Tantrum

Ch. 2: I Got This

Hammering. Who in the hell is hammering at this time of day? I lift my head to make sure it's not just the throbbing in my head. Nope, that's going a different tempo.

I throw my short fuzzy legs outside of the covers and hiss at the immediate cold. I hate winter, but I hate wearing pants to bed even more. I get all wound up in them because I move too much in bed.

I stub my toe as I stumble out of bed. Who in the hell left that bottle in the middle of the floor? Animals, I tell ya! I try to grab my pajama pants from the hook, but they get caught. I yank harder just to hear a loud rip.

"Ah come on!" I groan. I take a moment to collect myself, only to realize the hammering has stopped. The head throbbing, not so much. Since I'm up, I make my way to the bathroom and find my best friend, Heath, passed out against the side of the bathtub.

I climb over his legs and park myself on the toilet, examining his state of disarray. Heath is a real diva about his appearance, but right now he looks wrecked. All because he wanted to ring in my birthday this year like people a decade younger than us would. I feel like such an amateur for letting him talk me into that.

But really he was just trying to raise my spirits. The whole Santa fiasco ended up casting a shadow over the entire Christmas season. Our first Christmas together too. I didn't see any jail time, but I was restricted from being on school premises and was given community service hours. The judge also threatened a visit from Child Protective Services that loomed over us, but never came to fruition.

Mason blamed himself despite my best efforts to convince him otherwise. It didn't help that Tim was shitty to both of us over the whole thing. I focused on salvaging what I could of Christmas, but in my anger and stress over the whole situation, I would have failed miserably if it wasn't for Heath and my mom.

Heath declared my birthday as the end of the bullshit, leading me through baptism by fire. Or more correctly liquor. Lots and lots of liquor.

An acidic burp errupts in my throat and I groan, instantly feeling like I might toss my stomach contents. I reach for the wastebasket next to my feet, tilting my head back and trying to regain my center. I hear Heath groan. "Fuck. I'm going to be sick."

"Here." I thrust the wastebasket at him and finish my business while he buries his face in the plastic lining and starts to heave. I hurry out of the bathroom, holding my breath, knowing if I smell vomit that I'll soon follow.

Thankfully the sound of Heath tossing his cookies is muffled by that incessant hammering. Slightly more alert, I realize it's someone at the front door. I search for my robe, only to realize it's in the occupied bathroom. Fuck it. I pull on a hoodie that barely covers my underwear and scurry down the hall. Whoever it is hasn't taken the hint that their visit is unexpected and unwanted.

And what the hell time is it anyway?

I throw open the door, about to let whoever it is have it. I'm met by a handsome man, dressed in a kelly green collared shirt and gray pressed pants. He looks like he's either here to convert me to his religion or sell me something. While he's nice to look at, not interested on either front.

He lifts his green-eyed gaze to me and frowns. It takes me aback a bit so I blurt out. "What the hell do you want?"

He cocks an eyebrow and shifts, clasping a clipboard in both of his hands in front of his waist as he fixes me with an unimpressed look. "Guinevere O'Neal? My name is Spencer Phillips. I'm a social worker with Child Protective Services. May I come in?"

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." I groan, as my heart and stomach drop simultaneously.

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. I have a court-ordered evaluation to complete." He informs me.