M.I.A.

Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

Sydney

Sighing to myself, I roll off of my bed and promptly land in a pile of stuff. I make a mental note to organize things after I talk to Dad and head downstairs.

Dad is still sitting at the kitchen table, his fingers flying over the keys of his laptop. I don't think he has moved since I finished my homework and went up to my room.

I stop in the doorway and wait for him to notice me. He never notices me, never sees me—whether I'm perfect like my sister or the polar opposite. He and Mom both only ever really pay attention to Mia. I can't stand it. I've been doing really well with my maintenance phase, taking my meds. My delusions have stopped. And I am trying to stay motivated and organized. Though, my failing English didn't help any...

Just look at me!

He suddenly stops typing and glances down at his cell phone—which is strategically positioned beside his hand. Ready to be picked up in an instant. He stares at it, willing it to ring.

Shaking my head to myself, I step into the room. "She's fine, Dad. She just called me."

He looks up at me then back at his phone, his expression both annoyed and somehow vulnerable—as if confused that Mia would willingly call me over him. "Can't she call me and tell me that herself?"

I shove my hand under my dreads, hugging the back of my neck in discomfort. I try not to look for subtle meaning under his words. The paranoia is always there, always underneath. The fear that my parents don't believe me anymore. The sickness made me a liar, made me delusional. Even though I've improved, I'm afraid they still remember what it was like living with me when I had acute episodes. I fear they never recovered. And without Mia here as a buffer, proving that I actually matter, it's all too plain to me that my father wishes I was never born.

I take a deep breath, trying to put together a way to explain why Mia didn't call him. Telling Dad that Mia's upset about her bestie screwing her crush is practically the equivalent of talking about periods and reproduction with my Dad. "Look, she's having a drama queen moment right now. I don't think she wants to deal with you yelling at her for not checking in."

His brows crimp, disgruntled, as if offended that I'd suggest he'd yell at Mia for anything. And he wouldn't. He'd be all, "You okay, pumpkin?"

And she'd be, "Yeah, Daddy, I'm super! I'm sorry, I'm having so much fun, I forgot to call."

And he'd smile and say, "Well, you have fun, just don't forget to let me know how much fun you're having. Okay, pumpkin?"

And she'd be, "Okay, Daddy!" And she wouldn't call anymore for the rest of the night and she still wouldn't get in trouble.

I'm the one who would get yelled at and grounded.

Finally, he says, "Does she need me to go pick her up?"

Ace, Dad, your superhero cloak is showing. "No. She's not even at the party anymore."

His face closes down for a moment and I all I can think is, He doesn't believe you. "Where is she?"

I could tell him, but would it matter? Do truth and lies even matter anymore? I shrug and try my best to look guilty, to look like I'm lying. "I don't know."

Sighing, he looks away. The conversation is over.

I linger anyway, annoyed that, at this point, he won't even argue with me or yell at me for lying. "She said she's okay. She just needs some time alone. She says she'll be home soon and she doesn't want you to wait up for her."

He doesn't look away from the screen, the light of it shines in the lenses of his glasses—two white squares. "Okay." One stupid word. That's his cue to be left alone.

Still, I remain. Waiting and hoping for a conversation. When he doesn't say anything, I grasp for something. "Where's Mom?"

"She went to bed as soon as she got home from spin. Her stomach hurt."

I frown to myself. "I told her not to eat my leftover Chinese food. It's too rich for that new diet she's on."

He shoots me an almost disgusted glare, as if I've said something lewd. "I need to finish this report, Sydney."

And just like that, the conversation is over. Stiff with annoyance, I turn on my heel and retreat. I make sure to stomp up the stairs, to slam my door. And then I turn my music up as high as it will go. Zedd's "Clarity" bounds off the walls, ricocheting off of paintings I made in therapy and ping-ponging down to get caught in the rat's nest that is my room. Clothes, papers, half-read books, dirty dishes, discarded wrappers, stinky shoes.

I navigate toward my bed, the only halfway empty space in the room, and perch in the hollow between all the blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals. I stare at myself, reflected back from the be-stickered mirror on the back of the door. I see myself, a perfect picture of an insane, unloved girl. Beyond her hollow reflection, her paintings show the pain and the monsters hovering around her. Her disastrous room is a metaphor for her mind. And all around her, perched on the shelves to either side of her, are the chapstick-rimmed glasses and the pill bottles.

If I didn't take the pills, if I just gave up and let myself think whatever I believed—if I let myself truly believe that I'm not crazy, that they are the crazy ones and they're trying to only make me think I'm crazy—would I be happier? Would the girl in the mirror look normal? Would the crazy, dark things come alive from the pictures and swirl about her? I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I believed one way or another. I wish I could decide what truth was real.