My mother is a hoarder.
I’ve been forced to take refuge in my bedroom, unable to use the bathroom and running water like a normal person. There’s probably two hundred bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and liquid soap out there amongst the chaotic piles, but if I try to take any, my mom will have an epic fit. I have to keep my bedroom door locked at all times because it’s valuable real estate in her eyes. A twelve-by-fourteen space for her to fill with thousands of dollar-store items, life-size animal statues, treadmills, or faux fur coats.
She never uses any of the things she buys. They just get added to the museum of her belongings. But in some whacked-out way, it all gives her a kind of satisfaction that I will literally never, ever, understand.
My father lived in the camper for almost four years, unable to deal with it all. Then one day he was gone, leaving me with a note of apology and the reality of fending for myself in the jungle of this house. He tried to talk to her many times over the years, to get her to seek help, but she refused. I’ve done the same, but she won’t listen. She shuts down and clams up. Now, she barely speaks to me. How can she when we have to wade through mountains of garbage to physically be in the same space? Instead, I have to call or text her to communicate. I used to wonder if she cared about what this was doing to me. If she worried about me climbing through windows, using a bucket as a toilet, and hiding in my room with my cat.
There’s no use in wondering, though, because I already know the answers.
I close my door and relock it with a sigh of relief. I’ve managed to create my own little safe world in here with Fluffle-Up-A-Gus. We have everything we need to survive. It’s almost as if the nightmare on the other side of the door doesn’t exist.
But it’s also slowly starting to feel like I don’t exist, either.
Chapter 3
Skylar
“When are you getting your car back?” Megan asks as we walk our third lap around the track. A light fog is lingering in the air, dampening my skin and frizzing my hair. I’ve had PE first period every year, and my senior year is no different. It sucks getting all sweaty and worked up first thing in the morning when I’m barely even awake, but the plus side is I get to take a hot shower afterward. It fixes my dilemma of not being able to shower at home, and doesn’t spark any suspicion from my classmates. During the summer, I had the interesting and skeevy experience of having to drive to a truck stop to shower twice a week.
No one knows how bad my mother has gotten. Not even Megan, and she’s been my best friend since fourth grade. After a while she just accepted that I was one of those people who never had friends over. We’d be crazy not to hang out at her house, anyway. They have a theater room and a pool.
I swat a gnat out of my face. “I’m not sure when I’m getting it back. The mechanic texted me this morning and said he’d let me know after he figures out what’s wrong with it.”
“Hopefully it won’t take long. I can pick you up every morning, but I won’t be able to give you a ride after school because I have all sorts of shit scheduled basically every day.”
The only extracurricular activity I have is a part-time job.
“That’s okay. I can walk after school to the boutique or home. I’m going to ask Rebecca if I can work the weekend for some extra hours. Who knows how much this is going to cost me.”
“You should’ve just gotten a used Hyundai. They come with warranties. The ’vette is cool, and it was free, but it’s practically falling apart.”
“A Hyundai is just a car. It doesn’t have any character.”
Or sentimental value.
The ’vette was my grandfather’s. He bought it as a project car a few years ago, with the hopes of totally rebuilding it and giving it to me as a high school graduation gift. I’m sure it was, in a way, a plot to keep me from dropping out. I used to sit in it in his old garage, dreaming about when I could drive it. Unfortunately, life had other plans, and it was left to me in his will. Now his dream for the car has become mine. Until then, I’m proud to drive it as-is.
Mrs. Stephens, our gym teacher, shakes her head at us as we stroll by the bleachers she’s perched on. “Ladies, you’re supposed to run around the track.”
“What’s the point of running if no one’s chasing us?” I reply, smiling innocently.