ZyDL
1254 Words
Jail?
It’s crazy. I can’t stop the word from looping in my head like a broken record. Are convicted felons even allowed to attend high school? I thought there were laws against that, or at least some kind of school board policy that kept "jailbirds" away from the general population. He’s causing so much chaos at school, drifting through the halls like a dark cloud, but I guess I should be thankful. At least his arrival is pulling some of the burning-hot attention away from me. For once, the spotlight isn't just on the girl who got dumped but, it's on the boy who came back from jail.
But "some" isn't "all." It doesn't change the fact that I’m still receiving hate texts at three in the morning when the rest of the world is quiet.
I’ve had to change my number three times already. Every time I think I’ve blocked the leaks, a new wave of vitriol finds its way into my pocket. It’s like a digital plague. And don't even get me started on the comments about my beloved dog, Spark. He was the sweetest thing I ever owned—he had Down syndrome—and according to the internet’s finest detectives, I’m the apparent cause of his condition and his eventual death. They say I "stressed him out" or that I didn't care for him properly. It’s the lowest of the low, even for this town.
The conspiracy theories about me are getting insane. Some are so out there they’re actually funny, in a "I might lose my mind" kind of way. Apparently, I’m an alien from the planet ZYDL sent here to destabilize the human race. Another thread claims I am personally the reason for the One Direction breakup—like I was some puppet master behind the scenes in 2015 when I was literally just a kid.
Out of all the things they could say about me—that I’m controlling, that I’m "too much"—they go for the boy band and the extraterrestrial route. These fuckers really have too much time on their hands. I wonder if they spend their nights in dark basements, connecting red strings on a map of my life.
"Sweetheart?"
I don't hear her. I'm too busy staring at a grainy photo of myself on a forum, where someone has drawn green antennae on my head and photoshopped me into a glowing UFO hovering over the football field. The caption reads: THE MOTHER SHIP HAS LANDED AND SHE’S TOXIC.
"May?"
Gosh, if I just had my hands on one of them. Just one. I’d show them exactly how "alien" I can be. I’d show them that the "Mean Girl" doesn't just bark—she bites. My grip tightens on my phone until the screen groans under my thumb, the light reflecting in my eyes.
"Maya Degaras!"
I freeze. The voice slices through my red-misted thoughts like a knife through butter. I slowly turn toward my mother, who is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a dish towel draped over her shoulder and flour dusting her knuckles.
Her green eyes look at me with a mixture of concern and anger, and yet, they are still so loving. It’s a confusing cocktail of emotions that only a mother can pull off. Her curly hair bounces around her face as she tilts her head, waiting for me to join the real world and leave the ZYDL planet behind.
She’s beautiful. Everyone says I look like a younger version of her, just more on the tanned side, with the same stubborn set to my jaw and the same way of narrowing my eyes when someone pisses me off.
"Where were you just now?" she asks, walking over to the island where I’m slumped over my untouched homework. The biology textbook is open to a page about cell division, but all I’ve done is doodle Caleb’s name and then scratch it out so hard I tore the paper. "I've called your name three times, Maya. You were miles away."
"Just... school stuff, Mom," I mumble, quickly flipping my phone face down on the marble countertop.
"Is it that boy again?" She sighs, her face softening into that look of pity that I’ve grown to loathe over the last forty-eight hours. It’s the kind of look that makes me feel small. "Caleb?."
"Yes, Caleb," I say, my voice cracking more than I wanted it to. I hate how weak I sound. "I just dont get why he would break up with me out of nowhere! Everything was fine last week. We were planning for prom. We were... we were us."
My mom walks over and pulls me into a hug, her apron smelling like garlic, home, and comfort. For a second, I let myself lean into her, closing my eyes and pretending I’m five years old again and the biggest problem in my life is a scraped knee.
But then I think of Jax. I think of the way he looked at Caleb in the cafeteria—like he knew a secret that could burn the whole school down. I think of the way Caleb’s face went pale when Jax stood over our table.
"It’ll pass," she whispers into my hair, rubbing my back in slow circles. "Maybe, he's just having troubles of his own that he just needs to figure out. Right now he cant be obsessing over you, my angel. Men get scared when things get too real."
"Speaking of being obsessed," I say, pulling back and trying to sound casual, though my heart is suddenly racing. "Do you remember the Beckhams? From when we were younger? There's a guy, Jax... Jace... he just came back to school today. Everyone’s talking about it."
My mother’s hand pauses on my shoulder. The warmth in her eyes doesn't disappear, but it's joined by a flicker of something else. Something dark. Something like...
Caution.
"The Beckham boy?" she asks, her voice dropping a pitch, her eyes darting to the window as if he might be standing on our lawn. "Maya, you stay away from him. I remember that family. I heard he was a troublesome little boy with daddy issues and a temper that could light a match. Nothing good comes from a Beckham."
"He was in jail, wasn't he?" I ask, leaning forward. My homework is completely forgotten now.
"He was in a lot of trouble," she says vaguely, turning back to the stove and stirring the pot of pasta a little too fast. "Just focus on your grades and your real friends. Like Tiffany. Thank God you have her, at least. She’s a good influence. A stable girl."
I think about Tiff
I read a quote about closure on the internet today—how it needs to come from the other person, or you'll never move on. I don't want to move on. I want to move back. I want to go back to three days ago, before the world turned into a UFO-sighting, jailbird-hosting nightmare.
Tomorrow, I'm definitely getting that closure from Caleb. I don't care if I have to corner him in the locker room. I need him to look me in the eye and tell me I’m not an alien. I need him to tell me why he threw us away.
Tomorrow, I’m getting my life back.
- Writer
