Today is not my day.

My best friend died exactly three years ago-victim to a stupid drunk/drugged driver so high off his ass that he couldn’t see straight- and I failed my math exam. My mom is going to kill me. Murder me. Stuff my body into the bed of my old Chevy and dump it in the woods that surround this little hell-hole of a town.

No, literally. I’m not kidding; she’s already picked out the music she’s going to play while dancing on my grave.

I’m too awesome to die.

Rain pelts against the chipped window to my left like miniature bullets, echoing weirdly inside my head because the left side of my face is slumped heavily against it. The window used to be cold, almost so icy that I jumped across the front seat of my truck on the initial impact, but after a while of sulking pitifully like a child, it warmed right up.

The pad of my thumb lightly moves over the smooth piece of paper in my hands, stroking it. Eyes glued to the death-stamp in the corner, I chew on my lower lip and debate on my artistic skills.

Do I dare try to turn this F into a B?

Actually, the real question is: Do I have a marker/pen of the same color as this horrid F?

Letting out a small, determined huff, I prop the test up against the steering wheel and reach over, digging through my forever unzipped bag-thing. All my pens and pencils rest at the bottom, covering the expanse like a shield, protecting my notebook from any potential harm, and I scoop up a hand full. Carefully, I scribble a bit on my left hand and compare the inks, hawk-like eyes picking out any differences.

The first handful of pens is useless.

I simply toss them aside. I can always clean them up later. Aimlessly, my hand is shoved back inside the bag and it probes around. Fingers curl around a pen. It’s pulled out, carefully so the bag doesn’t rip, and held up in the air like baby Simba from The Lion King.

Huston, we have found Narnia.

If Narnia was pen-shaped, that is.

I carefully execute the operation. Once the grade looks somewhat like a solid B, I set the pen aside and hold up the paper. I got my hawk-eyes from my mother; I have to really make sure the grade doesn’t look like it was drawn on-otherwise, she’ll know instantly and I’ll be done for.

Sighing softly, I set aside the paper and rest my hands in my lap.

And my mood plummets.

I was very careful today. Every time my thoughts drifted towards that little metaphorical card-board box marked ‘Jake’ in the back of my mind, I quickly redirected them. I hastily thought of something else so I didn’t disturb the thick layers of emotions that veil around that box. I can’t afford to break down and sob like a little baby during school hours.

My car, however, is a totally different story.

You’d think that three years would be enough time to heal.

That, by the third year mark, your heart wouldn’t ache every waking moment. That air would flow naturally through your lungs again, instead of morphing into icy barbed wire, destroying the organs from the inside out. And that the heavy lead-like dread would have drained from your system already and you’d be able to move freely again, like cotton candy.

I mean, you can still believe that.

But you’d be wrong.

Oh so wrong.

Somehow, my face ends up slumped against the window again. Tears flow heavily down my cheeks and drip onto the side of the door. I wipe at them desperately; I hate crying. I feel so pathetic and stupid.  A large lump of barbed-wire balls up, glued to the back of my throat, and sends blast after blast of pain shuddering through my body with each swallow. For a few long moments, time stands still as I struggle to gather myself together and calm down.

I take a deep, shuddering breath and peer through the watery burr that covers my eyes.

It’s still raining outside.

“Gah,” I croak, round lips twisting into a grimace. I don’t know what time it is because the truck isn’t running and my cell phone is buried beneath my bag and mountain of pens and markers. I don’t exactly want to disturb the mass on my passenger seat because then I’ll be tempted to actually clean it up, but I have the feeling that a lot of time has passed.

 I probably need to get home before my mother starts freaking out.

The key turns in the ignition. My truck is old, so it takes several jerks before the engine roars to life and stays running. The seatbelt clicks as I put my giant blue beast of machinery into reverse and back out of the parking space. As I drive out of the parking lot, I notice just how empty it is. Most of the other students raced out the moment the final bell rang.

My eyes flicker towards the clock installed on the dash.

A loud, unceremonious groan bounces off the metallic roof of my truck in an endless echo and I almost slam my forehead into the steering wheel.

It’s four o’clock; my school is released at two o’clock. It’s a wonder my mother hasn’t spammed my phone or made her way out to the school yet.

The drive to my house is quick. I live on the outskirts of this little suburb town, right on the edge of the biggest forest in North America. Four steps into my backyard and, boom; you’re surrounded by poky-trees.

Seriously, I can’t even begin to tell you how many scars I have on my body because of those stupid needle-like leaves.

I turn into my driveway and shift the gear into park, settling back in my seat after I take my foot off the break. The back of my head hits the head-cushion behind it and I stare hollowly out the windshield. My insides cringe.

The house in front of me is fairly small; outside painted a weird baby-yellow with white doors and shingles. White and red rose bushes surround the front portion of the house-my mother’s most prized possession-and a small, fading white picket fence outlines the property.

The entire house is so childish, so girly, and I hate every inch of it.

While I’m busy hating my house, I don’t notice my mother stand up from behind one of the rose bushes. Long chestnut colored hair is twisted up into a high, yet messy bun and loose strands have fallen down, framing her heart-shaped face. Dirt is smeared across her cheeks, her forehead, and stains the front of her old tattered, frilly yellow apron. Her sea-green eyes flicker towards my truck and narrow.

She starts removing her large yellow gloves.

I curse softly, praying internally that she doesn’t read my lips, and rake all the pens into my bag. As I slide out of the driver’s seat, dark converse slapping against the wet pavement, she worms her way through the bushes towards me.

“Why are you doing this in the rain?” I shoulder my bag and slam the door shut, squinting against the light drizzle. Shouldn’t she melt?

“Why are you failing math?” She retorts icily, fingers clenched tightly around her gloves. Her knuckles are a ghastly bone white color and she rests her fists on her hips.

My heart stops.

“What are you talking about?” It takes every ounce of control on my body not to grit my teeth, not to react negatively, to actually look genuinely confused. “I’m not failing.”

“Don’t even bother. Your teacher called during lunch today-” My stomach drops through my feet; she’s had since lunchtime to plot my demise? “-and told me about your grade. You’re missing so much work! That’s why you’re failing the tests!”

I slowly try to slink away, towards the house. My clothes cling to my body, chilling me to the core, and I’m glad I didn’t wear a white t-shirt today. Mom continues to snarl incoherent words my way, voice rising higher and higher into a high pitched shriek.

“Don’t you walk away from me, young lady, or I swear to all that is holy that I’ll shove my foot so far up your skinny little butt-”

I flinch visibly, teeth gritting. Anger bubbles up inside of me, sizzling through my veins like liquid fire. But this is the woman whom I inherited my nasty temper and threat-making skills from; the second I try to fight back, I really will find myself six feet underground.

Usually, my mom’s rants last about ten minutes. Although the subjects may vary, the speech layout is pretty basic. She starts by pointing out what exactly is wrong and demanding that I tell her why, even though she really doesn’t want to know the reasons. Then she shifts into what I like to call the ‘Self-Pity’ phase, where she whines about all that she’s done for our family and exaggerates about how my father left us here to rot. And then, for the final act, she shifts her point back into the first phase-by pointing out the problem and demanding answers again.

It really is an exhausting process.

And I really hope she’ll let us go inside or that the rain will let up. The last thing I need is a cold.

But the next thing she does shocks me. As she takes a deep, soothing breath, eyes squeezing shut for a few moments, a cold shard of fear pierces through my abdomen, burying deep inside. Her eyes snap open and the corners of her lips twitch up into a strained smile.

“But I’ll let it slide this time-” She nods slightly, eyes focused on my face. A flash of nervousness twists within the pools of green, “-your grade, I mean. Only because I have some news you probably won’t like either.”

I brace for it.

“I got relocated.” She breathes softly, voice tiny and almost hard to hear, “We’re moving.”

And I obviously didn’t brace myself enough.