Sweet Dandelion

“Decorate my room. Talk to my brother more about real things, my real thoughts and fears. Make friends.” I lean over the table, gesturing with my hand to drive home my point of what I have to say. “I have to carve out a sketch of the new version of me that fits in this world now that the old me is gone.” Mr. Taylor doesn’t give me a sad, pitying look like most people would. “You know what sucks about a sketch?”

“Tell me.”

“They’re easily erased.”

Chapter Seven

I stare at those blank white walls.

Those God-forsaken blank white walls in my bedroom.

Sage said I could paint them when I moved in. Decorate the space however I wanted. But I haven’t bothered to, because I don’t know how.

The girl I was and the girl I am now are two totally different people.

I still like yellow, but the cold oppressive white seems somehow a better option.

Yellow means joy.

Vibrancy.

Happiness.

I’m not happy. I don’t want my room to make it seem like I am.

The door to the condo opens, slamming closed a second later. I hate that door. It’s so absurdly loud.

“D?”

“In here,” I call out.

His dress shoes clack against the floor. It’s so dumb to me that he works on computers all day, but has to dress up. My door cracks open a moment later and he finds me lying on my stomach, browsing the internet.

“You hungry?” he asks me, tugging at his tie and taking it off in one swift movement. He loops it around his hand, waiting for my reply.

“One of us is going to have to learn how to cook.”

His lips tug into a grin. “You know I can’t cook.”

“Neither can I, bro.”

“Well, until one of us caves, want to get pizza?”

My stomach rumbles. “Yeah, pizza would be good.”

“Let me shower real quick and we can go.”

He disappears down the hall to his room.

Closing my laptop, I roll out of bed and brush my hair. It only helps my appearance a minimal amount. Grabbing one of the few lipsticks I own, I fill in my lips with the nude color. Looking in the mirror it’s impossible not to see how much I’ve aged in the last nine months. True, I don’t have wrinkles, or sagging skin, or discoloration. But it’s in the eyes, and I think that’s the worst part of all. I’m afraid the haunted look in them will never go away and is a permanent thing I’m going to have to get used to.

It doesn’t take Sage long to shower and change. He ushers me out of the condo building and down the street. The pizza place is the smallest I’ve ever seen. There are only three tables, all high-top with only two seats. The maybe ten feet of standing space is crowded with people either waiting to order or pickup.

“Grab that table,” Sage directs me to the table in the corner where a couple is leaving, “I’ll order.”

I push my way through the people, holding my breath as I do, not because anyone smells but because I hate the suffocating feeling of their bodies pressed against mine.

I finally make it to the table and sit down. There are crumbs and red pepper flakes dotting the table. I brush them onto the floor, watching them drift away. It’s ten minutes before Sage places the order and joins me. The receipt with our order number is clasped in his hand.