Chapter 2: Home Sweet Home I smelled the chorizo, eggs, hash browns, and waffles before my mom put

the tray on my desk. When my stomach growled, loud and viciously, the seeds of a hungry headache started. Mom cleared her throat; instinctively, I shrunk under the covers in preparation for a lecture. "It's ridiculous, you locking yourself in your room like this. Two whole days of you only getting up for the bathroom. I'm scared that if I couldn't bring you food, you'd starve! You're just trading one problem for another, you know that?" Drug abuse for depression. Even unspoken, the words contaminated the air. She was right, of course, but I felt the need to assert my teenager know-it-all syndrome. My voice came out raspy. A testament to how rarely I used it. "I'm bored and there's nothing to do, that's all." "Nothing to do?" Mom replied. She laughed and shook her head. "I bet you'll come to your senses after a real meal! I went through a lot of effort to cook this. I'll be very upset if you just throw my effort away, seriously." I expected her to leave when I tossed the covers off and sat up, but she didn't. Then I expected her to leave when I finished the first waffle, but she still didn't. Friends and strangers watching me eat is nervewrecking; parent's watching me eat is creepy, definitely if said parent is my intense mother. "What is it?" I asked. "I'm eating, see." Her tone softer, she replied, "I apologize for the way your dad and I questioned you your first day back. We didn't mean to be creul; we had no idea it would lead to such a...reaction." I didn't enjoy the turn our conversation was taking. I felt like an idiot for putting so much energy into that memory, knowing damn well I often suffer from seizures or fainting when I try to fully remember what happened that day. Hell, I was surprised they brought me to my room instead of an asylum. The talk couldn't be avoided forever. "Well, what do you remember about the day I left?" "It was a normal Saturday," she started, the words quickly coming out. "Your dad had just gotten home from work; I was networking and writing an article. When he went to

check on you, you were gone without a word, and you never came back." Everything almost sounded rehearsed, like she'd said it hundreds of times. Maybe she did. I'd been gone for over a year and many people probably asked about me, including police. Something didn't add up, though. As badly as I wanted to, I didn't dare push it again. "But if it was a normal Saturday, I wouldn't have run away." "Exactly! You suddenly running away, even after Danny's death, never made sense," Mom started. "I needed to point fingers, to understand, and I could only think of what I did wrong as a mother. Not really taking care of you until Ma died, being too busy, hardly coming to your events--" "It's really not like that," I interrupted. "I never doubted your love and support. I was too busy myself to notice, trust me." I could hear sadness and regret building up. Tears would come at any moment. I hate tears. I don't understand why sadness causes salty water to randomly drip from one's eyes. Unfortunately, she continued. "I couldn't sleep or eat or write. Without your dad, me and this house would have been long gone, but I couldn't live my life knowing you might be...might be..." When Mom took in a deep breath, most likely to stifle sobs, my muscles became ten times lighter. What does a person do when their mom breaks down? Are there expected phrases? I cherished not having to find out, but I also felt like an insensitive prick for not knowing. Even if I did know, I probably wouldn't have done anything. I finished the waffles and moved on to the hash browns; mom stood up and sifted through my bookshelf. She gasped. "I didn't know you had a scrapbook. It's beautiful!" Mom flipped through the pages, and I made a big deal of not looking up. "Don't you want to see your handiwork?" "Why?" I asked. My voice, already losing it's raspiness, came out more bitter than I expected. "There's nothing in there but pictures of who I used to be anyway." Mom shook her head. She put the scrapbook back on the shelf as gently as she took it off. "I don't expect you to be exactly like you were before. You know that, right? You're not frozen in time like the pictures in that book. Yeah, I want to see you smile more often, but your dad and I will love you even if you spend every day cooped up in your room. Though you definitely shouldn't!"

She rested her hand on my shoulder, and I swear, as cheesy as it sounds, I could feel her warmth and support entering my body in that one touch...which left me feeling just as uneasy, if not more, than when I thought she would break into tears. Fear and confusion shot through my brain, and I had a growing desire to shrug her hand away. "I'll try," I said, because I really wanted to deserve her love. "I promise." Then the phone rang - a shrill, repetitive sound capable of killing any moment - and I remembered how much I hated phones. I'd been doing a pretty good job of avoiding that thing too. Whenever Mom brought it to me, I pretended to be sick or sleep. I dreaded holding a conversation with someone who'd want to ask about life in rehab or feel sorry or react oddly to my new personality. "Alecia, you should answer. You've been getting too many phone calls a day. Your friends miss you, hun." If only I'd promised to try after the phone rang. Every step seemed to take so long I thought I'd never make it. I picked the phone up halfway through a ring. Hands clammy, stomach in knots, I said, "Hello...?" "Hi!" a girl on the other end replied. A voice that loud and preppy had to belong to Linda Orihara, my best friend. "Can I speak to Alecia?" "This is Alecia." Linda, most likely expecting preppy instead of dull, hesitated to speak. Finally, she said, "Oh. Well, why have you been ignoring my calls? I've been worried just sick about you since you left and you come back and never call or anything!" "I'm sorry. I haven't been feeling well," I said, which was at least partly the truth about why I hadn't called. "Like, what happened? How was it?" Linda asked. She definitely wasn't one to beat around the bush or wait for the 'right time.' When she wanted answers, she got straight to the point. My turn to hesitate came. I had to carefully consider how to answer her question, since I didn't have the willpower or patience to deal with the inevitable consequences of sharing too much with Linda. Years ago, I didn't mind Linda's gossiping problem because she never said anything about me, but I wasn't suffocating under hills of great gossip topics then.

"Lots of scary street stuff. Couldn't always eat; slept wherever. Things like that." I wanted to burst into a fit of laughter at that simplification of my experiences. Just that I was here, back in my comfortable, suburbia home, felt immensely fake. "Why'd you leave? Was it because of Danny? And why didn't you tell anyone?" Linda asked. "You sure can pile the questions on, jeez." "Please just answer." The stories of what I'd seen and been through was on the tip of my tongue, but I went mute when I opened my mouth. I realized, in that long moment of hesitation, that Linda no longer had any significance in my mind. She never truly cared about me, and what I mistook for care on my part was toleration. I didn't want to tell her anything. "I can't," I said. "I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm tired of talking about me. How have things been for you?" If I could see Linda, I bet she'd be pouting, her arms crossed in the bratty way that got her almost whatever she wanted. When Linda's voice became less loud and preppy, an explosion was on its way. Linda replied with a voice considerably less loud and preppy. "I can't complain about the little things I've been through or I'll sound whiny because of what you've been through. I mean, things are wonderful, but I think it would be wrong to tell you about that." "I guess." She sighed. "Alecia...I don't think we're friends anymore. I don't think we can be. Our world's are too far apart. I know it's really crappy of me to be saying this now, but you know me. Always honest!" I'd seen Linda break up with many guys she'd only experimented with out of boredom and a need for validation. I almost wanted to laugh at the oddity of being on the other side, especially as a best friend and not a guy. I would rather be back in the Asheton Treatment Center than forced to participate in the social events Linda seeked for validation as well. "It's okay, really," I said. "Great!" Linda replied, the preppiness back. "I wish you luck on getting better. Gotta go."

She hung up. I sighed and did the same. Silly of me, to think I could relax after that phone call and disappear into my room. The phone rang again. I quickly reached for it, mostly because I hated the sound. "Hello," I said. "Hey, um, can I speak to Alecia? This is Alecia's house, right?" "I'm Alecia and this is my house. Who are you?" "Caitlyn. Remember, from Guggenheim?" I remembered. I had three classes with her and she consistently sat two or three desks away from me. We had random conversations about school work and the media, but we couldn't find much else to talk about past that. She was a motorcycle riding, take no mess, shopaholic. I had none of those qualities and hung with no one from her crowd. I'd always gotten a weird vibe from her, like sometimes she hated me and sometimes she admired me and it wasn't much in my control. "Yeah; this is a first. I don't think we've ever talked on the the phone before." "I've been wanting to do this call forever, but I could never muster enough guts. I'm tired of holding this in, though. It's either now or never." Her sigh was loud and long, like she still harbored fear about whatever she had to say. My stomach knotted up all over again. This couldn't be good. "You're completely different than I remember," she said. "So are you." I meant it, too. Caitlyn usually spoke with nonchalance and confidence. She sounded sad and nervous, another first. "Does that mean you're finally done playing this human game? God, you've gotta get tired of them sooner or later." Just like that, the conversation took a confusing turn I hadn't expected. I had no idea what she meant, but it gave me shivers the way songs in reverse do. I didn't need to fully understand to sense the ominous undertones, one of which being that I could get tired of...humans. "I don't think I heard--" "Nevermind," she interrupted. "Apparently, you still don't get it."

Silence passed between us for so long I almost thought she hung up. Caitlyn laughed and I, completely dumbfounded, stood there with a phone in my sweaty hand, saying nothing. "I made this stupid call because I need to know why he chose you and not me, but I don't understand," she said, remnants of the random laugh before replaced with a voice unsteady enough to infer tears. "What are you talking about?" I asked. "I love him so much. I've tried my hardest to be the best girlfriend yet you, looking and acting your worse, only have to return home to make him drop me without a second thought. It's unfair; I don't get it!" "I don't have any idea who you're talking about, honest, and I'm sure I don't want him. He's yours." "No he's not! He's always been yours. I've never hated anyone more than I've hated you." The line went dead, but not before the phone started ringing again. "73636237?" I muttered. It was nonsensical. While it didn't have enough numbers, it also had more than enough. I stared at the phone, too weary to bother picking it up, and shook the tenseness out of my shoulders. Even when the ringing stopped, even when I headed up the stairs, the numbers repeated in my head like a merciless ear virus. 73636237...73636237...73636237...