Page 10 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

September 28, 2018

Igrip onto the toiletbowl, feeling another wave of nausea wash over me. My stomach is empty. I haven’t eaten since yesterday, but my body continues to convulse and I’m dry-heaving up nothing. This has happened almost every morning for the last ten months. The second I enter the school gates; my heart rate picks up and my chest closes in on me. Then this uncomfortable heaviness clamps down on my lungs, and no matter how many times I try to take in a deep breath, no oxygen seems to get through.

It plays out the same way every day. As soon as I walk inside, I race straight for this bathroom all the way on the other side of the building. Not much is located here, just some storage rooms, two empty classrooms, and a few lockers. It’s usually deserted, so hardly anyone ever uses this particular bathroom. I come here for the solitude, and it gives me a chance to get a hold of myself without any interruptions. I just need a few minutes to squash the pain and then I can tackle the day. It’s the pain that induces the panic attack, so if I can deal with the pain, the panic attack automatically sorts itself out. But the problem is I can’t deal with the pain. Walking up the front steps is a major trigger for me, and it’s like reliving the day all over again.

I see myself on the same steps, waiting for him. My father was supposed to pick me up from school that day. Cat was using the car that afternoon. She needed to pick up something for my mom. I can’t even remember what. All I remember is that he promised he would pick me up and he never came. I sat on those stairs for four and a half hours waiting for him. I called him dozens of times, but his phone was off. ‘Til today, nothing grinds me more than the words:The subscriber you have dialed is not available. Please try again later.

I eventually called my sister, she picked me up, and when we got home, there were cops there. My mother was crouched over on the dining room floor. I can still hear her screaming. Her agony echoes in my head. And then they told my sister and I that my dad threw himself off a thirteen-story building. There was just a note that said:

To my family

Just know that I love you.

What a crock of shit! He didn’t love us. You don’t do that to the people you love. He just left me there. He didn’t call me to tell me he wasn’t coming, and I should find another way home. He didn’t ask anyone to pick me up. He just left me there. Not one concern about my wellbeing. Not one care about how I was going to get home. Not one fuck given. He just. Left. Me. There.

Now every morning I feel the same anxiety of not knowing where he was, why his phone was off. I feel the same panic I felt when I saw the red and blue lights flashing outside my house. I feel the same blow I felt when the policeman placed his hand on my shoulder and said:I’m sorry, miss. Your father isn’t coming home tonight.Thanks for that, officer. I’m pretty sure he’s not coming home any night.

That was ten months ago, and now I relive those memories everysinglemorning. I have to carry them around with me the whole day because there are constant reminders that this selfish bastard left us without a second thought. A good reminder is my rumbling belly because he left us in an overwhelming pool of debt, and food is generally the last thing on our priority list. We’re forced to get by with the little we have, living on food stamps, school lunches, and pre-packed meals my mom brings home from the hospital.

After school, I go to a hardware store where I work as a sales assistant and that’s a nice reminder that I’m spending endless afternoons ofmylife grinding away to pay off debts that aren’t mine. And the final reminder (and this one is my favorite) is that once I’m done at this job I’m forced to have, where I earn money that I can’t use to even buy myself a meal—yeah, once I’m done there, I get to go back to a house that isn’t a home anymore.

As the evening creeps along, I get to see my mother blink back tears as she tries to be strong for us. I get to watch how the hope fades from her eyes day by day. And now and then, I’m treated to the exquisite sight of her having a nervous breakdown. It happened just last week. Cat had a run-in with douche extraordinaire, Scott Carter, which led to her breaking her arm. It was the worst thing that could’ve happened in her senior year because it led to her missing out on two weeks of school.

She was at home healing and then one night my mother walked into her bedroom to check on her and found her lying motionless on the bed because she’d accidentally overdosed on painkillers. We rushed her back to the hospital and after three stressful days; she was finally discharged.

Now, kudos to my mother for keeping it together for that long, but man, were we treated to a surprise when we got back home. The pressure finally hit when we opened the front door and she just completely fell apart. First, she cried, then she started yelling at no one in particular, and then she started cleaning and didn’t stop until two the next morning. Grief will do that to you, I guess. It seemed like cleaning was the only thing that made sense to her, the only thing she could control, so we just left her to lose her mind.

What a joy that was to witness. Thankfully, both Cat and my mom are okay now. Well, as okay as they’re gonna be. Cat’s been back at school for a few days now, but she lost her job (broken arm and all), and that was a much-needed stream of income that is now gone. I am absolutely thrilled that I now have additional responsibilities to help support my family, all because of that dipshit, Scott. But he doesn’t deserve all the credit. My dad still wins first prize because he was so generous with all the shit he left behind for us to deal with. And who doesn’t want the overwhelming burden of adulthood crushing down on their shoulders as a mere high-schooler? I, for one, personallyloveit.

You know what I also love? I love how none of us talk anymore. We just move through life in silence. The house is so quiet, stripped of laughter and my father’s voice. He used to sing all the time while he was dancing in the kitchen and now, I ache to hear the familiar sound again. But that’s not the only thing that’s missing. My mother’s vivacious spirit is gone, too. Most days, she just wallows in depression, crying on her bedroom floor while she sniffs his shirts.

And then there’s my sister. Cat and I used to be so close, and now I can’t say one word to her. Every time we talk, it turns into a mini-lecture about how I’m heading down the wrong path, how I’m indulging in too many unhealthy coping mechanisms. She had the nerve to tell me once that my father wouldn’t be proud of the person I was becoming. Well, he can go to hell! I don’t care if he’s proud because his opinion doesn’t matter to me anymore.Hedoesn’t matter to me anymore. Wherever the hell he is, I hope his soul is burning in my rage, suffocating in my pain. He took away so many things that were important to me. My mother. My sister. Our family dynamic. Out of all the things he has forced us to endure, that is what makes me hate him the most.

These little reminders that I get every morning, noon, and night, these reminders I get as I go through every day and every week and every month—they’re pushing me further down a dark hole. And people wonder why I drink, why I seek comfort in a man’s touch. It’s a release, an escape, but more than anything, I think it’s a secret hope. Everyone thinks I move from boy to boy at lightning speed, but it’s them that’s moving. I’m low-key hoping one of them will stay, one of them will thinkI’mworth it to stay. It’s a silent wish that one of them might love me enough to not discard me after just one hookup. But none of them do. I guess part of me is desperately trying to prove that not all guys are like my dad. One of them has to feel something for me, right? Something that’s enough to make them stay. But it’s never enough.I’mnot enough, so they just end up using me and then leaving me. All I’ve proven is that all men are the fucking same.

I drop back to sit on the floor and rest my head against the door as I try to catch my breath. Slow and steady, I manage to bring my heart rate down. Once I feel like I can face the world, I wipe the tears off my cheeks and make my way out of the stall. I look at my reflection and I’m a mess. Taking my makeup out of my bag, I touch up my foundation, covering up the blemishes caused by acne and the slightly darker circles under my eyes. I fix my liner, then reapply my lipstick and gloss. I twist three thin French braids along the left side of my head, then sweep the rest of my hair up into a high ponytail. I shift my bra to perk up my boobs a bit and undo another button of my red and blue checkered shirt, because why not? I have awesome cleavage. Might as well show it off. Last, I adjust my choker, then my necklaces, so that they fall at just the right spot on my chest and...I’m on point, ready for the day ahead.

I squash the feelings inside me and push them into the pit of my stomach. “Smile.” I practice it a few times, making sure it looks real, and when I’m certain that my face gives nothing away, I exit the bathroom.

My mood lifts a fraction as soon as I see Dylan. His locker is right outside the bathroom and seeing him every morning is an instant pick-me-up. Today even more so. Every few weeks, he’ll just randomly skip school for three or four days. He did that this week, just disappeared from Monday to Thursday. I don’t know why he would choose to come back on a Friday, but simply seeing him makes my day. He just has that face.

Cat and I used to rate boys according to our Avenger’s Chris-o-meter. If a guy can’t be categorized as any of the Chris’s, then he’s not worth our time. At the bottom is Chris Pratt. Guys falling into this category are kinda cute, not hot as such, but they have that loveable personality that makes them attractive. In the middle is Chris Evans. These guys are insanely good-looking, but their sex appeal lies more in how adorable they are and not necessarily their looks. And right at the top is Chris Hemsworth. This is the epitome of all things man. These are the panty-melting,don’t ask questions, just open your mouth and drop to your kneestype of guys. On the Chris-o-meter, Dylan De Lorenzo is one hundred percent a Chris Evans.

He is that perfect mixture of cute and sexy. Broad shoulders, sculpted pecs, and a tight ass complement his six-foot-one frame. That’s the sexy part of him. But then he has this face that is boyishly handsome but simultaneously manly. His bone structure is not too hard and not too soft, but he still falls more on the rugged side. That, however, is contrasted by mischievous brown eyes and a playful smile, which makes him utterly and undeniably adorable. There’s this constant rosy tint to his cheeks and his lips are so red it always looks like he just got done eating a cherry popsicle. He is so fricken cute. Toss in his mellow demeanor and his odd sense of humor and the result is...Chris Evans.

More than that, though, is he’s just a really nice guy. He’s polite and respectful, so different from every other dickwad on the football team. The first time I met Dylan should have been the most embarrassing day of my life, but he softened the humiliation. Audrey McKenney and her group of brainless followers thought it would be hilarious to prank me. I was in the shower after PE, and they took my clothes and my cell phone and dumped all my stuff in the middle of the football field. With no way of calling anyone for help, I was forced to walk out in nothing but a towel to get my things while the entire team was doing their practice runs. The rest of those assholes just laughed and took pictures, but Dylan whipped off his T-shirt, quickly shoved it over my head, then rushed off to get my stuff. I still have that T-shirt.

“Good morning, De Lorenzo.”

He smiles when he sees me, and it lifts my mood further. “Hey, Bella.”

“It’s nice to see you around these parts again. Where do you disappear to?”

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