Looking Up

Chapter 3

l feel a gentle shake on my shoulder. The touch makes me feel warm and joyful for a moment in my sleep fogged mind.

"Time for school," the soft voice of my mother says.

Instantly, all the happiness leaves me and a painful weight keeps me from moving. If I don't move, then the day won't begin. If I just stay still, then I won't have to go to school.

"I don't want to go." I croak out, snuggling further into my black blanket.

I hear a long drawn out sigh. "If you don't go to school, then we'll just take you to that support group instead."

I fly up into a sitting position like I just touched roaring flames. "I am not crazy!"

She rolls her eyes and helps me out of bed. I feel more anxiousness once I'm on my feet. The day has really started. I really wish it wouldn't.

I would like to be wrapped up in my cocoon of blankets, breathing in the sweet, cinnamon scent of my pillow. Allow the bed to swallow me up and warm up the coldest parts of me. It is something that not even the meanest of people can take away. The only thing I have left is hope, comfort, family, and my friend. They can't reach that in me. It is in the deepest parts of me, it is untouchable.

"I'm going to go make some pancakes while you get ready," my mom says, snapping me out of my daze.

I perk up a little at the mention of pancakes. The doughy center and welcoming heat of it always seems to invade my dreams at night.

"Can I have strawberries too?" I ask, licking my lips at the thought.

My mother lets out a gentle laugh and nods her head, making her light brown hair bounce a little. She kisses me on my moistened forehead from the nightmares last night, and hurries out of my room.

I start to throw stuff out of my old antique dresser, looking for the perfect outfit. Bridgett would say that it is stupid to get so worked up over what I wear, since people will have the same opinion of me, but I can't shake the feeling that I need to make a good first impression.

I smile to myself when I pull out a knee length, floral dress. I lay it out on my bed and reach on top of my dresser for a brush. I pat my hand down a few times before I realize that the brush isn't in its usual spot.

I go by my mirror and rummage around in my bin with makeup, until I find the red brush that I use. I sigh as I hear the sound of the buzzing fan, nothing else. You would think that I would be used to the loneliness by now, but I hate being alone.

I guess I do have my family, but with Asher being a jock and Keegan being only five, that isn't so much. I can't really complain about Keegan though. He has helped me through some hard times without even realizing it.

A year ago, when I had been contemplating whether life was worth living, I had just started talking to Keegan about what I was feeling. He just sat there, nibbling on his teddy bear's fur, so I was certain he wasn't really listening. That is until he said, "I don't know what I would do without you."

I had been in complete awe. I had started rambling on and on about how sweet he was, that is until I completely cut myself off when I realized that I was talking to him like a baby.

I put my brush on my bed next to the dress, and get a see through, purple scarf to finish off the look.

After I get dressed I look at myself through my fogged up mirror, with a layer of dust coating it. I can't quite make out the fine details of my face, but I can still make out my defined cheekbones. My mom says that it's a gift to have a face like mine, but nobody seems to agree.

As I turn around in the mirror one word repeats in my mind. Beautiful. I look stunning and as confident as those models I read about in Vogue.

I slide down the railing of the stairs and laugh as I almost lose my balance. For now I am okay. I won't be okay for long, but for now I am fine.

My mother is setting one of her fine antique plates out that she got right before Grandpa died. It is filled to the brim with fluffy pancakes. The smell invades my nose. It takes over every worry and every negative thought that could bring me down. I don't even remember sitting down on the cold leather seat at the newly cleaned breakfast bar.

I take a bite of the only real comfort of the morning and allow the heat of the freshly made pancakes to burn my throat on the way down. For now, this is all there is.

***

The maze of a school building stands in dried, browning grass with dying white flowers dangling down so their petals graze the ground. Bridgett is trailing behind me, lost in a daze of the dead flowers that for some reason dance in the wind in her, now dull, grey eyes.

A kid, who appears to be a walking skyscraper, towers over me with cold eyes, calling out to his large group of friends.

"Ready for the day?" Bridgett asks, fidgeting with the strap of her worn, pink backpack.

I sigh and look back at the boy with the the cold eyes. "As ready as I'll ever be."

The wave of anxious people going by me eventually forces me in their direction. Away from Bridgett and towards the cold stares, and idling chat. Most people turn their backs to me as I walk to the dark blue locker that I call mine, but some people stick out a long leg to trip me. I easily dodge them.

I am just about to solemnly close my locker when a large hand slams it for me, getting the attention from the whole hallway. Before my eyes stands the boy from outside. His stare is scary, but his eyes hold a gentle blue hue.

"Watch where you're going!" he shouts so loud my shiny hair blows back.

I cower back slightly and feel my face quickly redden. He scowls at me and then walks over to his laughing group of friends. I lay a hand against the cold metal of my locker and breathe in deeply. It seems like as good a time as any to use some skills I've learned at support group.

***

"I would rather die than listen to that kid's snotty attitude," Bridgett says after listening to the blue eyed boy, Alexander, rant on about some petty problem at lunch. "Sure he's handsome and all, but I can't stand him."

I follow her cold stare to Alexander, and for the first time really study him beyond his eyes. He looks older than his surrounding friends, his shoulders brouder and his posture holding a dominant sense. His brown hair is shaved so it barely shows. He is handsome, but I don't care. He's also a big jerk.

"I could swear I remember seeing him walking around with the eighth graders last year," I say matter-a-factly.

Bridgett shoves a potato chip in her mouth and says, "That's because he got held back."

I roll my eyes and take a huge bite out of my bright red apple and let the sweet juice fill my mouth. I feel my lips tugging at a smile from the memory of my mom shining the apple at the crowded grocery store.

"Can I come over after school?" Bridgett says, nervously biting her lower lip.

I nod slowly, suddenly enticed by my apple as I say, "Why?"

She leans back in her stool slightly, tugging at the sleeves of her white, cotton sweater. A frown is deeply planted on her face, and her eyes are hazed over and staring off into space. Just as quick as the gloomy look came, it's gone. Replaced by Bridgett's usual face. Happy.

"My mother's back in town," she says, crinkling her small nose up. "She won't stop arguing with my dad."

I nod serenely, and continue picking at the skin of my apple, occasionally sneaking a glance at Bridgett, trying to read the thoughts echoing in her mind. Who really is Bridgett?