I'm Scared of Heights | ONC 2023 ✔️

5) Spontaneous Crushing Combustion

Winn

This is it.

After twenty-four hours of perfect timing and preparation, I'm dragging Dad out of the house this fateful Saturday. God, I hope he doesn't make a fool of himself again. Mom's lawyer friend nearly knocked him in. I'm sure anyone would after repeatedly being hit on by a rando ten years older. Well, I can't blame him either. I didn't sober him up enough.

I squint my eyes in the guest room mirror, concentrating on the dark spots under my eyeballs. According to Google, peach-colored concealer is supposed to remedy this. At first, as an uninformed human, I thought color-correcting the area would do, but this method is superior. Who would've thought?

I snag my checkered flannel off the unmade guest bed. Then swing my kid-sized leather satchel across my good shoulder. The bag makes an "oof" sound, springing in thin air. The sack strains to capsule my load of papers, and it hangs like a man purse. Maybe I should get a new bag. But it's the most extraordinary hide out there! What is that even supposed to mean? It's just cow skin. What? Nevermind.

The turquoise-painted hallway speckled with super glued sea shells and dust-covered photos greets me like a slap, nothing unfamiliar. I tug my bag closer. Why haven't I taken those down? I mean, seriously. Why haven't I touched those or even my old room? You'd think we would've gotten over it by now, but here we are six years later with Mom's unfinished projects littering the house like cans on a highway.

When I reach the kitchen, my head lightens further. Swatches of color splotch the solid white cabinets, and a Tiffany blue vase rests under the dirt-coated window. The plant it houses remains the only alive being in this house.

I want to puke.

Again.

Saturday, why have you forsaken me? Seriously, I only threw up once yesterday. Granted, I was in a public bathroom, Price almost got a show, and Natalie sort of outed the falsities I spat—a pretty eventful twenty minutes. And hopefully, there won't be a repeat. Imagine if there was though. I cringe, plucking a granola bar from the top shelf. God, what kind of deranged thought is that?

Having bloody vomit a third times doesn't sound fun.

Powering on my phone, I rub my eyes at fifty-plus messages. Half wish me good morning, a quarter ask if I'm tutoring on Monday, and the rest question if I can volunteer at Scramble's booth today. But that's generalizing. Some are wonky, and others need an immediate reply. For instance, a sophomore I met a few months ago texted the entire Shrek script. As for an immediate reply, Kyle wants confirmation for our, truthfully boring, weekly meeting today, like the paranoid humanoid he is. Not to mention, this is my personal phone. My business phone exploded overnight, costing me two hours of reorganizing matches and updating profiles for Scramble at five. Not that I'm complaining.

Groggily, I slide into a battered chair, willing myself to comb through the personal messages. Nearly ninety percent of the good mornings contain heart or sun emojis. Eighty percent are from peeps who are crushing or have crushed on me. And then there's Natalie, with no emojis and correct punctuation. She isn't grilling me with questions or passively informing me about medical conditions connected to coughing blood. Thank, God.

The aspect shouldn't be of much effect anyway. I'll mention the blood at my next appointment, no problem, probably a new side effect of the medicine since it's only happened twice. The appointment is only ten days away anyway. Besides, after all those tests, how could anything go wrong? Plus, Dr. Thomas is forever great.

"We need to go," Dad announces, voice crackling like a candy wrapper.

Blinking up at Dad, I still don't see him anymore, not like I expect anything else. Instead of a guy with taut features, gelled hair, and a dry-cleaned suit, there's a guy with a skeleton-like face, greasy hair, and a light blue button-up and khakis worn to a thread. Then there's me, an odd comparison to Dad in succession. I'm an unchanged humanoid of style with the same red star embroidered Chucks, plain tees, boot-cut jeans, and flannels galore. I couldn't say the same for my hair. That changed.