The Boy Who Lives In My Garage > jariana (COMPLETED)

twenty

If I sleep at all, it's not much. When my alarm goes off, I feel simultaneously drunk and hungover, but my memories from last night are a thousand miles away from the fun of a party. While I get ready for school, not caring what my hair, clothes, or makeup look like, I listen to my parents' conversation, filtering up from the kitchen.

They're talking about how they have to keep this hush-hush. How both of their jobs will be affected if anyone finds out. How their reputations will be ruined. The more they talk, the angrier I get. Not only are they not trusting me, not listening to the fact that I swear what the officers said can't be true, but they're turning it around to be completely about them. Two years ago they didn't want to be the Parents of the Girl Whose Best Friend Killed Herself. Now they don't want to be the Parents of the Girl Who Fell for an Accused Murderer. They're missing the parts where all of this is happening to me. Not them.

"I just can't believe she lied to us," Mom says as I creep downstairs. "Flat out lied to our faces."

That's it. I'm done.

I walk into the kitchen. "It's hilarious that the only lies you care about are the ones that negatively impact your life," I snap. "The rest are fine."

"What are you talking about?" Mom asks, looking at me like I'm insane.

"I lie to you all the damn time." The words are lava, and I am a volcano. "I lie to you about Justin. About drinking. About sneaking out. Those lies? You care. Because they make you look bad. But every single time I said I was fine after Kayla died, I lied, too."

Both of my parents visibly flinch at the mention of Kayla's name, which drives home my point even further. "Every time I said I didn't need to talk about what happened, I lied. You were more than happy to accept those lies because they were exactly what you wanted to hear. The only person who cared about the truth, who cared about whether I was actually okay, was Justin. He cared more about me than either of you, and if he's a murderer, what does that make you?"

The memory of Mom holding me after Kayla died threatens to resurface. Squashing it, I stomp out of the kitchen, throw on a pair of shoes, and storm through the vacant garage to Alyssa's car. For once, I'm ready to go before she is, so I pace back and forth from one side of the driveway to the other. When tears blur my vision, I blame them on the cold.

Alyssa appears a moment later, followed closely by my dad. "Ariana, come back inside and let's talk about this."

"Let's go," I plead with Alyssa, my hand already on the locked passenger door.

The dilemma is clear in her expression. Drive away with me and disobey our dad. Refuse to unlock the door and risk my wrath. After another second of hesitation, she unlocks the doors and climbs in.

I get in, and I slam the door so hard the car rocks back and forth. Alyssa doesn't say a word. We're already out of the neighborhood and on the main street when she asks, "You okay?"

"No."

She nods and is silent for another half mile. "You can pick the radio station if you want."

It's not a luxury I'm afforded very often, so I flip through until I find a harsh, intense song that matches my mood. I turn the volume up loud enough to hurt, but it does nothing to ease my anger.

Alyssa doesn't complain the entire drive.

...

"Stupid piece of shit," I grumble under my breath as I give my locker a good, swift kick. Because of course if the hunk of metal is going to open easily 179 out of 180 days, today is the day it's not going to cooperate.