before becoming a soft pastel. Yeah, I was not a soft pastel kind of girl. Those hair colors were somehow considered cute and in-style. Whatever. Leave me and my bright pink hair alone, thank you.
I swept my hair over a shoulder, letting the warm water pelt my back. I stared at the numbers on my hand, running a finger over them. Now it was up to me to text him, something I did not want to do. Up to me to make the first move, which sucked. I did not like being the one who had to make the first move now.
Fuck. Should’ve just given him my number and gotten over it. There was no way Mason could ever like someone like me, anyways. I was too trapped in my own head, worrying about things that didn’t matter. You’d think, after all this time, I would be used to knowing no one cared enough to want to get close to me. No boy wanted to date me.
It was fine. I was used to it. I didn’t want to date anyone either. I’d only bring unnecessary drama to the relationship anyway.
Eh, maybe drama wasn’t the right word. More like hopelessness. Most people didn’t know how to handle someone who thought living was pointless, someone who found no enjoyment in anything anymore.
Again, it was fine. I would be fine, as fine as I could be.
I started to scrub the numbers off my hand after grabbing my soap.
When Mom came home, I danced around the subject of the group project, not knowing what to say yet. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, wrinkles around her blue eyes. Even though she was barely fifty, she was starting to look old. That, or teaching a classroom of third graders made you exhausted.
“How was your day?” she asked me as she was going through the mail. I’d been so lost in my head that I’d neglected to hear the garage door open and her car pull in, otherwise I would’ve left the living room and headed upstairs to avoid this conversation.
Then again, she probably would’ve headed upstairs to talk to me, anyway.
Mom and I used to be close, but then I grew up. Then I was no longer the happy, carefree child I was, instead a young adult who constantly wondered what the point of life was. Mom thought all I needed was to get out there, to have friends and hang out with them, and I’d be all fixed. I’d be the old me again. The old Bree Stone.
No, I didn’t think I would ever be that girl again, but Mom didn’t know that. As long as I smiled sometimes, as long as I acted normal, she thought I was fine.
“Okay,” I said, resisting my urge to get up right then and head upstairs. Instead, I played with my fingernails on my lap. Luckily by now, the redness of the back of my hand, where Mason’s number had been written, had died down. Just looking at me, you’d never know I had someone’s telephone number written on my skin. “How was yours?” I asked, though I didn’t particularly care.
It was always the same, anyways. She complained about the trouble children, while simultaneously saying she could never give it up. Teaching was in her blood.
“Same old, same old,” Mom spoke, giving me a smile. “Had to send Jerry to the principal’s office, but besides that, everyone else was good.”
Jerry. This family had heard many horror stories about Jerry, the kid who always acted up and acted out, interrupting her lessons on a daily basis. The kid frankly sounded like he had no parental supervision at home, which was why he was a little demon in class. It seemed like parents these days didn’t really care about raising their children right.
Then again, look at my own parents, and look at me. They might think they did a good job raising me—and they did, in the fact that they never abused me—but I would never go so far as to say I was a normal, functioning member of society.
Mom wandered away, going to set the mail in the kitchen and probably to start cooking dinner. Dad would have to reheat his, whenever he got home later. It wasn’t but five minutes later when the front door opened and Michelle walked in, practically bouncing on her feet as she dropped her bag near the door.