Bad Teacher

“Just a guy … or your boyfriend?” she muses, raising a brow at me.

“No … not yet, at least.”

She throws her bag over her shoulder. “Well, he sure sounds like a player. Be careful, all right?”

“I will.”

“I’m off to psychology. Oh, and I’ll be staying at a friend’s room for the night. Since you’re not taking this class, I figured I needed an extra study buddy. Okay? See ya later.”

“Sure. See ya.” I wave her off and continue scrolling on my phone.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my hand, and I stare at it for a second before I realize I’m being called.

When I notice the name on the screen, my heart stops beating.

Everything turns red in front of my eyes.

For a second, I contemplate ignoring his calls, but I know that won’t make him go away. It will only make him try harder, call me longer, maybe even make him come here. Anything but that.

With trembling fingers, I press the call button, and with sweaty palms, I bring the phone to my ear.

“Hailey,” I say.

“Goddammit, finally you pick up.”

I swallow away the lump in my throat. “What do you want?”

“You. Why haven’t you visited? Your mom wants to know why you’re ignoring her.”

“I’m not ignoring her,” I say, sitting up in my bed. “I’ve replied to all her texts.”

“Why wouldn’t you come to visit your mom, huh? Do you care that little about her? And what about me? You never call, you never write. It’s like you don’t even exist.”

“Well, sorry,” I say, frowning. Really? Is that why he’s calling? To make me feel bad?

“I’m done with this. You want to get on my bad side? You’ll get my bad side. You’re coming home. Right now.”

What?

How could he even say that?

Why would he want me to come home? He doesn’t miss me.

But my mom does. And now that I’m gone, he can’t use me against her anymore.

That’s what this is all about. Control.

“No, I’m in the middle of a semester.” I almost crush the phone in my hand.

“I don’t care! You’ve wasted enough time there. You’re not getting anywhere.”

“How do you know that? My grades are fine.”

“Sure, they are.” His voice is condescending. “Just like everything else about you. No, I think it’s enough now. You’ve spent enough money on this crap. It’s time for you to come home and take care of your mom.”

“Why would I? She has you!” I yell, boiling inside.

“You’re her goddamn daughter! Act like one!” he spits. “God, you’re a fucking disgrace. Always whining, always thinking only about yourself. Me. Me. Me. It’s always about you, isn’t it? You’re just like your mother.”

That’s it.

“Stop talking about my mother!”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I like,” he snaps. “You come home right now, or I’ll come and get you myself. It’s time you started working, so you can earn back all that money we wasted on you all those years.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re coming home tomorrow! Or I swear I’ll fucking come and get you myself! You hear me, you ungrateful shit? Come. Home. Now.”

Lowering the phone, I disconnect the call and throw the phone away. I’m shaking, my whole body in shock as the tears run down my face. I hug my legs and hobble around on the bed, my mind running in circles. What do I do? I don’t wanna go, but if I don’t, I know he’ll come for me. He’s done it before; acting out and being violent is his thing. It’s the only thing he knows. And the sole thing I hate.

Grinding my teeth, I get off the bed and grab my wallet, phone, and keys, slamming the door on my way out.

I’m not staying here for one more second.

His words have poisoned that room.

I can still hear him in my head, shouting at me that I’m a worthless piece of shit.

All I wanna do is get away.

So I run. I run until my lungs hurt; I run until the tears stop streaming; I run until my feet hurt and my body aches. When I get to town, I go into the nearest bar and sit down on a stool, my mind on blank.

It’s reckless. Stupid and dangerous to be here alone.

But I don’t care anymore.

I just wanna get drunk.

I order an apple martini and show the bartender my fake ID, which apparently still works even though I’m wearing no make-up. Must be the droopy face that makes me look older. I drink my drink without speaking to anyone, listening to the music in the background, trying to forget.

That’s all I ever do.

Try to forget.

The alcohol helps.

I guess I’m not so different from Thomas, after all.

Except maybe he’s better at this shit than I am because I know for a fact that I’m unable to stop. I don’t want to. I don’t have the desire. All I want is to drink until I can’t remember shit.