Orange Juice

'Sissa

The most challenging aspect of being a people pleaser is, well, being a people pleaser.

However, a stroke of luck came our way when Barbers BBQ expanded due to the fantastic weather, prompting the town to relocate it to the park in the square. This change of venue provided me with more space to blend in and avoid attention. Despite my reluctance, my mother skillfully convinced me to attend. From the sidelines, I observed Colby happily engaging with other children in the sandbox.

Amidst the cacophony of the world, her girlish giggles and sweet voice stood out, but I couldn't escape the piercing gazes of judgment and the hushed whispers. Nevertheless, I accepted it as my penance, a consequence for my shitiness. It seemed like the least I deserved. The beauty of hitting rock bottom is that the only way to go is up.

"Whats your poison?" I glance up from my fixated gaze, finding Andrew Barber smirking above me.

Quirking my brow I lay a sneer right on him, "Very funny," I snip.

"Orange juice?" He hands me a juice box, but what I really want is the beer he has fisted in his left hand, and then I want another and another and then 15 more.

I want to tell him to scram, I'm not in the mood for his quips or lectures. And the absolute last thing I want is for him to ask me -

"Are you okay?" His brows soften and he gives me that famous Barber smile.

"Get a fucking life Andrew."

His face twitches exasperated, "I'm great Andy, thanks for asking. How are you?"

"Don't be facetious." I deadpan.

He shakes his head, "Marissa, c'mon. I'm trying here..."

"You don't have to do anything other than leave me alone, I'm fine standing here watching my daughter play." I glance around at the gawping onlookers, "people are watching." I tell him.

"Let them watch, fuck, let them talk. We're friends."

"Were friends," I correct him.

I know that I'm being harsh, I have enough brain cells intact to know that. But I want to be alone, heck, I deserve it. Right now I resemble a bag of mismatched screws. And Andy Barber is the epitome of composure.

His mouth pressed together he offers me a feeble smile, "Well alright then." He mutters disappointment evident on his face as he slumps away towards the grill.

I notice my mother making her way through the group of gossiping women. The fiery red ends of her hair serve as a reminder of her fading youth, now overshadowed by white roots. She approaches me, clearly concerned about Andy, as she is mortified that a respectable individual like Andrew Barber would engage in conversation with me - Marissa Coulter, an alcoholic and junkie.

Appearing rather suspicious, she stands before me and asks, "What were you and Andy talking about?"

I knew it.

"He wanted to buy drugs." I nonchalantly shrugged, patting myself down as I rummaged through my pockets in search of the pack of cigarettes I had thought I packed. It was a relief when I finally discovered it tucked away inside the inner pocket of my sleek leather jacket.

"You're not funny at all," my mother chided, her disapproval potent in her tone.

Ignoring her comment, I proceeded to light the cigarette, drawing in a deep breath to let the nicotine fill my lungs. As I exhaled a cloud of smoke, I casually glanced over my mother's shoulder, noticing the hyenas gawking at us. Maureen Murphy, known for her exceptional lip-reading skills, and Susannah Friedman, with her uncanny ability to hear even the faintest sounds, were both present. With a mischievous smile, I waved at them, fully aware that they could catch every word we were saying.