Motorcycle Girl

Chapter 4: Inhaling Poison

Chapter 4: Inhaling Poison

My anxiety is through the roof as I stare at the time.

8:24PM

It's Tuesday. I cut classes Monday while my cheek healed and worked Tuesday, and now it's Tuesday night, and I have to show my face in French class and I don't know what to do.

Mason is no help. He doesn't know anything about when to apologize, Brenda gets upset about everything. If Brenda elbowed him in the ribs like French Fry did to me, he'd have apologized.

I scowl down at my cell phone as I pick it up off of the mattress next to me.

If my mother walked into my bedroom right now, she would kill me.

I took my sheets of Sunday night to wash them, and I washed them, but they sit in a heap on the floor next to my dresser, and I'm using a pink blanket I found in the closet. Mason told me it's Brenda's blanket but I don't give a shit because it's soft. I've been sleeping directly on my mattress with nothing covering it. Clothing and shoes litter my floor because my hamper is overflowing and I have no desire to do laundry.

Bottles of water litter my side table, and my floor around it. I have four or five bowls in here and maybe six plates with utensils for every object.

I go to my contacts and go to P.

I click on Peyton, staring at her number.

I hardly call her, so when she picks up on the third ring, I'm not surprised.

"What do you want, Nate?" She asks.

"Is that how to greet your baby brother?" I ask.

Peyton is five years older than me, at twenty eight, and we have a younger brother, Julian, and he's seventeen. I'm five years older than him, and Peyton is ten years older than him.

"Sorry, you only call me when you need money or a ride from the airport or something." She says. "So how much money do you need?"

"I don't need money." I glare at the bedroom door. It's pitch black in here but I've been too lazy to reach over and turn the light on.

"Then what do you need?"

I chew on my bottom lip, muttering in response.

"What?" She asks.

"Advice." I mumble.

"Nathan, you're twenty three." She says. "Speak up."

"Advice!" I snap.

She's quiet, and then I hear a shuffling.

"You need advice?" She asks. "You need to talk? You never call me to talk." She sounds concerned now. "What's happened?"

I swallow.

"I got slapped in the face on Monday." I say.

"What?" She asks. "Why?"

I explain everything to her.

"I called her a brat." I say. "And she asked if my mother ever taught me how to treat a lady, and I told her yes, that she wasn't a lady so it didn't apply to her, and then I told her that she probably doesn't talk to her Mom, and then she slapped me across the face, screamed at me in French, and then cut class."

"Nathan!" she scolds. "What the hell happened to you? You used to be such the gentlemen. I remember when you were five and you used to run in front of me or Mom to open doors for us before we could do it ourselves. You were so sweet up until you were nineteen when that girl asked for Mason's number and ever since then, you've been a dick to everyone, letting doors slam into our faces...you don't even wear your old sweaters anymore. You used to be so sweet. You could meet the nicest girl, but no, instead, you choose to go after girls and insult them. Don't think I don't know how you talk to Mason's girlfriend."