Another weird chapter, but now I know exactly what's going on, so it should be picking up by next chapter. This one just kind of popped out after listening to My Immortal for an hour. I'm not going to make any promises of when I'll get more chapters out, but I hope soon. Just stick with me.
And to everyone who stories I usually review- I will be doing that again soon, I promise! I've just been pressed for time, and I'm working on something big right now, and don't have the time. As soon as I do, though, I promise I'll check them out!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I locked myself in my room that night. I emerged once or twice to go to the washroom, and to microwave something frozen I had planned on eating for dinner, which I eventually forgot about, but otherwise I stayed at my desk.
But working was another matter. I hated homework to begin with, but when you factored in the fact that I really didn't care, it wasn't easy to get it done. At the end of the night, I had finished half my English and two pages of math. I fell asleep at my desk sometime around eleven. I never even heard Dylan come in.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The next night was the same. After two days, I felt like my life had become one monotonous black hole, where I was forced to deal with the same people and circumstances every day. Everything seemed trivial. But I smiled and went along with it.
I showed up for extra help in math, and made my teacher happy. I understood what he said. I suppose that made me happy. But happy was a relative term. What was happy now as compared to a month ago? What would happy ever be again.
On Wednesday, I was ready to loose my mind. My entire life was full of people who didn't understand. People who just smiled sympathetically. As amazing as Spinner had been, he still had no clue. Finally, when it seemed like all I had left was another pile of homework, I decided to take a break and go to the support group I'd tried a week ago.
The support group hadn't exactly helped. But the people in there didn't make me want to throw myself off a cliff, so it was a start. There was nothing better to do.
I was just as much of an outsider at the support group as I felt at school. Everyone was there in groups. Maybe it was just my imagination. Most of the girls were in pyjama pants. They reminded me of Manny Santos. I disliked Manny Santos very much.
On some level, the appeal of going to the meeting was that Nicholas, the mysterious stranger I kept bumping into, had said he would be there. Or might be there. I couldn't remember exactly. All I could remember about our conversation was that he had understood. He had looked me in the eyes and he had understood. No one else understood. So when the meeting started and Nicholas wasn't there, I seriously considered leaving.
But I didn't. I sat and I watched the other people. I hated how some of them could cry, and right away twelve others would be there comforting them. It all seemed incredibly selfish. It wasn't them who had died, so why were they upset? They were alive. Why should they get special treatment? Why should I?
And eventually, the meeting did seem to pick up. When someone started talking about how mad they were. I liked the girl who said she was mad about what had happened. Everyone else talked about how sad they were, how much of a loss they felt. So what? Why didn't the rest of them feel mad? It wasn't fair to me that my mom died. It wasn't fair to Dylan that he had to move home to take care of me. So why didn't we have the right to be mad?
And yet, after every single one of them had spoken, I felt more confused than ever before. Hundreds of words and emotions jumbled in my head. I didn't know what to make of everything I had seen. Everyone was acting differently, even though they'd all been through the same thing. How was that?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I was up late working on homework again. I knew Dylan had come home while I'd been gone, but we hadn't spoken. Around twelve, I finally gave up on my homework, turned out my light, and closed my eyes.
But I couldn't sleep. From down the hall, I could hear Dylan unpacking. He had been working hard on it from the time he got home Monday night. I tossed and turned, but something kept me up. Finally, I got up for a glass of water.
On my way back from the kitchen, I heard something. I couldn't quite tell what it was. I padded up the stairs, and the noise, still very faint, almost inaudible, became slightly more defined. The followed it all the way to Dylan's door.
I gently knocked on the door, but when no one answered, I began to get worried. I knocked again, then went in. On his bed, Dylan was huddled over something. He looked up at me in the doorway. He'd been crying.
"Paige," he said, quickly wiping his face. "What's wrong?"
"I- uh- I just wanted to check on you. I just heard something weird."
"My allergies," he explained lamely. "I was just finishing unpacking, and some of my stuff's really dusty. I was sneezing."
I didn't believe a word he'd said, but nodded. "Okay. Good night."
"'Night. Go to bed."
"Yes father," I said teasingly.
His face seemed to darken even more. "Just go to bed."
I nodded, and quietly slipped back into bed. I lied down and didn't move, but I couldn't sleep, my mind racing, on top of everything else, wondering what made Dylan so sensitive about then mention of a father.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The rest of the week stayed the same. I worked hard, and pretended I was okay. The truth was, I was dying more than ever. Now I wasn't just caught up in the massive amount of work, or dealing with my mom dying, now I was worried about Dylan. I had never seen him cry before, not when he'd broken his arm when he was ten, or when he cracked his skull in hockey when he was fifteen. He hadn't cried when my grandmother had died, and he hadn't cried once after mom had died- until that night, at least. Something had bothered Dylan so much that he had cried. I didn't like it.
Saturday morning, Dylan had left early to go to the on-campus library. After sleeping in and a long breakfast, I decided that the house was a mess. So I loaded the CD player, turned it up loud, and started vacuuming.
I got to Dylan's room, and despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but snoop. Just because I was seventeen didn't mean I wasn't still a little sister. I vacuumed his room, then switched it off, and looked under his bed. He always hid his best stuff under his bed.
Under the pile of laundry and snacks that I tried not to touch (I didn't even want to know how long they'd been under there), I found a small, leather-bound book. On the front, the word "Memories" was stamped in gold. I traced my fingertips across the letters, then opened the book.
It was a picture album I'd never seen before. First came a picture of a three-year old Dylan, grinning wildly, holding a baby with a mass of blonde hair. Underneath was the caption "First meeting". I swallowed a lump in my throat, and ignored the chill that ran down my spine. Why hadn't I seen these pictures before. I turned the page. There was another picture of Dylan and I, then one of just me. I turned the page again, and I nearly dropped the book.
It was a picture of Dylan, mom, and I, Dylan and I still wearing what we'd been wearing in the previous pictures, but this time, there was another man. He had his arm around my mom. He looked about her age, maybe a bit older. He had blonde hair. I knew who he was. My mom was a brunette. I had to get my blonde hair from somewhere. I looked down at the caption and swallowed a lump in my throat.
"Family portrait," I whispered, reading the loopy script.
"What are you doing?"
I jumped and dropped the book. I stood up quickly. "Nothing- I. . . I was just- just cleaning."
Dylan looked at me strangely. "Liar."
"Whatever. The house was a mess." I pointed to the vacuum. "See?"
"Why were you under my bed?"
"Because it's gross in here. I wanted to clean it up."
He raised his eyebrows. "Thanks Paige. I appreciate you cleaning up. Seriously. This place is a mess. But it's not fair to ask anyone to go under that bed."
"You've got that right." I nervously walked past him, and took the vacuum. I waited in the hallway for him to see that the book had been taken out. I held my breath.
"Paige?" he called from inside his room.
"Yeah?"
"Just drop it, okay?"
"Drop what?"
He came out into the hall, the book in hand. "This is a can of worms that you don't want to open." The golden letters reflected off the light. "Trust me."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Paige, phone!" Dylan called Sunday morning as I was cleaning up after breakfast. I dried my hands and picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Paige, get ready, I'm picking you up in twenty minutes."
"Spin?"
"Yeah. Be waiting outside."
"But- where are we going?"
"I'm taking you somewhere. Dress warm."
I still hadn't caught up on all my work, English and math still unfinished. "I don't know. I should check with Dylan."
"I already talked to him."
"Fine," I finally agreed. "How warm am I supposed to dress?"
"Layers," he said simply, and quickly hung up.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Twenty minutes later, as promised, Spinner drove up in front of my house. I had done as he had told me, and dressed in layers. "So where are you taking me?"
"You'll see when we get there."
"Spin, come on."
"Nope. Buckle up."
"You know you're going to pay for this," I warned him as he backed out of the driveway.
"With you, always." He grinned, and I smacked him.
"As long as you know where you stand."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"I'm freezing," I complained as we stood in line. We were at a ski hill. He had brought all of his and Kendra's stuff (I was about the same size as Kendra), and we now waited for the ski lift line to move.
"You'll warm up when we start," he said, pulling his hat off and handing it to me. I pulled it on and he laughed. I shot him a deadly look. He hung his head.
"That's better," I said smugly. We moved up in line, and the chairlift came around behind us. I almost jumped, then relaxed as he pulled the bar down.
"I haven't been skiing in ages," he said eventually.
"Neither have I. I guess the only time I really went was. . ." I trailed off, not sure if I should finish or not.
"When we were dating," he finished for me.
"Yeah." We looked at each other for a minute.
"I guess we don't have to give it up."
"Yeah, I guess not."
"How are you doing?"
"Okay, I guess."
"Everyone's still worried about you."
"They can stop worrying. It's not me who died."
He looked at me with concern. "Yeah, but you still have to deal with it."
I looked down, then collected myself and plastered the same fake smile on my face. He didn't need to know the truth. He didn't understand. No one did. There was only one person who I knew who understood. "I'm okay, Spinner."
And to everyone who stories I usually review- I will be doing that again soon, I promise! I've just been pressed for time, and I'm working on something big right now, and don't have the time. As soon as I do, though, I promise I'll check them out!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I locked myself in my room that night. I emerged once or twice to go to the washroom, and to microwave something frozen I had planned on eating for dinner, which I eventually forgot about, but otherwise I stayed at my desk.
But working was another matter. I hated homework to begin with, but when you factored in the fact that I really didn't care, it wasn't easy to get it done. At the end of the night, I had finished half my English and two pages of math. I fell asleep at my desk sometime around eleven. I never even heard Dylan come in.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The next night was the same. After two days, I felt like my life had become one monotonous black hole, where I was forced to deal with the same people and circumstances every day. Everything seemed trivial. But I smiled and went along with it.
I showed up for extra help in math, and made my teacher happy. I understood what he said. I suppose that made me happy. But happy was a relative term. What was happy now as compared to a month ago? What would happy ever be again.
On Wednesday, I was ready to loose my mind. My entire life was full of people who didn't understand. People who just smiled sympathetically. As amazing as Spinner had been, he still had no clue. Finally, when it seemed like all I had left was another pile of homework, I decided to take a break and go to the support group I'd tried a week ago.
The support group hadn't exactly helped. But the people in there didn't make me want to throw myself off a cliff, so it was a start. There was nothing better to do.
I was just as much of an outsider at the support group as I felt at school. Everyone was there in groups. Maybe it was just my imagination. Most of the girls were in pyjama pants. They reminded me of Manny Santos. I disliked Manny Santos very much.
On some level, the appeal of going to the meeting was that Nicholas, the mysterious stranger I kept bumping into, had said he would be there. Or might be there. I couldn't remember exactly. All I could remember about our conversation was that he had understood. He had looked me in the eyes and he had understood. No one else understood. So when the meeting started and Nicholas wasn't there, I seriously considered leaving.
But I didn't. I sat and I watched the other people. I hated how some of them could cry, and right away twelve others would be there comforting them. It all seemed incredibly selfish. It wasn't them who had died, so why were they upset? They were alive. Why should they get special treatment? Why should I?
And eventually, the meeting did seem to pick up. When someone started talking about how mad they were. I liked the girl who said she was mad about what had happened. Everyone else talked about how sad they were, how much of a loss they felt. So what? Why didn't the rest of them feel mad? It wasn't fair to me that my mom died. It wasn't fair to Dylan that he had to move home to take care of me. So why didn't we have the right to be mad?
And yet, after every single one of them had spoken, I felt more confused than ever before. Hundreds of words and emotions jumbled in my head. I didn't know what to make of everything I had seen. Everyone was acting differently, even though they'd all been through the same thing. How was that?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I was up late working on homework again. I knew Dylan had come home while I'd been gone, but we hadn't spoken. Around twelve, I finally gave up on my homework, turned out my light, and closed my eyes.
But I couldn't sleep. From down the hall, I could hear Dylan unpacking. He had been working hard on it from the time he got home Monday night. I tossed and turned, but something kept me up. Finally, I got up for a glass of water.
On my way back from the kitchen, I heard something. I couldn't quite tell what it was. I padded up the stairs, and the noise, still very faint, almost inaudible, became slightly more defined. The followed it all the way to Dylan's door.
I gently knocked on the door, but when no one answered, I began to get worried. I knocked again, then went in. On his bed, Dylan was huddled over something. He looked up at me in the doorway. He'd been crying.
"Paige," he said, quickly wiping his face. "What's wrong?"
"I- uh- I just wanted to check on you. I just heard something weird."
"My allergies," he explained lamely. "I was just finishing unpacking, and some of my stuff's really dusty. I was sneezing."
I didn't believe a word he'd said, but nodded. "Okay. Good night."
"'Night. Go to bed."
"Yes father," I said teasingly.
His face seemed to darken even more. "Just go to bed."
I nodded, and quietly slipped back into bed. I lied down and didn't move, but I couldn't sleep, my mind racing, on top of everything else, wondering what made Dylan so sensitive about then mention of a father.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The rest of the week stayed the same. I worked hard, and pretended I was okay. The truth was, I was dying more than ever. Now I wasn't just caught up in the massive amount of work, or dealing with my mom dying, now I was worried about Dylan. I had never seen him cry before, not when he'd broken his arm when he was ten, or when he cracked his skull in hockey when he was fifteen. He hadn't cried when my grandmother had died, and he hadn't cried once after mom had died- until that night, at least. Something had bothered Dylan so much that he had cried. I didn't like it.
Saturday morning, Dylan had left early to go to the on-campus library. After sleeping in and a long breakfast, I decided that the house was a mess. So I loaded the CD player, turned it up loud, and started vacuuming.
I got to Dylan's room, and despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but snoop. Just because I was seventeen didn't mean I wasn't still a little sister. I vacuumed his room, then switched it off, and looked under his bed. He always hid his best stuff under his bed.
Under the pile of laundry and snacks that I tried not to touch (I didn't even want to know how long they'd been under there), I found a small, leather-bound book. On the front, the word "Memories" was stamped in gold. I traced my fingertips across the letters, then opened the book.
It was a picture album I'd never seen before. First came a picture of a three-year old Dylan, grinning wildly, holding a baby with a mass of blonde hair. Underneath was the caption "First meeting". I swallowed a lump in my throat, and ignored the chill that ran down my spine. Why hadn't I seen these pictures before. I turned the page. There was another picture of Dylan and I, then one of just me. I turned the page again, and I nearly dropped the book.
It was a picture of Dylan, mom, and I, Dylan and I still wearing what we'd been wearing in the previous pictures, but this time, there was another man. He had his arm around my mom. He looked about her age, maybe a bit older. He had blonde hair. I knew who he was. My mom was a brunette. I had to get my blonde hair from somewhere. I looked down at the caption and swallowed a lump in my throat.
"Family portrait," I whispered, reading the loopy script.
"What are you doing?"
I jumped and dropped the book. I stood up quickly. "Nothing- I. . . I was just- just cleaning."
Dylan looked at me strangely. "Liar."
"Whatever. The house was a mess." I pointed to the vacuum. "See?"
"Why were you under my bed?"
"Because it's gross in here. I wanted to clean it up."
He raised his eyebrows. "Thanks Paige. I appreciate you cleaning up. Seriously. This place is a mess. But it's not fair to ask anyone to go under that bed."
"You've got that right." I nervously walked past him, and took the vacuum. I waited in the hallway for him to see that the book had been taken out. I held my breath.
"Paige?" he called from inside his room.
"Yeah?"
"Just drop it, okay?"
"Drop what?"
He came out into the hall, the book in hand. "This is a can of worms that you don't want to open." The golden letters reflected off the light. "Trust me."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Paige, phone!" Dylan called Sunday morning as I was cleaning up after breakfast. I dried my hands and picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Paige, get ready, I'm picking you up in twenty minutes."
"Spin?"
"Yeah. Be waiting outside."
"But- where are we going?"
"I'm taking you somewhere. Dress warm."
I still hadn't caught up on all my work, English and math still unfinished. "I don't know. I should check with Dylan."
"I already talked to him."
"Fine," I finally agreed. "How warm am I supposed to dress?"
"Layers," he said simply, and quickly hung up.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Twenty minutes later, as promised, Spinner drove up in front of my house. I had done as he had told me, and dressed in layers. "So where are you taking me?"
"You'll see when we get there."
"Spin, come on."
"Nope. Buckle up."
"You know you're going to pay for this," I warned him as he backed out of the driveway.
"With you, always." He grinned, and I smacked him.
"As long as you know where you stand."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"I'm freezing," I complained as we stood in line. We were at a ski hill. He had brought all of his and Kendra's stuff (I was about the same size as Kendra), and we now waited for the ski lift line to move.
"You'll warm up when we start," he said, pulling his hat off and handing it to me. I pulled it on and he laughed. I shot him a deadly look. He hung his head.
"That's better," I said smugly. We moved up in line, and the chairlift came around behind us. I almost jumped, then relaxed as he pulled the bar down.
"I haven't been skiing in ages," he said eventually.
"Neither have I. I guess the only time I really went was. . ." I trailed off, not sure if I should finish or not.
"When we were dating," he finished for me.
"Yeah." We looked at each other for a minute.
"I guess we don't have to give it up."
"Yeah, I guess not."
"How are you doing?"
"Okay, I guess."
"Everyone's still worried about you."
"They can stop worrying. It's not me who died."
He looked at me with concern. "Yeah, but you still have to deal with it."
I looked down, then collected myself and plastered the same fake smile on my face. He didn't need to know the truth. He didn't understand. No one did. There was only one person who I knew who understood. "I'm okay, Spinner."
