A/N: Really... review. I know it's angst, but please.

Disclaimer: See chapter one.


Secrets

Chapter Four: It's Complicated

...

Weeks and weeks.

They pass like that.

And you know what's weird?

You hardly even notice.

Okay, Miley and I haven't made any progress. We just talk about the same things, over and over again. You know what was said yesterday? Something along the lines of 'I hate greasy pizza'. Yeah, real meaningful, I know.

But really, Miley just won't open up. I've broached several personal topics with her. You know, the occasional 'how are you?' And I've even tried to ask her to hang out sometime, not at my house, of course. Hell no.

Seriously, though. Any attempt I make is met with "It's complicated." I don't get how going to the park is so damn complicated. Though I do know what's complicated: why I'm still sitting with her. I mean it's not like I have anywhere else to go. Well, maybe with Oliver, but that itself is very complicated. And anyway, the next time I hear "it's complicated" from anyone, I think I'm going to shoot myself.

Just kidding.

I shuffle my feet in the snow—on purpose, of course. I'd like to delay my getting-to-school-ness. After all, I've got stupid Mr. Frost waiting for me there, and that makes my stomach churn. What if he talks about my parents again? Or what it, even worse, he makes me do more math?

I love being sarcastic, I really do.

But back to Frost.

He shouldn't stick his furry nose into my business, even if he feel it's his "responsibility". Because it's not. And even if he did try to bury his way into my web of emotions, he'd quickly find himself drowning. I go from a sarcastic beast, to a big sack of depression in a matter of minutes. And that, in turn, is too much for anyone to handle but myself. My life is my burden, and my burden alone. After all, stress is better than pain, right?

I'm starting to think otherwise.

...

"Lilly! Outta the way!" Oliver shouts and I feel like ducking-but I don't.

"What?" I ask as I turn around.

"Nevermind," he says. I roll my eyes. "Okay, so I was wondering if you could maybe pick up some donuts for me after school? I'm having another party and I know how much everyone loves those." He licks his lips.

Dear God, what drugs are this boy on?

"I'll see if I can get to it," I say as I clear my throat.

"Alright. You're invited, of course. And I promise, this time no drinks, for sure." He winks.

Sigh

Here we go

"Look, Oliver," I say. "As long as we live where we do, there is no such thing as 'no drinks'. I don't know about other states or countries, but this one sure ain't consisted of angels."

"Ain't?"

"Ugh, whatever. It felt right to say. Anyway I'm not going to your stupid party, so you should just stop inviting me, okay?"

"Okay, jeez. I just want you to get out," he mumbles.

"Why would you say that?"

"Why wouldn't I say that, Lilly? Your situation is hella obvious." Ugh, he said hella. It's a word he picked up from his recent trip to California. Apparently it's really popular there, though I don't see why. I guess California is filled with illiterate snobs.

I push back the desire to punch the boy and take a moment to regain my composure after hearing that terrible word. "Oliver, listen." I take a step closer to him, get in his face. "I'll say it plain and simple, you don't know shit. No one knows shit. Everybody thinks they do, but they don't know anything."

"Fine," he spits at me, and turns around. "Have fun by yourself." He walks away and throws his hands up in the air. "Whatever!"

Exactly

Whatever.

I never went to the party, but honestly, who was even expecting me to? Hell, who would even want me there? Well, all those kids who wanted their donuts. But I think they'll live. I think they'll be okay without more fat to add to their stomachs. It's not like we need another obese child in America, we really don't.

"Lillllly, we're home!" Speaking of obese children...

I don't respond. Why should I?

"Lilllly!" Mom shouts. I hear the soft crinkle of a plastic bag being set down on the table.

"What?" I shout, annoyed.

I hear her walk over, the steps are loud, and in their own way—obnoxious.

"Here," she says, holding a small cardboard take-out box.

"What's that?"

"Your dinner." She throws the small box at me, it lands with a dim plop on my bed.

I take a moment to open the box, and examine it. "This is empty," I say.

She chuckles—drunk. "Oops," she giggles.

"Well what am I supposed to have for dinner?"

"I don't know," she slurs. I roll my eyes.

Dad calls her from inside, he's drunk too. Hell, when are they not?

"G-gotta go," Mom laughs and stumbles out of the room. Great, just great. I've got no dinner. I guess I'll just scramble up some macaroni...

I used to be more affected by it, I guess. My parents' and brother's drinking problem. I mean what am I supposed to do? Cry every time they come home drunk? Sob every time they forget my birthday? Get angry when they pull stunts like my Mom just did? It's useless. I mean it's not like it doesn't hurt me, because it does, holy crap it does. It's not like I don't cry and cut, because anyone who got to know me could tell. Except Oliver, but he's quite the lost cause, especially after our little 'fight' today. But I drifted off topic. So, back on topic.

I've trained myself, I really have. I take everything they do, and I just bottle it up, which I know isn't good, but who cares. I'll cut to keep myself in-check. I'll cut to take some steam off.

But eventually, it'll stop working. And what's next? What's my next move? Will I stumble into the same fate as my brother, doomed to a terrible life? Or will I prevail, and overcome these damn challenges?

Something tells me I won't.

Something tells me

I'll explode.

So I smell burning rubber—and nothing else. Wait, just kidding. I smell drugs, too, but that's a given. And it feels like it's going to rain. I think I hear thunder, also, but no. A really raggedy car drives up, and the sounds mimic the rumble of thunder. I cringe at the sight—the car almost reminds me of a crumpled up ball. The way that it looks, how it seems uncared for and like it was tossed in a trash can, even though that's quite impossible.

I shed away the thoughts as I walk inside the school. Or I guess you could say I'm shuffling, again. In fact, I managed to shuffle myself into a wall. Great.

"Damn..." I murmur as I pick up my fallen books. As I stand up, I take one last look at the morbid car. I see a figure come out, and ah, it's Miley. I have to squint, but even out of distance between us, I can tell she's jittery. But not just jittery, really. She seems even more...out of it, than usual. She leans up against the car after she shut the door. I raise my eyebrow at the girl. Something just isn't right about her...

"...And that's how bacteria forms—on your feet," Mr. Frost says, smiling that his lecture had come to a disgusting end. His lectures are always something...special. And not just the topics, either. Just the way he puts them together, and the subjects he likes to end on when he's done. Something about him made me decide I never wanted to become a teacher.

As the class counted down the seconds until the bell, I planned my escape—as I do everyday. I don't want to talk to him. Him being Mr. Frost. He'll question me, I know he will. And questions lead to answers. Answers I don't want to hand out.

"Lillian? Could you please stay after class?"

Holy fucking fuck.

Pardon my French.

Even though the class is completely quiet—Mr. Frost won't settle for anything less—my head is loud. I'm cursing his name in every single language I know. I, unfortunately, only know English. So...there.

"Lillian?"

"What?" I bark and snap my head up from its position in the palms of my hands.

I see Mr. Frost, looking offended.

Oops.

"Lillian, I will not tolerate that kind of tone in my classroom. You're lucky that class is over," he says.

Wait, class is over...? I scan the room and find that—indeed, class is over.

"...Er..."

"Lillian." He motions toward his desk. "Come here." I walk over, my face just a little red. Just a little. "So..." he starts, and lifts his nose. I think I see a colony living up there...

"So..." I mimic.

"Look," he sighs. "I'm concerned about you."

"Wh-why?" I step back.

"Because. I know what it's like to have..." he awkwardly coughs, "problems."

"Mr. Frost, I don't know where you're getting this from, I don't have any so-called problems." I put on a fake smile.

"Lillian..."

"Look, I've gotta go to lunch," I screech, my voice slightly high. "I'll see you later."

Miley isn't here. Or, she's not sitting with me. In some way, I'm a little glum. I do enjoy her company. Maybe she found some real friends. Y'know, friends who aren't...crazy cutters.

And on the subject of cutting, it's making my arm hurt. Wow, that sounded really dumb, right? Yeah. But really, it is. My arm is throbbing constantly lately.

I tug at my sweater sleeve, pulling it up slightly, to reveal my damaged wrist. Again, it's red, and it's gross. But it's worth it. This—I ran my fingers over the lines—is worth it. Th-

"Hey Lilly!" Miley shouts, and it startles me. What happened to shy girl?

Ex-shy girl sits down next to me, and something seems off. It's not just because she got a sudden boost of confidence, no. Something weird is coming off her. It seems so familiar. It's this scent. It's almost radiating off of her.

And it's something I know far too well

Alcohol.

I cover my mouth and nose with my hand. I feel nauseous. I'm gonna throw up. I- "I gotta go," I manage and stumble out of the area.

I find my way to a trash can around the corner and hold my head over it. I take heavy breaths. Why is this happening? And why am I almost throwing up because of it? It's nothing new—this scent. It's the usual, everything's the usual.

I heave and I ho, and finally something comes out. I cough and sniff and take a look. It's my...lunch in that trashcan, which is definitely not where it should be right now.

Great. Second time without food.

Great.