How to be Basic

iv.

I'm really liking this story, so I think I'm going to stick with it for awhile.  Let me know what you think of this chapter in the comments ✌️

This chapter is dedicated to xxAveragelyUniquexx for the wonderful banner :)

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"Brooklyn?" My mom's soft voice woke me from my light slumber. "Honey, you're going to be late for school, your alarm must've not gone off." I refused to move and instead started counting the dots on my ceiling. She bent over my bed and felt my cheek before turning my light back off and closing my door. I could hear the muffled sounds of her getting ready for work downstairs, and eventually saw her car pull out of the driveway.

I could always show up late, I already did the work for Crawfish's class so I wouldn't really be missing out on much. Or I could catch up on the sleep I missed last night. I let out a loud groan and threw my favorite pillow on the floor, forcing myself to get up and get it. God damn, I felt like trash. The pounding of my head was enough to make me want to bang it against the wall. Guess I'd better shower now that I'm up.

Where's my phone? I quickly threw my wet hair up into a bun and literally jumped into a pair of jeans and flopped around for a couple of seconds until they were on properly. God, skinny jeans are a pain. My comforter was thrown on the floor in a giant pile with my pillows. Where'd I throw my phone last night? I lifted up my mattress, but only found a quarter and a couple stray socks. Suddenly the events of last night hit me, making me sit down.

I found my phone in a jar filled with marbles on my desk, a spidery crack covering more than half the once-pristine screen. I shakily turned it back on, looking at all the missed calls and texts. Seeing the Georgia area code was enough to make me sick, and even though I had deleted the contact, I still - disgustingly - knew the number by heart.

The kitchen was empty, and the only thing I could find to eat was toast, which didn't really sound appetizing this morning. I decided to skip breakfast altogether and went to the living room. My dad must've gone to the office today, because he wasn't here or in his study. The book he was reading was sitting on the wooden coffee table, precariously balanced on the edge. When he couldn't sleep, he'd bring a pillow and a book to the living room and just chill there. On more than one occasion, I've joined him, and we'd stay up late talking about problematic plot lines and our hatred for weak female characters. I faintly smiled at the memories. We haven't done anything like that since the move.

I grabbed the book and examined its spine, curling up on the spot on the couch where my dad would normally sit. He was reading one of Hemingway's books; he loved war novels. I opened it, but instead of finding my dad's neat signature that indicated his ownership on the inside cover, several glossy pamphlets slid out and onto my lap.

I stared horrified at the titles. Ways to Help Your child Fight Depression. What Is Self-Harm? Which Therapy Is Right for Your Child? Understanding the Mind of A Teenager....

Slamming the book closed, I rushed upstairs and grabbed my stuff. I switched out my sweatshirt for a simple light blue button-up. I stumbled and struggled with the buttons, trying to steady my shaking and suddenly clammy hands. My studded black flats were already by the door, and I made my bun a little messier before stumbling out of the house, trying to ignore the fact that I could have an anxiety attack at any moment.

The old Honda managed to get me to school just after Crawfish's class ended, so I got the luxury of walking to AP Chem in an empty hallway. I did get a warning from the lady at the front desk, but I didn't listen to what else the horse-toothed woman said.