No Pills

1. Dad

It's easy to laugh when I'm mad.
It's easy to smile when I'm sad.

But it's not easy convincing the one who knows my heart, beat by beat, that -

"- I am ok."

"Meaning?"

"I'm fine, Dad."

"Sure, shark."

Yet he knows that ever since his arrest, I've been everything but okay. He saw it coming then - the cops banging on our door when his hands cupped my face and lips touched my trembling forehead. He saw me sobbing silently throughout his trial. He witnessed me losing everything - my friend, my focus, my confidence...

And now he is sighing at this ridiculous act as if he doesn't see another storm coming. If only I could be as good a pretender as him. If only I could hold it in as well as he does.

"Tem certeza que está bem? You seem pale."

{ Are you sure you are okay?}

"Pai, sério, estou bem."
{ Seriously, Dad, I'm fine.}

"You won't change, huh," he chuckles, hiding calluses behind his cheek-length brown curls, "how is school, then?"

"Fine, geez, dad. Everything is fine," I say as my teeth's chatter echoes through my cranium.

"That sounds poorly rehearsed." He smirks at my exasperation. His hand leaves his hair, toppling near mine. My feigned smile festers. Pretending is tiring.

Avoiding his worrisome look, I let my attention wander to the other prisoners, their laughing wives, and gurgling children. Too bad I can't bring him such happiness.

He rubs his neck in vivid exhaustion, and I offer his hand another glance. It doesn't look like the well-manicured, soft hands I remember. What kind of labour has he been doing for these knuckles that drove me around to get so bruised?

The corners of my mouth tilt downward involuntarily. I chew my tongue.

Should I tell him now? What if he's not well, and I'm about to worsen things?

"And I'm guessing classes are going great then, huh?"

"Huh? I mean... Yes. School is alright."

Something starts pounding my scalp, twitching a vein. I sit up and give my head a little shake that, hopefully, he doesn't notice. He should stop talking about school. It's making me nauseous. He knows this. He knows that it's the reason he is here.

Spencer High was the high school my mother attended. She died right after my birth, and dad barely spoke about her, so I just knew her name and what she looked like until an old classmate of hers visited on my tenth birthday. She suggested I attend the private high school, but Dad said it was too expensive.

"Too bad." She pouted. "Joe and I spent our best years there."

That was how, just like that, Spencer High became my goal. I stopped going for late-night adventures, binge-watching my favourite shows, and keeping up with fake friends. I buried myself in books, icing my social life to attain a scholarship there.

But my struggle was to no avail.

I didn't get in. I was a failure. Dad tried to encourage me that there were other, better schools out there, but I wouldn't hear any of it. It was like the world had ended for me.