Not Your Average Prep

Chapter Four

Sorry for such a long wait for such a short chapter! I've been kind of distant with my stories, but I didn't have school today so I decided to update! Enjoy!

My eyes flutter open, and as soon as I'm conscious I feel the pain again. It stabs into my arm, my head, my everything. I am in a hospital bed, with an IV tube in my arm. Liquid pain courses into my arm through the tube, and I reach to pull it out.

I immediately regret trying. Searing pain jabs my forearm, and I wince. It feels completely destroyed. I grit my teeth and try to bare the pain. 

A nurse enters the room and sees that I'm awake. "What the he--" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"Oh, ya awake." He grins, to reveal a set of crooked, white teeth. He has an odd accent, something vaguely redneck/Irish. 

"Yeah...?"

"Nothing, it just took a little while than longer this time." He started to change the bag that was coursing liquid into my arm.

"How long has it been?" I interrogate.

"Eh... Six, maybe seven weeks."

I sit up. "What? Two months? No. No, no, no! Imagine every party I've missed, every guy that's messaged me, every friend that's wanted to talk!" I shove a pillow in my face and scream into it.

"I wouldn't do that," he advises, "stress is bad for ya."

"Whatever," I choke out.

"Besides, I wouldn't be too worried about ya friends."

"Why's that?" I spit. 

He finishes changing the old bag, and sits on a chair. "Hey. Kid. I've been... Listening, ya know?" He leaned in close. "Ya momma's been on the phone a lot in here. From what I reckon, not many people were too fond of ya after da accident. Whole lotta yellin'. Hey, you ain't heared it from me."

'They-- they didn't-- they didn't visit me, did they." It's more of a statement than a question. My face falls, and my stomachs wrenches with pain and betrayal. I guess I brought it upon myself, being so mean to everyone, but I thought that's what they wanted. I suppose not. I blink back hot tears threatening to spill on my flushed cheeks.

He shrugs, and I close my eyes. This is awful. You'd think at least one of my friends would come and see me!

"Where's Miranda?" I whisper.

"Not everyone was as lucky as you. She's still asleep, over in the next room."

I let out a little whimper. No wonder that nobody visited me. I put Miranda in the hospital,  for who knows how long.

I give in and start to cry. I dab at my eyes, trying to still look cute, but it's no use. I know my eyes are red and puffy and my nose the same. I know I look hideous.

But it's weird; for some reason, I can't bring myself to care.

Two weeks later, I'm let out of the hospital with a cast on my arm and in a wheelchair. My legs aren't paralyzed, just way too weak to support my body. The doctor said that I could be in there anywhere from six months to forever.

When we get home, my dad has to carry me into the house (there are stairs leading up to the porch, and no ramp. Lucky me.). It was embarrassing, but luckily nobody was there. He sets me on the couch and walks away.

"Can't I go upstairs?" I whine. I don't want to be where he can see me all day.

"No. I'm sorry, but you're injured-- and grounded. You're not leaving our sight."

"What am I grounded for?" Like I did anything wrong! Hello, I was in the hospital! I should be getting sympathy fruit baskets, not a punishment!

"You were driving under the influence of alcohol! Not only are you in trouble with us, but with the law! You have a DUI, underage drinking, reckless driving, resisting arrest--"

"Okay, okay, I get it!" More tears spring to my eyes. This really sucks. I can't go to jail! No way. My dad will get a great lawyer. I won't go to jail. 

My dad storms off into his room and slams the door like a grumpy teenager. Then, my mom creeps into the room, slowly, gently.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Her soft voice is like honey. She sits down on the couch next to me and starts stroking my hair. "He's just upset. We'll try and get you a lawyer. You won't go to jail. We'll fight for community service, or something."

We sit there in comfortable silence. Then, I say: "When do I have to go back to school?"

"Whenever you're comfortable with it," she replies. "I couldn't bare to send you to school all beat up like this if you didn't say you'd be fine. Really. Stay home as long as you want. I'll have Maria bring in your schoolwork."

I almost spit out a retort, but I think better of it. This is a rare moment, a moment when nobody's screaming, when nobody's fighting, and we're sitting here, like an actual, real, happy mother and daughter. Who am I to ruin this? She's happy.

I'm happy.

I'm shocked for a second. I'm... Happy? With my parents? This hasn't happened since, like, second grade!

I decide to stop worrying and start enjoying it. I lay my head on her lap and drift off to sleep.