We are the Young|| jughead jones

Chapter Eight: Portraits of Trust

I shove my fingers down my throat one last time, and my stomach sends back up what little is left inside of it. My vomit is clear, and that's when I know I'm done. There's no food left in me, all I need to do now is take my handful of pills and do my hair in a way that covers the bald spots, which don't exist because if I ignore them long enough, they'll go away.

Until after washing my hands, my phone goes off. Flipping it over, I get a good look at my screen. It's a text notification.

~*~

Birth Giver

Hi honey, how are things going??

~*~

I leave it purposely unread. It's a bitchy move, I know, but the sheer amount of crap that I don't give would astound anyone.

I shove my phone in my bookbag, swallow my pills, and leave the house, giving Grandma a quick 'good morning, goodbye' as I leave.

Anxiety hums in my veins today, and I make a note to myself to look to see if I have any Xanax left, even though I don't. I just try to ignore the test that's burning a hold in my bag. When I scratch my head, I notice that my nails are slightly red.

Well, shit. Now my scalp is bleeding.

It's a typical Friday, as far as I know. My last Friday I spent confused and trying not to touch anyone, and I'm spending this one the exact same way, but with less confusion. I weave my way through the halls, clenching my fists, and try to comfort myself with the fact that I'm wearing five layers today. It's like I'm hyper aware of everything, though, like my senses are on high alert. I can tell when strands of my hair detach from my head and float to the ground, when people accidentally touch my bag, and how their shoes touch mine.

Biology is a relief. Nobody is near me, except Jughead, who sits exactly one foot and two inches away from me.

"So you didn't skip town?" Jughead asks me as he shuts his laptop and slides it into his backpack.

"I'm giving Riverdale a chance." I reply. "I finished the theory on the frog dissection. What did I miss?"

"Not much. Review of the reproductive system, that's it. We're on genetics."

My phone buzzes in my bag, and I take it out.

~*~

Birth Giver

How is your day?? I want to know all the details! Are there any cute boys?

~*~
I don't finish reading the whole thing, I just drop it back into my bag with an annoyed sigh.

"Birth giver? What's your mom telling you that's got you angry?"

"Nothing." I deflect. "She just misses me."

Lies, lies, all lies. I never stop lying and I never will, at this rate. Unless I suddenly move to a cabin in the Rocky Mountains and never talk to anybody ever again, I'm going to be lying until the day I die. I pull my sleeves down as a nervous tic and pull out a pencil.

"Excuse me," Mr. Weatherbee says as he pushes past our teacher into the classroom, followed by a police officer. He has a stern look on his face, and it makes my blood turn to ice. I grip the table so tightly that the skin across my knuckles turns white.