Thoughts race around inside my head-each inside their own little multicolored race car. Brain cells have completely packed the large, circular stands that surround the squishy, pink brain-track and cheer excitedly in anticipation, waving banners and throwing streamers. The biggest, most jacked up ride reeves its engine dangerously. A single word is printed across the side in large, extravagant letters.

It reads: ‘Jake’.

I feel sick to my stomach.

Crouched down in front of the large porcelain throne fixated in my bathroom, I try really, really hard not to pay attention to my bumbling thoughts. My skin feels like lava, beads of sweat dotting across my cheeks and forehead, yet my core is ice cold. I rest my cheek against the toilet seat, basking in the cool porcelain.

A light knock sounds from the door.

“Alice?” The she-devil calls through the white wood, hinges squeaking slightly as she presses her ear against it. “You okay in there?”

“Go away.” I mumble into the toilet.

The doorknob twists slightly, catching against the lock which is turned into place. If I could, I’d smirk victoriously. My mom had no idea how to pick locks and I was in no shape to stand and unlock it for her. And so now we have a door between us.

I wish it was a galaxy but, you know, we can’t have everything we want.

“Please open up.” Mom groans.

The skin between my eyebrows crinkles. I press my lips together into a tight, firm line and squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the icy coldness against my cheek. It’s so much better, compared to my mom’s continuous whines and my racing thoughts. Especially my thoughts.

A dark shudder tears through my body. My stomach lurches, tightening swiftly and pulling back. Hands flying to scrape my hair away from my face, I hurl into the toilet. My stomach clenches tightly, painfully, because I’ve already spewed all the contents inside of it out. I cough and hawk out the horrid taste. Somehow, I weakly manage to scramble to my feet. My fingers find the toilet flusher and push it, tainted water disappearing faster than it’d appeared.

Leaning heavily against the counter, I dip my head down and turn on the faucet to rinse out my mouth.

“Alice, seriously, stop this instant!” I can almost hear her scowl darkly at the door, “You’re over reacting. We’re going to Florida! The sunshine state! You should be happy and excited! Not puking your guts up.”

I ignore her and turn off the water before returning to my seat in front of Mr. Flush. I don’t want to go to Florida; I’ve never even fathomed the idea of moving. I don’t want to be in the sun; I want the rain. I want the gloom and doom, not sunshine and cheesy smiles.

I want to be near Jake.

My cheek finds its spot on the toilet seat again. I stare hollowly at the tan-colored drywall across from me, now completely numb.

Jake was my best friend. He was a tall fellow, lanky with hardly any muscle, and donned curly blonde hair and big, round green eyes. We met in preschool, when I decided that he would be my partner in crime, whether he wanted to be or not.

And it worked splendidly.

I was Batgirl and he was my Robin. I was the pimp, he was my bitch. Our relationship just worked like that-almost completely through high school. We did everything together-no matter how girly or boyish. It didn’t matter to us, just so long as we were able to do it together. We shared everything; our first kisses, our first boyfriends/girlfriends, our first heartbreaks.

And it was freshman year, while I stood in front of that black polished coffin-the lid already screwed shut, when I realized I’d fallen in love with him, my Jake.

I needed him like most people needed air.

I still do.

But I’m better now, honest. I’d always been a remarkable actress, even in my early years, so putting up a remotely happy façade was no problem. And even now, the only day I really break down on is today-the anniversary.

I just…can’t leave him yet. Even dead and gone, he still has so much of me; my life still revolves around him.

I won’t lie, I’m probably obsessed.

I visit his grave every weekend and even the gardener, who I’ve met on several occasions, has remarked about how awesome my paper flowers are- which I make during math because I’m too broke to actually go out and buy some. He’s also the reason I’m failing most of my classes.

“Honey, I think you need a break,” My mom’s voice breaks through my thoughts, “You need some…distance from the cemetery-”

She’s cut off by the toilet scrubber, which smacks against the door with a loud thump and then clatters to the floor in front of it.

There’s a pause.

“What was that?”

I continue to ignore her, slumping back over the toilet. The toilet seat is no longer cold, now warm to the touch, and I hate it. I loathe it with a passion so fierce it could light a fire that the very deepest depths of hell would be jealous of. Because it is in that moment, that small brush of contact that the realization sets in.

It hits, like a tsunami wave.

I’m moving to Florida.

And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.

*~*~*~*~*

Head-banging rock music blares through the large and expensive white headphones, shielding my ears from my Mom’s dying whale-voice. She sits in the driver’s seat, her slender fingers clamped around the fuzzy pink wheel cover, and sings her heart out to Celine Dion. And I hope to god that all of Daytona can hear it. It’s what they get for doing this to me. It’s what these strange Daytonian’s deserve for uprooting me in the middle of my senior year.

I slump further down in my seat, arms folded across my chest. A large semi truck follows swiftly behind the ugly maroon colored van I’m in, stocked full of junk, clothes, and my truck, and I occasionally catch glimpses as I shift around in the passenger side mirror.

And it makes my heart clench.

Florida is weird.

Everything is flat. There’s hardly any hills-only strangely colored grass that looks like it has seen a little too much sun. It’s sun-bleached grass, if there is such a thing. And the color palette is awkward too. Our new house is located right off the beach-so close, apparently, that our carpets will be half sand-and, like all the other buildings, is colored a weird reddish tan color with darker shingles on the roof. Hotels dot the area like ant-bites on your legs after stepping into an angry colony. And the water.

Oh my sweet baby potatoes, the water. It is nothing like CSI: Miami made it out to be. It is not the color of sapphires sparkling in the sun. It is not heaven on earth. It is the same color of the water that runs out of your facet-only tainted with whale piss and fishes.

And it irritates the crap out of me.

“Near, far-”

I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, finger pressing against the volume button-trying desperately to turn it up higher, even though the volume is at its max.

The car skids to a stop. My seatbelt cuts into the skin of my chest and I let out a strangled gasp, eyes flying wide open. My mother-totally unaffected-spins the wheel and pulls the car into a weirdly paved driveway.

“We’re here,” She breathes, eyes raking over the image outside our windshield.

I feel sick again.

My mother is out of the car in an instant and the door slamming shut jars me out of my stupor. Hesitantly, I open the door. It takes me a while to wrestle out of my seatbelt and I almost fall out of the car.

“What do you think?”

I walk around the front of the van, hands shaking. I can’t tear my gaze away from the thing before me. Dark, ruby red bricks matched with poop-colored shingles and weird round tower-like structures. There’s some greenery around the front, several bushes surrounding the round-curvy driveway, but it doesn’t block the roaring ocean crashing against the sand behind it.

My mother’s hand covers her mouth, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

A strange wounded animal keen is my response.