Prologue
little white pills

"Hm," my father grunted, and both me and my mother looked up, me from my seat at the table across from her and her from the sink straight to my right. "this crap goin' around seems pretty serious."

It was a typical Tuesday afternoon— my father having his coffee and newspaper at the table as he always did, my mom making a quick breakfast before I headed off to school, and me sitting at the table, glaring vehemently at the tall glass of orange juice just next to my forearm, which rested on the table. Oh, how I hated orange juice. It was orange, the worst color in the universe, it's taste and smell was pungent enough to make my eyes water, and the pulpy texture was gag-worthy. And yet every morning Mom would set a huge glass in front of me, giving me a scary look before ordering to drink it, the consequences in the event I didn't unspoken and unknown. I didn't really want to find out, either.

But orange juice still sucks.

Dad dropped the paper on the table in front of him, looking a bit exasperated. I believed him when he said this sickness we've heard of only through the paper, television, radio, and internet was serious. My father, born Southerner though he was, was a rather rigid man. The funniest things he says are drenched in sarcasm and irony, usually only funny after you think about what he said for a moment or two before realizing, "Oh, that really was funny" after you forced a laugh and rolled your eyes.

… yeah, people really did react that way to my dad's jokes.

He took a sip of his java, calloused fingers curled around the handle of a clean white mug, and then stared directly at me with his cold blue eyes so unlike my own. "What do you think of it, sweet pea?"

I smiled at the nick name, thinking for a fleeting moment if he said that in front of any of my classmates, I would shoot myself. "Sounds serious," I agreed, pronouncing each work carefully so I didn't pick up his Southern accent like I sometimes did. Seriously, we've lived in Manhattan for nearly fourteen years now, and while my mom perfected her English, my dad never dropped his hick-like slur gained from living almost all his life in Mississippi. And it rubbed off on everyone. Real easy, too. Especially on me.

"But I don't think it will hit us," I said. "Nothing ever hits us."

I said it with such confidence, with such ease, I didn't recognize myself speaking. Did I just say that? Me? The one who had been struggling with anxiety for the past few months? Did some ghost possess my body and force me to say that? Looking down and then patting myself, I decided that no, I was indeed in control of my own mind, I smiled. The doctor's advice was working. For once, those white-coated idiots did something right.

"We live in New York, sweetie," my mother said, leaning against the counter of the sink. She spread cream cheese on a hot bagel half with her butter knife before setting it down in front of me on a plate. "Lots of people from lots of places, flying in and out. Just wash your hands often, don't share drinks with people, and finish your orange juice."

I grimaced, but obediently took the tall glass of pulpy citrus in front of me with two hands and sucked it down. Torture. This had to qualify as torture. Using the unsaid threat of grounding to make a child force acidic juices down her throat had to be illegal in some country somewhere.

I mulled over her words for a minute as I chugged my drink and slammed it back down on the dark wooden table, earning two pairs of eyes glaring at me. Ignoring them served as my best option. City life wasn't nearly as bad as it was made out to be—it actually was pretty clean, save for the air. Crime existed to the point where it'd be wise to check over your shoulder now and then, but it wasn't much of a problem if you didn't venture into the wrong part of town. But it was still the city, and more than one tragic accident occurs each night. Sometimes in a totally different county, and sometimes so close to home we only avoided it ourselves by the skin of our teeth. The big stuff usually missed us. Content with this information, I took a big bite out of my bagel.

"Aw, I don't think we should be too worried," Dad said, scratching his scraggly goatee. "Sweet pea's healthy, all right, has all her necessary vaccinations and we don't have ta remind her ta shower herself, unlike some parents. Only her medication. Oh yeah, Jacky, remember to—"

"I know," I growled, my mood souring considerably at the mere reminder I still had to take pills. Robotically I pushed myself from the table, my mother and father sharing a look as I marched straight behind me to the refrigerator pressed against the wall next to the counter and stove top, only a few paces away in the cramped kitchen-dining room combo. I stood on my tippy toes and stretched my entire body to reach a medium sized bottle of my medicine set on the edge of the freezer, glancing briefly at the label to confirm it was mine and not ibuprofen.

JAQUELINE L. MONROE

Rather impossible to miss, along with the instructions to take two tablets, no more, no less, how often to take them and how many are in the bottle. So familiar it hurt my eyes just to look at it anymore. I popped off the lid, picked out two white, slightly flat pills and tossed them in my mouth, holding them in my teeth as I set the bottle on the counter in between the stove and fridge. Then I began aimlessly opening the cabinets above the counters looking for something to wash them down with.

Dad took a long, considering sip from his mug, perhaps sensing the bitterness that seemed to radiate off my body in waves. "How's school?" he asked carefully.

"Okay, I guess," I said the best I could without unclenching my jaw. Mom bustled over to me and produced the unfinished orange juice. She put my hands around it, and I could count every strand of dark hair framing her beautiful Asian face. Rich, mahogany brown eyes that matched my own stared me down through dark eyelashes. I felt really lucky to have my mom's eyes, they were the pretty kind of brown that seemed to have a red tinge in the right light.

Yeah, I love my eyes. I'll admit that. I don't hate everything about myself like some teenagers, but I'm not totally conceited...

… I think. Maybe. Or not, who knows?

I downed what was left of the drink and the little white pills along with it, feeling my face pinch up in a grimace. Orange juice sucks. So does bipolar medication.

Mom was looking me up and down with a dissatisfied look in her eye, and I knew if I didn't leave soon she would begin fussing over how I had cut my hair, how dark my makeup was, how I needed a tan. Yeah, my own mother has said that before. That I need a tan. Ignoring the less than pleasant memory, I touched her arm and kissed her on the cheek, which seemed to soften her up a bit. She mimicked me, planting a wet one on the right side of my face. "Love you," she said.

"Love you, too, Mom." I walked to Tony Monroe, who had set his coffee down and was smiling expectantly at me from his seat. I bent down and repeated the same procedure I had gone through with my mother.

"Love ya, sweat pea," he said, eyes soft. "You take care of yourself at school, now. Don't let no idiot tell ya what ta do."

"Tony, don't say that," my mother scolded. I couldn't resist the urge to roll my eyes. "she's already beginning to resist authority, we don't want to lose complete control over her."

This argument again. Tony telling me I should stand my ground and be my own boss, and Keikoku objecting to that, saying that will get me "no where in the real world." Then Dad would bring up the government and proceed to shoot them down with his whole arsenal of conspiracy theories, say something about teachers not working hard enough for his tax dollars anyway, and shut out mom who insisted there was nothing wrong with the US government, nothing we could do about it, or at least nothing we could do if me and Dad wanted to live in this household.

It was always an eyeball-rolling experience. I was smart, I could make good decisions. Before I could get involved in this little spat, I announced, "Bye, Mom and Dad."

"Bye, Jacky. Don't take no shit from no one."

As I stepped off the black and white tile floor to the shady hardwood, left the cheery pale yellow walls of the kitchen for the dark burgundy of the den, the second I had passed through the empty archway leading into the other room I heard my mother's sharp reply of "Don't listen to him!"

A/N: Some punk she is, she eats breakfast with her parents. Oh well.

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