Hello, my name is Loser

Chapter 3: Wakey Wakey

I can't sleep. Instead I watch as the sky changes outside the window. I want to blame my restless night on the ungodly smell of the pullout bed, but I know it's more than that. My mind won't stop replaying how things left off at University. I can still see Tammy standing at the foot of my bed while my limbs are frozen and my mind numb.  

"Dude, Jay is really mad. You're supposed to be the RA not their supplier. You'll be lucky if he doesn't report you to college housing," She says in her nasally voice. I wonder for the hundredth time about her tone. She sounded almost...relieved. "What happened to you, Sam?" 

The fan that I fished from the sea of the garage whirrs steadily from across the room, blowing bits of my hair back. I wish it was louder so it could drown out Tammy's question that echoes through my mind. 

"What happened to you, Sam?" 

The truth is. I don't know. I have no fucking idea what's wrong with me. Everything? Nothing? One thing I do know is that no one would understand. Especially, not my parents. 

I roll over and drop my hand off the side of the bed and smack the floor, searching for my phone. The only outlet in this place is so low to the ground it's like it was made for mice. I find the charging cord and drag in the line until I have the phone in my hand. 6:00AM. I can try for sleep some more or risk foraging inside the house for food. The rumbling of my stomach fills the room and I groan. That answers that. 

I throw back the thin sheet I found in one of the boxes and grudgingly get up. Maybe my parents are still asleep. I try to remember their sleep schedule from last time I was home. Dad got up at...eight? No, maybe nine. I throw on some shorts under my oversized T-shirt and don't bother with shoes. My mind flicks to Bobby and the photograph still lingering on the foot of the bed along with my painting supplies. 

What would he say? 

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, "Nope, nuh uh. Not gonna daydream today. Stay in the present, Sam." 

Before I change my mind I'm out the door, tripping over the lip of the threshold, and stumbling down the walkway to the back deck. The backyard looks disappointingly ordinary in the light of dawn. But it's the florescent lighting emitting from the back door that is even more disappointing. I mount the deck and peer through the glass. 

Oh shit. Unless my mom grew substantially within the last couple of hours that is most definitely a man. My fists clench and unclench. I run through scenarios of a burglar or a murderer being in the kitchen, anything to convince myself it's not the man who makes up fifty percent of my DNA, but then he turns around and I want to run back to the garage. 

I would have if his eyes didn't meet mine. It's a fraction of a second, but I see surprise bleed into confusion, and then something else, but it's too quick. Then I'm taking a short breath and pulling a smile onto my face as I slide the door open. 

Only it doesn't open. It's locked. I try again. Great. Fucking. Great. 

I shrug, and tap the glass like this is the funniest little coinky-dink. I might as well be saying "Oh, gee would ya look at that?" Anything to maintain the image of a jovial daughter returning after a successful final college semester. And if you don't think about it literally at all, then "successful" is really just a subjective word. It can mean anything. 

My father approaches the door hesitantly like I'm a stray raccoon that showed up for scraps. His dark hair, the same shade as mine, is combed back and matches the pristine condition of his dress shirt and khakis.

The door clicks open. "Sam," He says like he's spitting out an unfamiliar flavor. Then he's turning away before I can react, back to the counter where a thermos waits. His polished leather shoes practically glide across the floor. 

"Morning," I choke out. My palms are sweaty, despite the cool temperature of the interior. I close the door slowly, like it's as interesting as the cup from yesterday. I wipe my palms on my shorts and face him. 

He's stirring the contents of his thermos, gaze fixed on whatever's in it. Coffee I'd guess by the hazelnut-ty smell of the kitchen. 

"You're mom mentioned you were here last night." He clinks his spoon on the metal rim, producing an audible clink clink. Then he rests the spoon in the sink, "I thought she was messing with me." His brown eyes return to mine. An uncomfortable mirror. 

I shrug again, "I graduated early." A nervous laugh escapes me and I clear my throat. 

He checks his watch. 

"Late for work?"

"Never," He huffs. "Early you say?"

"Mhhmm," I nod. 

"What was your final GPA?"

I pull a number out of my ass, "Three point eight."

"Not 4.0?"

I rummage through the cabinet and snag a bowl, a spoon, and a box of Cheerios. It's boring and if I still lived here the only cereal inhabiting the cabinet would be Lucky Charms, but it'll do. I fidget with opening the box. 

"No. I had a tough -- ," I fill my bowl, "last semester and --" I navigate past him to the fridge and grab some milk. This is a conversation I do not want to have on zero sleep. Well, actually never having it in general would be great.

"So you didn't try hard enough." 

I pause mid pour of the milk. 

"Try hard enough?" It's a sentence that brings the gears in my head to a halt. I can practically hear them screeching like rusted cogs, like I'm misfiring. Blood pulses in my ears and I hear the breath wooshing in and out of my nostrils, "Didn't try hard enough? I graduated early." 

Does he know I'm lying? Can he see me? I feel the panic building in my chest. 

"Sam, is that you yelling?" 

I blink. Sounds come flooding back to me. The milk carton is clutched in my grasp on the table. There's too much milk in the bowl. Damn. When I look up I see my mom peering from down the hall, her small head peaking over the banister of the stairs. 

I clear my throat again. "Sorry, I ah...I didn't mean to yell." 

I feel them staring. 

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Oop! Almost forgot. 

Thank you Lovelies for making it this far. I appreciate you for voting, following, liking. It really means a lot to me. What do you think about Pops? hmm? Can you say dysfunctional? 

---Heather :)