Spark Into a Flame

Joey

A/N: My fun NYC adventures continue!  I tracked down Lin at the ITH set again and this time he wasn't in costume so we took a selfie and I got to talk to him for about a minute.  Again, he was so super nice.  I told him my library story (short version: a kid chose an A.Ham biography over Diary of a Wimpy Kid) and he said it's "so cool" that I'm a librarian.  Short chapter here, but more soon! 

I'd never felt such shame. Shame for myself and shame for what I was doing to Dad. I'd managed to grow up in relative obscurity from the media so I'd had a pretty normal childhood up until Hamilton hit. No one cared what I did when I was a kid. Now, because of a couple stupid decisions, my mistake was all over social media and the news. Dad was pissed, but not at me. Well, he was pissed at me for making the mistake in the first place, but now he was feeling guilty about it. No one other than our family and people at my school would've known that I'd been caught with edibles and suspended from school. Now Dad was getting bad press because of me, saying he must be a bad parent and not able to control me. But that was one of the great things about my dad – he never tried to control me. He tried to let me make mistakes and figure things out on my own. Instead of laying down rules and being super strict, he talked to me like I was a smart, capable human being. I still messed up, obviously, but even though I was a teenager and I was supposed to hate my parents, I could never hate my dad.

He'd always been so good to me and I was fast becoming a liability to him. I'd been a mess this school year after Elliott and I broke up. I'd gone through depression and started to slack at school and really worry him. I'd had health scares with my ovarian cysts that scared the hell out of him. His career was booming and he was about to start a new life – a new family – with Pippa, Alex and Jack. He didn't need me; this remnant from the past. This physical reminder of his failed marriage to my mother. I knew he loved me unconditionally so he would never admit it - life would be easier without me around.

The anxiety pills weren't working. The weed gummy bears had helped temporarily but I was smart enough to know that wasn't a good long-term solution. I didn't know what to do. I felt trapped in my life with no end in sight. Was this what life was always going to be? I was going to be depressed and anxious every time a guy dumped me and things got a little rough? Was I destined to be a drain to my family and friends?

I walked around Fort Tryon Park, feeling shitty about myself and my life. Dad had shown me the articles and I'd read the comments. Usually, walking around and exerting some energy made me feel a bit better, but today my mind kept repeating everything that was wrong with my life. As I walked I felt tears burning in the back of my eyes and my throat closing up as I tried to stop myself from breaking down like a baby. Finally, I found a rock and sat down, putting my head in my hands as I let frustrated tears fall.

As I finally let my emotions out, I felt a bit better. A good cry could put things in perspective. I was going through a rough patch. This wouldn't last forever. Then I heard clicks.

I looked up and wiped at my face, finding some man with a giant camera taking pictures. Paparazzi. I froze in place, trying to process what was happening. This wasn't the first time paparazzi had taken photos of me. Because I was a minor, though, they needed legal consent from my parents to print them in any publication (A/N: I'm not sure if this is true or not, but I'm just going with it). Dad would never ever agree to that. In fact, I knew he'd quietly taken photographers to court or threatened them with lawsuits when he discovered pictures of me. He always tried to hide it, but I was smart enough to know it happened.

I stood up, angry at the intrusion. "You know I'm a kid, right?" I asked him. He didn't answer me and continued snapping pictures. I gave him the middle finger and started storming off in the other direction. He followed me, but luckily I was in top-notch shape from soccer and he was a middle-aged man with a beer gut. I was quickly able to outrun him.

I kept running until I reached the 181st street station. I always had my Metro card with me, so I swiped in and my feet carried me to the 1 train. I got on a downtown-bound train, changed to the 7 at Times Square, and soon reached Grand Central Terminal.

I was in a weird daze and didn't fully process that I approached a worker, bought an Amtrak ticket to Chicago with my emergency credit card, and boarded a train. I found a seat in a back corner, as far away from every other soul as I could be. I curled my knees up to my chest and rested my forehead as the train pulled away from the station.

Away from New York. Away from Dad. As far away from the mess I'd created as I could be.