Warning: bullying
Charlie's P.O.V
"Loving America?"
"Pardon me?"
"Loving America so far?" Sydney mutters, her gaze glued ahead.
"This is not my first time," I say. She rolls her eyes, revving out of the airport parking lot.
After learning about what happened with Silver, I just couldn't bring myself to have any verbal interaction with my grandparents, and instead of finally talking to me about it, what did they do? They flew me to the US on short notice, and now, here I am in this back-arching, knee-hugging resting position in the potholed leathery backseat of the family Hundi.
"Sit straight," Sydney mumbles, her eyes meeting mine from her rearview mirror. "You can sleep when we get home." I oblige, though reluctant.
We arrive at her three-bedroom house by 5:41 pm. Taking out my suitcases, I can't help but frown at her neighbourhood. Faded white paint taints all homes, bleeding into my view without merit. Cars are parked out front where trees would have swayed. No woods. No lake, either.
It's all vapid. Why am I surprised? This is not my first time being here. Sil's excitement must have blinded me then. Having created my worldview from the confines of school walls, I was never the type to like new environments. Silver, however, loved it. She felt lightweight from inhaling the scent of strangers' cooking and their cars' fumes.
An eternity has lapsed since.
A couple walks by. Low murmurs permeate the chilly air. I hurry inside, hugging myself.
My room is bare, besides the white sheets that match the walls and an archaic mahogany table for a study desk next to the mini-bookshelf. True to her word, Sydney lets me sleep till the next day. I don't know how long my rest is, but by the time she wakes me up, she's already dressed and prancing around, looking for stilettos.
"Check the hall," I say, rubbing drowsiness from my eyes. She replies, "Thanks, dear, but you better hurry up. I'm not going to be late for mass because of you."
Yet, somehow I manage to finish dressing before her. On the way to the chapel, she turns the radio on and acts super intrigued by the political commentary playing. I take one of her five sunglasses, but she doesn't even spare me a glance. The urge to keep the shades on until she talks to me dies when she nonchalantly wears one herself. I give up. Shutting my eyes, I imagine myself in bed again.
"Krypton?" She beckons. My vision recovers in foggy slits. Her focus is still on the road, but her lips start moving fast.
"Your Grandma said you need therapy. We need to figure that out, especially since she'll only want you back once you are of sound mind. Now I only ask that you don't make my money go to waste. If you need help to get better, ask for it. If you must tell some old lady a sob story, give her something juicy to work with. "
"Juicy like what?"
"I don't know. Be imaginative."
"So you are saying I should lie?"
"Ok, Saint Krypton!" Her palms clap the steering wheel. I wince.
"Sorry," she says upon seeing my reaction. "You know, this is precisely why you need to get better. We don't have to wind up in these awkward conversations. "
She pauses for me to respond, but I am already looking out the window.
"How did your old lady think it was a good idea to bring you to me anyway?"
YOU ARE READING
No Pills
General Fiction*~~~~~~~° When Mia discovers her father's suitcase full of illegal drugs, she's plunged into a dangerous world of deceit and cartels. As she delves deeper into her family's past, she's forced to confront the possibility that her loving father may no...
