All the Little Truths (English Prep 3)

He beamed, flipping through a few papers on his messy desk. “Yes, they are. I’m sure your father is proud. I heard you got into Stanford.”

I nodded, a burning pit burrowing deep in my belly. “Yes, I did.” I had no idea if my father was proud or not. I hadn’t talked or seen him in several months. He always disappeared after a fight with mom.

“So…” He raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Why exactly are you falling asleep in class?”

I fall asleep one fucking time…

“It was only one time, Headmaster Walton. I stayed up too late.”

He eyed me suspiciously.

Right then, I knew I needed to get my shit together. If he called my father and raised suspicions with him, dear ol’ Daddy would come crawling back home for a weekend to check in, and that was the very last thing I wanted. And it was the last thing my mom needed.

I had to get my shit together, and the first step to doing that was sleep.

Unfortunately, it didn’t come that easy once I was home.

My back was flat against my already made bed, and I’d been like that for at least an hour or two. Something about sliding in between the mattress and blanket sent me into a panic. I didn’t want to feel trapped. I just wanted to lie here, in the brightness of my room, and breathe.

Part of me wished sleep would come. The other part was terrified out of my mind.

I tried to think of everything good and fluffy, pushing the horrendous memories to the very last edge of my brain so I could relax. It wasn’t even the actual memory that was bothering me so much; it was the nightmares. Because it was like reliving it over and over again.

If it was just one and done, maybe I’d be fine.

But no, I kept hearing the same voice every single time I closed my eyes.

It was exhausting.

The fluttering of my eyes startled me at first as I tried to hang on, but soon, I couldn’t fight it any longer. The fear and anxiety were still there, but eventually, sleep won.

The darkness was bleak when I pulled myself awake. I blinked a few times, trying to allow my eyes to adjust, but it was no use. I couldn’t see. I was pretty sure I heard the latch of my door, which was what had woken me up in the first place. I shoved the soft covers off my legs and turned my head to the red glowing numbers on my nightstand, but they were nowhere to be found. My hand reached out to find my clock, thinking it’d gotten turned somehow, but I’d hit something hard instead.

Instantly, I pulled my hand back.

“Sorry, I’m trying to be quiet,” a deep voice said.

I must have still been a little disoriented and confused from sleep, because I didn’t understand. My voice was raspy and broken. “What?”

“I’m trying to hurry. Scoot over, pretty.”

“Scoot over for what?”

Finally, I realized what was happening.

“Whoa, jackass.” Anger had me waking up pretty fast. “You’re in the wrong room. My mom’s room is two doors down.”

I huffed, flying back onto my bed with a whoosh. The room wasn’t as dark as before, my eyes now well-adjusted to the abyss. My mom had some fucking nerve. It was only a few days ago that Eric had found his father fucking her. She had been ashamed. She even apologized to me, saying sorry for having sex with my friend’s dad. She didn’t know we weren’t friends anymore, but that was beside the point. Here she was, already beckoning a new guy into her life temporarily to keep my father’s side of the bed warm until he deemed to show his face again. I never wanted to be like her. Ever. Which was why I had just mouthed off to a man I didn’t know.

There was no way I would ever let a man treat me the way she lets them treat her.

It was why I was always in charge, making others fall to their knees at my wake.

“I know where your mother’s room is, sweetheart.”

My eyes flew back open, my back still turned to the man standing beside my bed. I felt a small trickle of anxiety prickling my neck, but I ignored it and slowly rolled back over.

“Then get the fuck out of my room.” My tone was calm but sharp. I was looking at his silhouette as he loomed over me, trying to make out his features. An outside light from my window—probably Eric’s headlights—shined through long enough that I could get a quick look at him. He was older—much older than me—with short, dark hair. His jaw was angled with a slight scruff on it. I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but the way his features were drawn tight told me that he didn’t care for my tone—at all.