’ve always wanted to grave rob.”

I laughed and said, “Nah, I was planning to visit my sister.”

“Oh,” her voice hardened, “yeah sure. But are you sure you want me to come with you? Isn’t this a little personal?”

“And that’s exactly why I wanted you to come with me. Please?”

“Of course! Should I meet you there?”

“Yeah, say like 1:30?”

“See you there, bye.”

“Bye.”
+++

At exactly 1:30 I walked through the gates of the cemetery. I saw Hailey in the little flower shop. She was wearing a knee length, daisy-imprinted dress that she looked beautiful in. And at that moment, I 176% regretted friendzoning her.

“Hey Riley!” she said once noticing me.

“If we were to grave rob, do you think you would be able to do it in that?” I replied. She laughed.

“Is that even a question? I could grave rob in a space suit.”

“Good, oh wait. Goddammit, I forgot my grave robbing shovel at home. Gosh darn! You don’t happen to have a shovel in your little purse or something?”

“Oh damn, I left my grave robbing bag at home! Silly me! I brought my murder bag instead!” We laughed for a while until her tone hardened once more. “Are you ready?”

“Now or never.”

So it turns out that the cemetery they reside in is huge. And when I mean huge, I mean so big that to get to where they are buried, you have to take this golf cart sort of thing that looks like its been used since the 1700’s. We chug along the skinny dirt path that runs along the side of the land area.

“There,” I say as I point to a little land area labeled “Lot 7.” It looks nearly full and it looks like no one has visited Lot 7 in years. I step onto the wet grass and start to walk slowly in between graves. “Sorry,” I whisper. I walk until I come across two headstones, spread apart from each other a fair amount, that look oddly familiar. I dust the dirt off of the first one. The epitaph reads:

“Alice Adams
January 2, 1998 - December 16, 2006
Dearly loved, and forever missed daughter, sister, and friend”


I feel Hailey’s presence next to me. She slides her arm around my shoulder, and I settle my head awkwardly on her arm. Only then do I realize that my sister is truly gone. I can no longer call her, or see her, or feel her delicate hand grasp around mine. My baby sister, who I promised to protect, is forever out of my sight.

Pause, once more, because I have a theory/more or less a set of instructional steps. Okay, so when this moment comes around, this moment of realization, people usually go through three stages. The first stage is ultimate sadness, which involves crying, screaming, breaking (this may sound extremely cliché) vases, etc. I am currently transitioning into this first phase. The second stage is contemplation of life, which involves one wondering whether their life has value. This can eventually lead to serious depression, alcoholism, self-harm, and death. But there’s a secret about stage two that most people don’t know, want to know the secret? Stage two can be avoided. Because people who are stuck in the second phase are, not to be rude, extremely self-centered. Not in the sense that people in this stage only think about money and big houses and wealthy/attractive spouses, but in the sense that people in this stage are only thinking about his or her life. To get past this stage, you have to think of others. Instead of thinking about how your life is going to be affected, think about others’ lives. Think about helping them. Also, instead of contemplating whether your life is worthy of living, know that it is. Like come on, you are currently a living, breathing human being on this magical planet called Earth, and just throwing that pretty sweet deal away to drugs or knives or death is just so wasteful. And most importantly, when trying to avoid this phase, you have to think of your lost loved one. What, and I know this sounds very cheesy, would that person do in this situation? What would he or she want you to do? Do you think that he or she would want you to mope around his or her grave, crying? Do you think that he or she would want you to purchase voodoo books about bringing the dead back to life, or would want you to call a “very powerful and all knowing witch” to perform spells on the grave? Let me answer that rhetorical question: NO. So, in conclusion (what am I even saying?) the main way to get past the second stage is by, and I hate saying this as much as the next guy, letting go. In order to move onto stage three, you have to let go.

Which comes to the third stage, which I call eternal happiness. In this phase, if you’ve made it through or completely passed over stage two, one feels emotional happiness and the feeling of being free. This can also be felt when eating very good ice cream. And I guess that solves the mystery of why girls enjoy eating buckets of Rocky Road Ice Cream. Did that sound like I was a little brochure about how to get over death? That’s for you to decide.

Okay, so back to the story. As I unknowingly eased into the first stage, I felt a sense of loneliness, despite the fact that there was a fairly attractive girl right next to me. And just as I was about to break down into a puddle of lukewarm tears, I remembered that there was another grave to look at: my father’s. So I gingerly walked a few feet to the right and brushed the dirt off of the second tombstone. The engraving was the same as Alice’s, only accustomed to him (I highly doubt that he was a female). All of a sudden I had an urge to kick this tombstone in front of me. But A: I knew that if I destroyed a dead person’s final resting place, I would probably wake up in hell, B: By doing this, I guarantee that I would be heavily fined or permanently kicked out, and C: I was in no mood to wake up the next day to a swollen foot. So instead I remained awkwardly tilted in my only friend’s upper arm. After a while, I made a shocking discovery.

“Hailey,” I said as I turned my head towards her.

“Riley,” she replied.

“I made a shocking discovery.”

“Share.”

“Staring at these two rocks that lay on top of my two lost family members for thirty minutes straight,” I took a breath that sounded like a wheeze, “is very tiring. Let’s go back to the golf cart.”

“Agreed.”

With that we walked back to the broken down golf cart. I walked with a lighter step for some reason, as if I made less of a print in the mud that I had before. I walked forward, Hailey striding beside me, and didn’t look back.

We then had a heated discussion over the pros and cons of both traditional burial and cremation.

Soon enough, the year officially ended: graduation day was here.

I would love to divulge into the fantastic, life changing experience that I had with prom, but instead I am going to summarize it in as few words as possible. Here we go. Riley + Pillow + Bed + Sleep + Twelve Hours. And that was my senior prom, which, I may as well add, was much more interesting than my junior prom (I only slept for ten hours that year).

Anyway, my high school graduation day finally came around the corner, and I was ready to leave this four-year prison sentence.

The day before, I went to Sam to see if she had any clothes for me to wear. Obviously not her own clothes, but her boyfriend probably owns something nice, right? Yeah. Rhetorical question: answered.

I knocked on her apartment door. “Sammm! You better be awake! It’s five o’clock! In the evening!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she yelled from inside. Heavy footsteps followed. “Jesus, what’s wrong Riley? Is World War III starting out in the hallway or something?”

“Worse.”

“I was in the middle of a power nap,” she groaned. “This better be good.”

“Sam, I need clothes.”

“EEEEEK! YAY! OH MY GOD RILEY ADAMS! I KNEW THIS DAY WOULD EVENTUALLY COME!”

“Lord Jesus Christ I wish I had friends.” She didn’t hear that over her jumping and squealing, because if there was one thing Sam loves more than sleep, it’s fashion.

“Wait right here. Don’t. Move.” She slammed her apartment door shut, hopefully in excitement. Inside I could hear her rummaging through, I think, clothes. She came out five minutes later, a grin was plastered on her face. “Okay, close your eyes, I have something behind my back.”

“Sure thing,” I said as I covered my eyes with my hands.

“On my count of three, actually, after three, open your eyes.”

“Okay.”

“One,” she took a breath, “two,” I heard fabric moving, “three! Open!” I saw before my eyes a nicely ironed, white shirt with black pants. Not having any fashion sense, I had no idea what to say. I took a shot.

“Wow! Wha- I love it! It’s so nice! Amazing!”

She beamed. “I knew that you would love it! Oh Riley, you’re gonna look absolutely STUNNING! Ooh, tell me, what color is your cap and gown?”

“It’s like a really pale yellow-“

“Ugh, gross!”

“Um.”

“Yellow does not match anything, I honestly have no idea why the founder of whatever high school you go to would choose to have their school colors be yellow and something else. Like seriously, yellow?”

“It actually isn’t that bad,” I slowly said after her speeded reply.

“Whatever,” she sighed. “So, you really like what I picked out for you?!”

“Yeah, totally.”

“Great! I really would love to stay and talk to you, but I have a pillow calling my name and a movie to watch. See ya around, kid.”

“Bye Sam,” I said as I started to walk down the hallway. “Thanks again!"

Sam’s fashion sense is one that I will never understand, but always admire.
+++

It’s June 18th, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and I feel like I’m reading out of a children’s book. Anyway, so it’s my graduation day and I feel eh, not exactly the most prepared or anything, but, well, I don’t know. It hasn’t really hit me yet. I woke up at five for some odd reason (we all know how much I enjoy sleeping) and couldn’t go back to sleep. So I got dressed in my usual outfit and walked to school extremely early. Walking along the walls of the hallways I once loved, for about fourteen seconds during the first day of freshman year, I felt free. Free of tests and quizzes and pressure and stress, even though I knew that that was all going to return when I head to college in the fall.

Because we were graduating, and we finished the curriculum early, it wasn’t really mandatory for us to show up for the school day. Upon realizing this I had a “what in the world” moment. Honestly, why did I have the self-urge to wake up at five o’clock this morning. So I walked back to my apartment and went back to sleep.
+++

My alarm buzzed in my ear around three. I was fully rested for the first time in years and can tell that my second graduation is going to be much better than the first.

I eat, shower, brush my teeth, wash my face, comb my hair, get “Sam’s” clothes on, and look at myself in the mirror. Damn do I look good for once. I put on my cap and gown and head downstairs. Sam hears me.

“Riley!” she yells after me. I groan. “Riley! Let me look at you!” She reminds me of an overprotective, punk rock mother.

“Ughh,” I respond.

“Oh, come here!”

“Ughhh,” I said as I tried to head for the door. She gave me a look.

“Fine, but after you get back, we’re taking a picture. No buts,” she responded. She sighed. “Well carry on! Have a good time!”

“I will, I will.” We hug for a moment and then I leave.
+++

High school graduation is basically the same exact thing as my middle school graduation, only this time, it’s outside. My mind has no idea what’s going on, but my feet, which have been rehearsing this for weeks along with the other hundred kids in my grade, apparently know the way. I walk slowly, cautious of the feet in front of me. A gust of wind blows across the line and we all sigh in unison. It’s hot.

I take my seat in between two girls that probably didn’t recognize my existence before this moment in time. Our grade valedictorian starts to speak at the podium; I look for Hailey. She sits three rows behind me and waves a little. We smile at each other and wait for the speeches to start. Esteemed guests talk about how we all have improved so much over the years despite the fact that I don’t know any of them. Our principal and superintendent exchange words, exchange laughs. My peers make sappy speeches about how high school has been the best four years of our lives. Yeah right. And all through that I’m staring down at the concrete beneath me.

They start to call names up to the podium in alphabetical order by last name. I still have a few minutes until mine is called. Never mind, I have zero minutes until my name is called.

“Riley Adams,” a large booming voice calls. It reminds me of the time my coach called me over that day. I start to walk, parents clap politely, I stare ahead, parents cheer a little politely, I look up at the bleachers. Hundreds of people smile above me, not that I know any of them. I search the crowd for Hailey’s parents and sister, instead I find someone entirely different. There, sitting in the top row, wearing white jeans and a gray blouse, is my mother. She sees that I see her and smiles; tears start to flow lightly down her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she mouths to me.

“Me too,” I mouth back.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” I see her receding down the steps. I understand that she has to leave. My attention refocuses on the podium in front of me. I shake hands, smile, get my diploma, and start, once again walking. A feeling of warmth fills my existence to the brim. It’s like that feeling you get when you’re about to finish a rollercoaster, but there’s still one more bump left to overcome. I think they call it happiness.

Hailey got into this really good college in Maryland, and had me drive her up there, her family close behind.
We said our goodbyes earlier, when her family drove away, but she insisted that I walk her to her dormitory. Her room was in the east wing, on the first floor next to the wide marble staircase that lead to the door. As we arrived at the first step I felt something swell up inside of me, something I had never felt before. It wasn’t there before, it wasn’t there when we walked past the disgusting overflowing garbage can by the north entrance, but somehow, within a matter of seconds, it was there. It felt like, well, I can’t really explain it. You know that feeling when you’re about to do something you know you deeply don’t want to do, but you decide to do it anyway? That’s the feeling I felt. Or like when you reach deep inside yourself to do something brave and are about to do it and that feeling appears. That’s the feeling I had, only it lingered there longer than I expected. It stayed there and soon I had nothing to say. Nothing to say to someone who had been there for me when no one else had, someone who listened to me when I needed it, someone who actually cared.
“Well, this is it,” I said quietly. She turned to look me directly in the eyes.
“Yeah Riley, I guess it really is,” she replied. Her eyes gazed around her surroundings, taking in the beauty of a new world. She focused her attention back to me. “You are going to email me and call me lots, right?”
“Right.” I nodded slightly.
“You were the best friend I have ever had, Riley. I know that we barely knew each other. And I know that I’m not the best person to be around sometimes but, hey, we got through senior year pretty good, right?”
“Right,” I stated shyly again. The feeling was still there.
“Oh come here you little twig of a human being.” She hugged me tightly, and I wondered if, by hugging her, some of the horrible feeling went to her. As we stepped away, I knew that it hadn’t.
“Scared, Potter?” she asked. A smile crossed her tear-strung face.
“You wish, Malfoy,” I replied. “I’m gonna miss you, Hailey. More than I want to think about.”
She smiled and said, “Same, Riley. Same.” And with that she placed her foot on the first step and walked up, each foot hitting the small platform with a little clack.
The feeling was still there, but accompanying was another feeling. One that didn’t want to leave this place, or move on in life, or do anything without his best friend. The feeling wanted to pull Hailey back to me, so that we could talk more and make more clever analogies and eat chips and do what friends do, but somehow, I resisted.
And as she turned around when on the top step and waved with a smile and tears in her eyes, I realized that it was time to let go.
+++
So I decided to write a book, in memory of this year and my life, and I guess that’s what you’re reading now. Unless somehow you have accessed by rough draft files because you are part of the Secret Service or who knows what secret agency. But I highly doubt, and hope, you are not part of the Secret Service. I wrote this because I think that everyone goes through struggle. Scratch that line completely. I know that everyone goes through struggle, whether its physical, or mental, or somewhere in between.
And I know that struggle is hard. It’s hard to overcome, it’s hard to get through, it’s hard to forget. But if there’s one thing that is good about struggle is that it teaches life’s hardest lessons. Not the lessons that you learn from a math teacher, or any teacher for the matter of fact, the kind of lessons that are the hardest to understand.
So with that, I say goodbye. Goodbye locker, goodbye peers. Goodbye teachers, goodbye dirty bathrooms. Goodbye to the little closet in between two classrooms that has been my cover for so long. Goodbye worries, goodbye pain. Hello everyone. Hello to the people who struggle, to the ones left in the past, to the people who need to let go: you are not alone. Hello to your life that is one worth living. Hello freedom, hello truth.

Hello life.