It's Not Your Fault
Chapter 3
“Sofia?” I called, walking into the apartment and locking the door behind me. “Mom?” I added after a minute, even though I knew it was pointless. It’s not like she was ever home.
“Danielle, is that you?” My sister Sofia’s voice came from her bedroom. Sixteen, gorgeous, and extremely popular, she had nothing to worry about. Her life was perfect.
“No, it’s the president,” I said, hanging up my coat and kicking off my black Converse. I could imagine Sofia groaning and rolling her eyes. She never was one for sarcasm. Now don’t get me wrong—I love my sister and would hate for anything to happen to her. But my God, she could be such a pain! Take that moment, for instance. Instead of replying to my lovely comment, she started blasting a bouncy pop song I didn’t recognize (but instantly hated). I scowled and trudged into my own room.
I dropped my backpack on the plush purple carpet and made it a point to slam the door behind me. Once inside, I stepped over the assortment of clothes and paper scattered haphazardly across the floor and flipped on my stereo. A My Chemical Romance song blared out of the tiny speakers. Upside to having a mother who was never home: there was no one around to yell at you for too-loud music or a messy room. I relaxed when my music came on, feeling more of the day’s tension leave me with every note.
I walked over to the full-length mirrors on the far wall and pushed them aside to reveal my closet, packed with t-shirts, jeans, and sweatshirts. I pulled out a lavender Saosin shirt (can you tell I like purple?), dark blue jeans, and a black sweater. I gratefully wriggled out of my constricting school uniform—gray, pleated skirt, white polo, navy blue sweater, and knee-high, navy blue socks. The only part of the outfit the school let us choose was our footwear. Most people went with plain dress shoes, to match, but I stuck with my weathered Converse.
I tugged on the shirt and jeans and then closed the closet doors to eye my ensemble. I blinked at my reflection. Dark brown eyes blinked back at me. They were set inside a pale brown face, which was in turn framed by dark brown hair, left open today and falling straight. I frowned when I looked down to examine the rest of my body. Either the mirror took off three inches, or I had shrunk. I sighed and spun around once to make sure my average-sized, thirteen-year-old self looked decent.
I walked over to my bedside table (narrowly avoiding what would’ve been a nasty spill over a stack of hardcover books) and scooped up my current journal. It was my fourth one since September. The thick notebook was almost full.
As I so often liked to do, I sat down on the edge of my bed (purple sheets and blanket—did you expect anything else?) and opened the journal. As I flipped lazily through the memories, written by my own hand (in none other than purple ink), I found my mind wandering back to my first days at Jackson Intermediate School. Back to the times when everyone pointed and laughed at me, just because I wasn’t a prep or a jock.
Especially that boy, that one over-confident, self-centered boy who I had hated so very much…
My mind kept wandering, now flashing through memories of all the time that same boy—Evan—and I had spent together over the past year. One year. That’s all it had taken to make him my lifeline. Sure, I had other friends—but none like him. Evan was like the brother I never had. I tried again, as I had countless times, to imagine what life would be like without him. I couldn’t.
I never could.
“Danielle, is that you?” My sister Sofia’s voice came from her bedroom. Sixteen, gorgeous, and extremely popular, she had nothing to worry about. Her life was perfect.
“No, it’s the president,” I said, hanging up my coat and kicking off my black Converse. I could imagine Sofia groaning and rolling her eyes. She never was one for sarcasm. Now don’t get me wrong—I love my sister and would hate for anything to happen to her. But my God, she could be such a pain! Take that moment, for instance. Instead of replying to my lovely comment, she started blasting a bouncy pop song I didn’t recognize (but instantly hated). I scowled and trudged into my own room.
I dropped my backpack on the plush purple carpet and made it a point to slam the door behind me. Once inside, I stepped over the assortment of clothes and paper scattered haphazardly across the floor and flipped on my stereo. A My Chemical Romance song blared out of the tiny speakers. Upside to having a mother who was never home: there was no one around to yell at you for too-loud music or a messy room. I relaxed when my music came on, feeling more of the day’s tension leave me with every note.
I walked over to the full-length mirrors on the far wall and pushed them aside to reveal my closet, packed with t-shirts, jeans, and sweatshirts. I pulled out a lavender Saosin shirt (can you tell I like purple?), dark blue jeans, and a black sweater. I gratefully wriggled out of my constricting school uniform—gray, pleated skirt, white polo, navy blue sweater, and knee-high, navy blue socks. The only part of the outfit the school let us choose was our footwear. Most people went with plain dress shoes, to match, but I stuck with my weathered Converse.
I tugged on the shirt and jeans and then closed the closet doors to eye my ensemble. I blinked at my reflection. Dark brown eyes blinked back at me. They were set inside a pale brown face, which was in turn framed by dark brown hair, left open today and falling straight. I frowned when I looked down to examine the rest of my body. Either the mirror took off three inches, or I had shrunk. I sighed and spun around once to make sure my average-sized, thirteen-year-old self looked decent.
I walked over to my bedside table (narrowly avoiding what would’ve been a nasty spill over a stack of hardcover books) and scooped up my current journal. It was my fourth one since September. The thick notebook was almost full.
As I so often liked to do, I sat down on the edge of my bed (purple sheets and blanket—did you expect anything else?) and opened the journal. As I flipped lazily through the memories, written by my own hand (in none other than purple ink), I found my mind wandering back to my first days at Jackson Intermediate School. Back to the times when everyone pointed and laughed at me, just because I wasn’t a prep or a jock.
Especially that boy, that one over-confident, self-centered boy who I had hated so very much…
My mind kept wandering, now flashing through memories of all the time that same boy—Evan—and I had spent together over the past year. One year. That’s all it had taken to make him my lifeline. Sure, I had other friends—but none like him. Evan was like the brother I never had. I tried again, as I had countless times, to imagine what life would be like without him. I couldn’t.
I never could.