Nobody liked someone who was always sad.
I was careful to avoid any bathrooms during the day, making it home with the number still written on my skin. What I should’ve done immediately was transfer it into my phone, but for whatever stupid reason, the moment I did that, everything would feel more real.
I hated myself sometimes.
No, okay, like all the time.
When I got home, I was alone, though not for long. Mom was an elementary school teacher, so she’d be home within the hour. Michelle was at her classes for the day, and then she’d probably go hang out with her boyfriend. Dad wouldn’t get home until later, having started his shift at the practice later in the day.
It was fine. I liked being home alone. It allowed me to spend some time outside of my room, to relax and not have to worry about faking any smiles or small talk. After dropping my bag in my room, I headed downstairs, my phone in my hand. I plopped myself on the couch in the living room, turning on the TV for mindless sound.
My eyes fell to my hand, to Mason’s number.
Shit. I should really put it in my phone and go scrub it before my mom got home. She’d ask me countless of questions I just didn’t feel like answering. Going on a date? I knew the boys would start lining up for you eventually. All you have to do is put yourself out there. It’s really not hard, Bree. It’s how I met your father.
Blah, blah, blah.
No dates for me.
I unlocked my phone and put Mason’s number in, saving it before hoisting myself up and heading into the bathroom upstairs. I figured it was about time to shower—since it was Friday and my parents had the weekend off, they’d never let me hear the end of it if they saw me with greasy hair.
I had no idea why, but showering just felt so…pointless. Plus with how my hair was, it got greasy after twelve hours. No way in hell was I going to wash my hair twice a day just to look normal. I was pretty sure with how pink it was, normal was out of the window, anyway.
Why was my hair pink? I didn’t know. I turned to bleach and color a few years ago, suddenly deciding that I could cut my own hair and style it however the fuck I wanted. It’s why my bangs were a bit too short, cut a bit too jaggedly, and why my hair was an ungodly shade of pink. It kept most people away from me, at least. Not many people wanted to talk to a girl that looked like a freak, so it saved me some energy, at least.
After locking the bathroom door, I started to shed my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. I stepped into the tub, pulling the shower curtain closed before turning on the water. The other good thing about not washing my hair every day was that the color lasted longer. You couldn’t get dye like this permanent; it had to be semi-permanent. Every time you touched heat or shampoo to it, the color faded.
After a year of fumbling around with different brands though, I’d finally found an electric pink dye that stayed more than six washes 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.
My sister was not like me. She was a bit taller, a bit fuller in figure, with long blonde hair and blue eyes like our mom’s. She was gorgeous, even when her face wasn’t wearing makeup. Michelle was the girl all the guys wanted, the one that drew every male’s attention since she’d first started her journey into puberty.
Yeah, most guys were disgusting.
Having a sister like Michelle made me feel worthless, really. She was nice enough—though of course she could take on a bitchy tone like no other when she wanted to—and I knew I should never compare our looks, but I knew that’s what everyone else did.