Bitter Sunshine

John Lennon Glasses

Murphy's Law: Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

To me, there is no better way to test this theory than in a high school cafeteria. Walking in, it's as if wolves were released to the wild after being starved for weeks. Freshman year, our trio ate in the library every day to avoid certain death.

Eventually, we sucked it up enough to sit at an actual table. But that doesn't mean we're safe, seniors or not.

We are graced to be able to sit at a decent table. Shay's track team usually sits with us- which isn't bad. I actually like a few of the girls on the team. Paige was more on the quiet side, so I always engage with her when everyone else forgets.

"So girls, how is everyone's day?"

Worse now that you're here.

I spun around to see Jenna bearing the most forced smile I've seen on her yet. She gives my side of the table a curt nod while making her way next to Shay. I swear she's obsessed.

A cough snaps my attention back to reality. Kayla eyed me patiently, waiting for my response to a question I never heard. Sheepishly, I ask her to repeat.

She sighs. "The new kid in physics. Wasn't that the funniest s**t ever?"

I shrugged, earning a glare from Kayla.

It wasn't really my place to say anything- which is weird, since normally I wouldn't have much of a problem putting in my input. But that "connection" I had with Hudson earlier made me think twice. It was stupid. The connection was most likely a one-sided thing, but no matter, it still restrained me.

Trying again, Kayla turns to Shay. "Since Lyric is no fun, what did you think about the new kid's speech first hour?" she asks. Shay drops her sandwich on her plate and slams her hands on the table for dramatic effect.

"It was the best thing I've seen in forever. Seriously, I never thought something interesting could happen in Mr. Brooks class," she gushes. They start to discuss the minuscule details of his performance down to the color of his shoes.

His shoes were black, if anyone actually care.

I zone out. In my defense, we'll probably re-discuss this after school. So it's not like I'm really missing anything.

I casually look over the bustling cafeteria. Nothing has changed each year I've been here. All the football players, hockey players, cheerleaders, lacrosse players, soccer players, band kids- the list goes on- are huddled at their own tables. Once again, I shall refer to my fellow peers as wolves. We have pacts that we stick to.

My eyes catch something, or someone, at a table in the corner.

Hudson sits alone, staring at his pizza as if it was diseased. It very might well be; nothing the school offers is edible.

From a distance, I can only make out a few features on his face. The boy was handsome, I'll give him that.

His thick hair is now covered by a grey hood; even through his bulky sweatshirt, the strong build of his body is distinct. And, of course, there is his alluring scowl- this is the first time I've found a scowl so interesting. It didn't seem like he was angry, it seemed he was unhappy.

I freeze. For a split second, our eyes meet again.

Embarrassed, I quickly turn away and eye my pizza slice. Have I mentioned how much I love pizza? This slice of cheesy goodness is a blessing for God above. I'd kill for it. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. Pizza is life.

"Ahem."

A shadow looms over my hunched figure. I look up to meet none other than Adam Flores. If there was anyone that can kill the mood anytime, any place, it was Adam.

I sigh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Just his presence makes me nervous. "What is it, Adam?"

His lips quirk into a smile. "Jeez Ly," he teases, "don't sound too excited. I thought we could catch up a bit."

This time Kayla cuts him off.

"f**k off Flores, she's moved on. You should do the same," she hisses. I send her a small, grateful smile. No matter what, I knew they'd have my back. Adam, however, didn't like her response as much as I did. As always, his temper shows true.

"No one asked you Ginger."

"You're getting desperate," Shay cuts in. The sandwich in her hold was slowly losing its life at the hands of her murderous grip.

The poor sandwich.

There was a time when I envisioned a future with the dumb jock standing before me. I was naive; high school sweethearts are irrational relationships. But I loved him. Through thick and thin, Adam was at my side holding my hand. Just a small gesture from him could melt my heart.

That was all in the past, a fact he should very well know.

"Adam, can we talk later? I'm pretty occupied with my pizza. Go catch up with Corinne."

His body tenses, and I know the regret pooling in his eyes is real. Call me crazy, but seeing him like this still pulls at my heart strings.

He was- no is my first love. Adam Flores was once my beacon of light. How can someone just let all of that go in the blink of an eye? Or rather, over the course of a summer? It's impossible. Somewhere inside me knows I'll never forgive Adam. Right now, though, that small voice is silenced.

"Baby, you know how badly I f****d up..." Adam trails. I nod solemnly.

"I know."

With that, he takes the hint that I am not ready for this again. A soft smile graces his features as he heads back to the rest of the jocks.

The vow of silence at my table is broken by Kayla. "You should murder him already. I'm a hit-man ready for hire." A dry laugh escapes me.

"No more talking about it. Pizza first," I mutter.

Pizza always calms my nerves.

Thin lines of tears stream down my face from the smoke. Wait for it...

The smell hits me like a truck, nearly knocking me off my feet. Old fumes mingle with fresh ones, all trailing from the same place; the kitchen. Begrudgingly, I toss my backpack on the couch and make my way over. Homework can wait- I haven't eaten in an hour.

"Mom, can't you do this somewhere else," I grumble. Sprawled across the counter stools is my birther and carrier, a rat's nest of hair on her head. She hasn't gotten dressed in a week now.

My mother sends me a lazy smile and shrugs. "Oh come on, Ly, it's not that bad."

I shake my head. Yes it is.

Whatever. Rather than sulking over nothing, I fix myself a sandwich. My creation looks less than stellar (cooking has never been my forte), but hey, it's edible. And my stomach demands something in it ASAP.

Mom takes another drag from her blunt, breathing out slowly. My nose curls in disgust. Four years, and not a day goes by that I fight back vomit from the smell of weed.

I've considered getting them help. It's just a simple call; easy enough, I suppose. But I couldn't do that to them. Dad insists they're using it responsibly, and my tired self accepts his blatant lie. I help with the rent enough to keep our heads out of the water, so I've learned to let them be. I mean, they're still my parents.

I love them.

Plopping down, I take a seat next to my mother. She discards the blunt and turns to me.

"How was school, honey? I bet it feels nice to be the top dog for once," she teases. I laugh.

"According to Kayla, the proper title is the 'top bitch.'"

Mom flashes a toothy grin.

"I haven't seen that red head in forever. Why doesn't she come by anymore?"

Because she can't smell like weed when she comes home to her cop father.

"Who knows," I lie, "we just end up somewhere else I guess." As always, Mom buys it with a nod. Silence wraps us up as I eat my food. Lately, this silence has been a routine. Anything that could be said between the two of us has been said already. She didn't want a lecture; I didn't want small talk. It is an unspoken agreement we had.

I didn't mind it one bit. It's a breath a fresh air to not get medication questions from my parentals. I soak up this quiet with greed.

I should write a book, shouldn't I?

My life lessons would be a much greater usage of school time than To Kill a Mocking Bird or Romeo and Juliet.

Lyric Peterson's Life Lesson #1: Leave a situation before it is awkward.

I do exactly that. I bid my mother goodbye, wash my plate, and head for my room.

The staircase walls are lined with frames. Pictures upon pictures are scattered here and there, new and old. In all of them, we are happy. My dad stands tall with his John Lennon glasses; Mom smiles as she paints; I laugh in our garden.

A photograph is a permanent form of memorabilia- but that doesn't mean it's forever accurate. My family is living proof of that. These past few years have contradicted every happy photo on these walls. I know they love me; I love them.

But my smile has slowly faded.

Because I'm doing this on my own.

I stop midway, tracing the carved pattern on my favorite frame. It's my mom's favorite, too. Dad carved it on some retreat a couple years back, and it was beautiful. The mahogany spirals into twists around my favorite photo.

Mom stands with Dad in her lacy wedding gown, clutching her baby bump.

Yes, I was born out of wedlock.

The gleam in my mother's eyes, shining with the love of her new husband and unborn child, accentuates her beauty more than any piece of jewelry could. Her hair dawns a daisy.

Told you they were hippies.

Enough, I tell myself. I have bucket loads of homework that desperately needs to be completed, and reminiscing does me no good. That's another thing I've been doing lately; "remembering."

I enter the room with newfound energy.

"Oh my beautiful bed, how I've missed you!" I squeal. My body plops down face first. Someone laughs behind me, effectively scaring the living daylights out of myself. I turn around to see Shay in my doorway. A smirk is stretched across her face. It was just like me to profess my love just as she shows up.

"You're so f*****g weird Ly."

"Trust me, I'm aware."

As Shay sits next to me, her expression falls a bit. "I talked to your mom before I came up."

I sigh and cover my face in my hands. She takes my silence as her sign to continue.

"Christ Lyric, when are you going to do something about this? It's not healthy for them, for you..." She takes a breath. "I know you think what you're doing is the right call but-"

"But what, Shay?"

Silence. She knows there's no way she can win right now. Don't get me wrong, I totally understand where she's coming from. Heck, I'd be giving her the same spiel if our circumstances were reversed. But this conversation has been so worn out that it's falling on deaf ears at this point. I'm done hearing about it.

"Let's just talk about something else," I suggest with a smile to lighten the mood. Reluctantly, Shay nods in agreement.

"I came here because I wanted to tell you in person. You know my uncle? The cool gay one, not the dead one." I roll my eyes.

"Well, he's going on his honeymoon with Topher. Meaning we get another girl's night as his club!"

My jaw drops. "No. Fricken. Way."

About a year ago, Uncle Reid was bedridden with pneumonia. A tragic situation, yes, but it was quite beneficial. He owns The Underground in the next town over. Snake (we have no idea if that's his legal or not) is the main bouncer with a soft spot for Shay.

Meaning we get in for free. Underage. On occasion.

"This Saturday I'm getting so f*****g drunk!" Shay squeals. My eyes narrow at this. Last time, I avoided alcohol like the plague. Mindlessly downing shots in a room full of strangers with unknown intentions didn't seem like my thing. Kayla, being Kayla, did not have that same mindset. We had to carry her into Shay's car, in the process detaching her face from some random guy's.

Not again.

"Shay, I swear I cannot carry two people into a car. My tiny arms will break! Plus, it's not like you guys have been laying off the Ben and Jerry's."

Smack!

"Excuse you," she jokingly seethes. I stick out my tongue and rub my now-damaged arm. "And don't worry. I will be sober enough to walk Saturday." I smile in relief.

"Anyways, I've gotta blast. I stopped here on the way to the hospital for my mom. Be ready for Saturday. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

An outsider might consider that last bit an offer for any club questions. But I know Shay Butler. She was the only one aware of my home situation, and now everything she says seems to have a double meaning. Call me if you need anything means talk to me. I can tell my silence about this is driving her up the wall.

"I will," I assure with a fake smile. "Love you."

"Love you too," she calls back with a wink. With a flip of her thick black hair, she's gone. In the distance, I hear her. "Oh hey Mr. Peterson."

Dad's home.

On cue, my father bursts into my room with a cheesy grin. His decades old John Lennon glasses a perched on his nose, as always. He picks me up and spins me around.

"Pumpkin! How was your first day?" Dad probes. I readjust my blouse from our little "spin."

"Good, I guess. How was work?"

My father visibly deflates, running a hand through his thinning gray wisps. The years of strain are written by the lines on his face. He works as a high school counselor- because the cliches never end- but lately his joy of teaching has been almost nonexistent.

Strange.

He sighs. "My coworkers have been less than stellar, sugar. Not everyone is as great a company as you, 'ya know." His dry attempt at humor doesn't fool me. I let it slide, though.

"I'm going to go let a load off with your mother. I'll be downstairs," he continues.

A load off. They still can't directly say it. Dad doesn't even wait for my response; I look up and he's gone.

Again.

There's no point in saying anything. Exhaling, I just close my door to keep the smell out.