Jawbreaker

One of my earliest memories of my parents being happy together was when I was six years old. At that age you would think that there would be plenty of happy memories shared with your mom and dad, but I honestly didn’t remember anything that significant to stick through the years.

I remember crawling into my parents’ bed early in the morning, since I usually managed to wake up before they did. It was rare, the two of them sharing a bed for the night. I didn’t realize how unusual it was when I was younger that my parents didn’t sleep together in the same bed. I was always told that it was because my father snored. Even when other kids pointed out that it was abnormal, I still believed with my whole heart that it was because my father snored and my mother couldn’t sleep. But that morning they were together, in the same bed, and they were happily welcoming me in between them.

“I want to learn piano!” I had told my parents. “Like Daddy!”

I remember the amusement on both of my parents’ faces. They laughed at my childishness and naiveté. How cute, they must have thought. My mother was probably proud that I wanted to learn such a practiced skill, while my father just laughed because he thought I was silly.

“Do you?” chuckled my father.

The six year old I probably nodded vigorously.

My mother slapped his arm and said, “If we get her lessons, she probably won’t keep with it.”

My father just shook her off and said, “Will you practice and learn well if we hire you a teacher?”

“Yes!”

He laughed. “Do you think you can even play the piano, Lucy baby?”

I nodded and held up my hands, pretending to play a keyboard in the air.

Both of my parents erupted in laughter. They hugged me, their eyes filled with mirth.

They let me begin on my father’s keyboard. A week later, they bought me a full sized piano. I had my first piano lesson within the same week.

I must have looked adorable in their eyes. I must have looked so ambitious. They must have loved me very much.

It was a shame they didn’t love each other enough to stay together by the time I turned eleven.



I woke up the next morning with a clear mind. It was a first for me. I usually woke up all groggy, with disgusting crust bits in my eyes and cotton mouth, but this morning I felt different. I felt rejuvenated. Fresh.

Alive.

What an odd feeling to feel after the night I had experienced. I smoked weed for the first time. Cried in front of a guy I barely knew. Got into a fight with my boyfriend –

Oh yeah, I had almost forgotten the last part. Justin caught me running down the stairs and noticed there was an air of tension around me. Not to mention that my face was probably streaked in tears.

I sat up, tossing my white duvet covers off to the side. My feet sunk onto the carpeted floors, my toes curling around the soft fibers. I stood there for a good minute, feeling the carpet between my toes. I opened my eyes, contemplating taking a shower before I caught a glimpse of my reflection in my vanity mirror. My eyes widened in horror as I remembered that I forgot to wash my mascara-streaked face from last night.

I groaned, covering my face as I remembered what happened.

“What’s wrong?” my doting boyfriend had asked the night before.

I had tried to wipe at my face, an attempt to regain my composure. “Nothing,” I told him in response.

He wouldn’t give up after just that, though. No, he persevered, asking, “Did something happen up there? Did someone do something to you?”

I remember being angry with him for assuming that I was just a defenseless girl that couldn’t take care of herself. I remember being angry because he made it seem like I had no control over what happened to me. I remember being really angry because I was just fucking high, and that alone was a good enough reason to start something with him.

“Fuck off,” I had said to my boyfriend.

He hadn’t liked that, which resulted in our stupid little spat. In which, led to our actual break-up.

A wave of nausea hit me as I remembered that we had broken up last night. Right, I had pissed him off so bad that he had said, “Well if you’re so fucking sick of dealing with a boyfriend like me, then you don’t need to anymore! I’m done, we’re done, it’s done!”

He had been so melodramatic over it.

I sighed and decided I should probably clean myself up. I felt disgusting; my skin felt like there was something crawling underneath it. I also still smelled like a mixture of alcohol, smoke, and weed. And a little bit of puke. I cringed, the memory of barfing in the bushes outside of Jay’s house flooding back to me. I had been such a mess last night. It was definitely a first for me.

I turned the faucet on and began running my hands through the water, waiting for it to warm up. I splashed the water on my face a couple of times before looking at my reflection in the mirror. The water ran down my chin, down my neck, and onto the collar of my t-shirt. My bangs were wet, sticking to my forehead. The water had worsened the makeup I had slept in, making it run in different directions across my face. My eyes were also bloodshot, possibly irritated from sleeping in makeup.

All in all, I looked fucking terrible.

I pushed my bangs back and let out a huge sigh.

Get it together, Luce.

I gritted my teeth together and grabbed the toothpaste sitting on the counter. It’s my junior year. This is the most important year of my high school career, I mentally told myself. This is the year that colleges look at. They look at your GPA, transcripts, extracurricular, and involvement—this is not the year to have a meltdown. I had my shit on lock freshman and sophomore year. But then I bombed the PSATs and the actual SAT and now I had to retake it and the ACT because I didn’t do well on the first round. This wasn’t going to get me into a good school. By the look of things, you’ll be lucky if you get accepted into a state college.

I set my toothbrush on the counter, resting both arms on the edge of the sink while the toothpaste foam dripped down my chin.

Abby dying is no excuse to stop living your life.

I gagged, spitting out the toothpaste.

Then why is it so hard to want to?