No Pills

31. Disgusting

*Mia's P.O.V *

It's easy to smile when you win.
It's easy to laugh when people hail you.

But if you have Lisa grumbling at home, you must hold it in. You let her complain about whatever, then run to your room and squeal into your pillow.

After squealing, I phone my aunt. She picks right away.

"Congratulations, dear! You deserve it!"

"Thanks, thanks!" I say because nothing coherent comes to mind. I am glad she talks for both of us, describing the event like a proud guardian. The call ends with her praises and me smiling till I conk out.

A sunny morning illuminates no sign of my foster mom. I don't care where she is. Her absence allows me to romp around in pyjamas.

Having joined the batch chat group, I find videos upon videos of our performance. My band's own is worse. I doubt I can read over three thousand messages, let alone while they're increasing.

I set the phone down, go outside, touch grass, retreat, and pick it up again. I spend the day on it, save for time to eat and do homework.

It takes me a lot of willpower to ignore this gadget the next day. Aunt Lisa is in her room. I make less noise and leave early.

I am unsurprised when the school gates welcome me into a deserted campus. Given our win, students must either assume it's a holiday or plan chaos.

My first class fills up in the nick of time. I bury my head to avoid stares, only for Noah to wack my head as Mrs Peters walks in.

"Hey!" I scowl while he beams. "Sup, celebrity."

"I'm not a celebrity."

"Oh really?" He motions to four peers staring at us from the front row.

I groan, "Please tell me no one plans on surprising me."

"Only time will tell," he jests.

I shake my head, focusing on Mrs Peters. She teaches in her chirpy nature despite occasional yawns and murmurs. I ignore glances, paying attention. When she assigns us to do another intrinsic analysis of any literary canon, I recall how Charlie gushed over Macbeth.

I find a copy during recess. As the librarian's substitute processes the book, I ask whether someone has returned a certain Nancy Drew book.

She shakes her head. Doubting that she'll recognise Charlie, I thank her again.

Where is he? He wouldn't miss school for nothing.

*

*

*Charlie's P.O.V*

I can't hear much. I sink into a worn-out mattress.

Leo's father removes a nail clipper from his pocket and then strides towards the hay. He spares me a glance before lifting a pallid hand. I watch him clip the man's nails, after which he sighs.

"How would you want to die?"

I can't hear.

"I bet you don't want it to suck like this." He motions to the man whose head is sticky from the bullet Leo's father punctured through him.

I breathe in.

A lengthier pause proceeds. His bald head begins to glow under the moonlight shed through crevices in the cabin. The scar slashed past his cheek seems more menacing.

As though reading my mind, he touches it and gets up. "Contemplate it in your sleep."

How presumptuous of you to assume I can sleep.