Picture this: An explosive argument between two people. They're close, family perhaps. Words neither party means flung back and forth like cheap toys. After making their final, most damaging point one of them slams their hands against a table and storms out of the room. The doors left swinging in their wake.

It's dramatic, right?

What they don't show you is what you're supposed to do after you storm out of a room? Where you're supposed to go? In the minutes after my exit scene in the diner, I am standing in the car park, with my arms crossed feeling rather lost.

I could have been kinder, I think.

But I wasn't. I was as far from kind as one could possibly get.

In the age of Planned Parenthood and contraceptives, how is having another child unavoidable? It's an entire course in one of our freshman classes. I wasn't being selfish I was being smart. Or that's what I tell myself as I stare at our Honda. Given the circumstances, it isn't a viable mode of transport anymore. And because I didn't take any money with me there's only one way this is going to play out.

I rehash the conversation in my mind as I take the long walk home, gravel crunching beneath my feet.

"Then maybe I raised you wrong."

Those words stay with me. If I dwell on them too long my heart starts to hurt and my vision gets blurry.

I was raised wrong. Sure.

The anger retreats as quickly as it came. Like a flash in a pan. Then I sigh and the emotion displaces itself with sadness.  My stomach growls reminding me that there's an omelet somewhere inside the Diner with my name on it. Or at least there was.

It's nice to know that no matter what you're feeling hunger takes precedence, an ever welcome distraction. Keeping me preoccupied until I get home.

I am a prisoner in my own home. That statement describes my situation quite nicely. I got home after a half-hour of walking and made straight for my room.

I guess it was poor planning on my part to choose to throw myself onto my bed and spend the next hour crying and blasting my Sad Boi Playlist. That went on until the car pulled into the drive and my family stepped out. All this I witnessed from my bedroom window, like a wanted mustachioed fugitive. Okay, I know I'm being extra but I was watching the latest season of Narcos. And it's rubbing off on my lingo.

What I didn't realize was that I'd be tiptoeing around my room for the rest of the day. Wordlessly barred from the living room and the kitchen. Only just managing to make a mad dash to the bathroom. No snacks or sustenance whatsoever. My own stubbornness meant that I staunchly refused Timothy's offers to get me something to eat.

I sigh and lean against the wall. Andrea is cooking dinner now. I can smell the spice and the chilies through the thin walls. I'm ravenous. My brain betrays me, sending vivid images of ground beef and cabbage or shredded chicken with sweet corn.

This is what they don't tell you about fighting with your parents. You aren't really sure if you're allowed to eat.

My homework from the past week just sits there staring at me. Yesterday I promised I would work on it today. Today has been here and is almost gone; the two thousand-word essay on To Kill a Mockingbird remains untouched and the algebraic fractions ignored. Two fights in the space of twenty-four hours have rendered me useless and now my education is suffering.

First Anika, now Andrea. It seems I'm the common denominator of both those conflicts.

I've had fights with Andrea before, with Dad. But this one is different. This one is deeper.

Hours later the lights are off and Timothy is asleep in his bed with me restless in my own. I step onto the floor, readying for a reconnaissance mission. I don't turn on any of the lights as my parent's room is close to my own and so I walk in the dark. The kitchen is clean and I have to wonder if Tim had to do the dishes on his own this time.

The light of the fridge illuminates me as I open it and then I see a plate already made up, wrapped in cling film. It has a vegetable chicken stir-fry with a side of corn on it.

That feeling, right in the middle of my chest, that my friends is guilt.

*****

School seems a lot lonelier today. The atmosphere is still victorious and people are only just getting off last week's high, both literally and figuratively, but I don't feel it. Quite the opposite actually and more so when the PA system spits out that Basketball practice is canceled to allow the team to recuperate. Which is great for everyone but me. The one day I needed something apart from school to focus on and that abandons me too.

Even the weather is disheartening and the app on my phone goes on about a storm building on one coast or the other. No pink skies or cropped shorts are on the agenda for today. But on the bright side, it won't break until later on in the evening.

Climate change: 1, Mankind: 0. Is anyone really surprised?

The feeling that grips at me every time I dart between classes is a familiar one. Dread growing into a pit in my stomach. I'll be eating lunch alone, for the first time in years. Like some kind of reverse evolution. Instead of going forwards, my social life has declined. I manage to scrape by regardless and if my teachers notice, they don't say. I'm not the most participative student in any class and there isn't much to take note of anyway.

In Phys Ed which is back to normal now, we have a theoretical lesson. Taking notes rather than running laps. For once I enjoy it. It means I won't get put in a team with Anika. As it's the only class we have together, it's the first time I get to see her since Friday's blow out and the vibes are frosty at best.

For Lunch, I retreat to the library, not my favorite place by any stretch of the word. But at least I can hide under the guise of catching up on schoolwork which I do need to do. It's not crowded but there are a few people bent over books and computers.

I grab my math textbooks and spread them out in front of me. Then taking a look at the course outline, I groan internally. Does math at some point ever get easier? That's a rhetorical question. Of course, it doesn't.

By my second attempt to differentiate the equation, I've used up two pages of lined paper and I am in no way closer to finding x.

Someone pulls out the seat next to me and sits down. I glance to my left and it's Aaliyah, who takes out her laptop with one hand and places her green smoothie down with the other.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hi," I say looking back down at my books.

Differential equations and their simultaneous states are hard enough to understand on their own, but twice as hard to work with when you're sitting next to the smartest person in school. My ability to do anything under close observation is rather limited and when the close observation smells like candyfloss and has two state math bowls under her belt my brain short circuits.

I tear out the last two pages of paper I have with me, crumple them into a ball, and shove it into my backpack. On a new page, I write down the same equation and circle it over and over again. It's either my huff of frustration or the smoke coming out of my ears as my neurotransmitters start protesting and begin setting their headquarters on fire but Aaliyah looks up at me.

"Do you need help with that?" She says.

"Oh no, I'm good." That's a lie, a complete and total lie.

Disregarding my objections, she grabs the paper and my textbook from my side, pushing her laptop out of the way to make room on her desk.

She frowns, "Shit, I hate algebra." She says. "You take advanced math?"

I nod. If sitting next to her was nerve-racking then talking to her is a whole other ball game. Which is odd because all she's done so far is smile and ask me a basic question.

"Which teacher? Phelps or Turner?"

"Turner."

"Hmm, they're still letting him teach huh?"

I snort, "Yup." See I'm only capable of one-word answers. About 170 000 words in the current English language and I can only produce single word sentence combinations. A true product of the public school system.

Aaliyah twirls her pencil through her right hand. "I wasn't that good at this topic so no promises."

"Okay."

I can safely say that I learn more in the next thirty minutes than I've learned in this entire semester. The mathematical jargon that I'd been breaking my neck staying up to learn and understand sounds clear and uncomplicated coming from her. We go over several topics and she spends the rest of her lunch writing put a list of textbooks, youtube links, and sources that she used to ace Algebra last year. This I take and hold like some kind of scholastic treasure, which it is.

I know who'd kill to have this information.

Another thing I've gleaned from today is Aaliyah is a closet nerd. Well, not exactly closet. She did make two whole Star Wars references out loud and her notebook sports a puffed-up Cersei Lannister sticker.

My respect for the girl is through the roof.

When school ends I find myself with two options. Either walk home and in hopes that both my parents are at work or I can head to the soup kitchen to get in a few more hours. In all honesty, it isn't much of a choice. When the bell rings I first head to the bathroom. More to avoid the crowds heading off-campus than to actually use it. I lock my stall and wait until I can hear the foot traffic slow. At around quarter past two I step out and rinse my hands under the sink.

I take a minute to look at my reflection in the mirror. The anxiety I had for this day is gone, leaving behind exhaustion in its trail. For all the times I wanted to talk to Anika today, for every time I wanted to text her about something funny. I miss her so much but I still won't be the first to concede in our battle of wills.

"Testing, testing one, two, three," I say to the empty bathroom. My voice sounds dry and throaty to my own ears from lack of use. It hits me how little I talk to people and how small my circle really is. Apart from a few teachers, Aaliyah and some kid who barked at me to move out of the way in the hallway. Freshman jerk.

I run a hand through my hair to flatten the frizzy edges that are flying up and I'm done.

When I'm done I walk out of the bathroom and into the now clear hallway. I speed down the hall and push open the doors and stop in my tracks.

It's raining.

Not just raining. Thundering. In the few minutes that I've been in the bathroom, the car park has become a flood zone. The rain beats on the few cars that are still parked leaving a curtain of water to distort the image before me. The clouds have turned from non-confrontational white to a very threatening dark gray.

"Great," I say. My weather app has set me up for failure yet again. I load the feed and see that the chance of rainfall has jumped from 62% to 76%. But it's of no use to me now.

I don't have an umbrella or a raincoat because in all my calculations for how bad this day would turn out, I hadn't factored in rain. My sole defense from the elements is a white t-shirt that reads Cool Chicks and a pair of jeans. I had planned to walk to the shelter but I'll have to take the bus now.

Securing the straps of my backpack I brace myself for the downpour and run outside.

If my vision was distorted before it's impossible to see now. I head in the general direction of the school gates as the rain smacks at me. Heavy and unrelenting. The wind changes pattern and the wet spray whips at my face.

I rush over the pavement, my shoes slapping across the floor, and just make it past the gate when I lose my bearings. My feet slip ahead of me, losing my grip on the ground and I skid. To me, it happens in slow motion, I see my feet way too far out in front of me and I follow them. Crying out as I collapse onto my left side with a fumble.

The rain doesn't relent. And I find myself sitting on the slippery concrete, my hands propping me up. I ignore the pain flaring from my hip as I try to get back onto my feet. The only saving grace is that in this persistent rainfall, no one is around to watch my tumble. Any other day I would laugh at myself but right now I simply don't have the energy.

I get to the street and cross the road and finally, enter the shelter of the bus stop. I feel and probably look like a wet dog. My hair is limp and soaked, the better part of it covering my face. Most of my t-shirt clings to my skin and my jeans have grime on their sides. Outside the bus stop, the rain lets loose, almost as though the previous downpour was just the encore and it's only getting started. It thunders through the street, filling the stormwater drains and washing over rooftops.

The way things are going I sincerely doubt that any bus is going to be using this route. Not with visibility being this limited.

My bag is wet but not bad enough to seep onto my books and stationery.

I unlock my phone just to check and see that the storm has been upgraded to a tropical one. An update on my phone says that driving in this weather is not recommended, issuing a typical lock your doors and windows type warning.

There's no way I can walk home or get to the soup kitchen in these conditions. It's better to stay put and wait for the weather to break. There's little to do but park myself against the sides of the stop and wait. Every time the wind turns I get splashed. The cold slices at my forearms and I shiver. The water from the drains starts to flow onto the pavement and then onto my shoes.

"This actually sucks," I say in the understatement of the year.

My shoes are the only part of my outfit that I really care about. White trainers that are supposed to last me the whole school year, with very poor drainage might I add. Because already my socks are wet too. One of the single most uncomfortable experiences in the world. A known fact.

It's sheets and sheets of freezing rain everywhere I look. And maybe that's why I don't see a car swerve precariously into the bus's lane and stop right in front of me. A shiny black Tesla with fogged-up windows.

Darnell leans across from the driver's side of the car and clicks open the passenger door, letting some of the rainwater hit the seat.

"Do you need a ride?" He calls and I manage to hear him over the white noise of the storm.

This time I don't need him to ask me twice. Or even once. I would have hopped into the car if he had just stopped to ask me for directions. Something tells me that staying on the streets isn't a good idea for anyone.

I practically fall into the seat and I nod from relief once the door is shut behind me. I can't find the strength to feel guilty that I'm getting the seat covers wet.

"Thank you," I say but it comes out shaky because I can't for the life of me stop my teeth from chattering. A few minutes in the cold and I'm a wreck.

"You're welcome." Without me having to ask, he reaches to the console and turns up the heat. The slats open and fill the car with warm air.

The road in front of us is muddy with rain and mist and it's a wonder he can see more than a few feet ahead. I drop my bag at my feet and cross my legs behind it. If I was expecting Darnell's car to look or smell like an actual teenage boy's vehicle I was mistaken. The interior has plush cream seats and a pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror instead of the fluffy dice I'm used to. No stains on the seats crumpled up tissues on the floor or ashes in the cigarette tray.

"The weather's only going to get worse." He says. And as if to punctuate his sentence the car skids beneath us as he makes a turn. "I can take you home unless you're still planning on volunteering?"

He says it like a challenge. Like he's the only one who would volunteer in a storm. But he has another thing coming because against my better judgment I say: "I was going to the soup kitchen too."

I fold my arms, very much aware that my wet white shirt doesn't do much for my modesty.

"Fine." He says. "Seat belt?"

"What?"

"Your seat belt?"

I nod and drag the seat belt down, snapping it into place. "Do you have your license?"

"Yeah," His eyes are on the road ahead of us but his hand sifts across the dashboard searching until he picks up the small government-issued sheet of paper and holds it up to the light. I reach for it before he can put it down again and despite his resistance, take hold of the license.

What can I say, I'm inquisitive. A friendly word for nosy.

"This is a suckish photo," I say without skipping a beat. It's not a lie. He's glaring at the camera and the lighting isn't doing him any justice either. I check the date and smile when I see that he got his almost a month after I did.

"You think that one's bad?" He says as I continue to scan it. "You should see my passport."

My traveling experience is limited to heading up north every year to visit my Dad's family. Long cramped drives, fights with Timothy and Andrea getting carsick are what I'd normally associate with vacations. But seeing my rowdy uncles and eating more turkey stuffing than anyone should be able to consume within twenty-four hours makes up for it. I'd never been outside the country, never needed a passport. I scoff as I read his full name. Darnell James Washington. It sounds like the name of a state senator.

At the sound, he glances at me, "It's not that bad. At least not as bad as yours."

"What do you mean? I do not have a photo this bad."

"2016. Our freshman yearbook. You were photographed mid-sneeze." He says laughing. "Your mucus is forever frozen in HD."

I cringe at the memory. I had a flu and they wouldn't let me retake my photo.

"Shut up," I say chortling at the thought. "I thought I had struck that photo from living memory."

"Nope, I still have it."

I sigh. A monument to a long-dead friendship. Or one I thought was dead, when we talk like this it seems like we're still friends. Like I didn't do such a thorough job of pushing him away.

The streets are free of the usual rush hour traffic and the drive is short. In less than fifteen minutes we're pulling into the soup kitchen's parking lot. For the most part, the rain has let up, no longer interested in trying to drown me. The clouds on the horizon are still rolling, with gray fervor.

Darnell stops the car in an empty spot. The heater has done a decent job of drying me off. But my clothes are still damp and humid. An uncomfortable feeling.

When the engine cuts I click my seatbelt out of its place.

"Thank you for—"

But Darnell cuts me off, "You're welcome."

He pulls the keys out of the ignition and shoves them into his pockets. Then he grabs the hem of his hoodie and yanks it off and tosses it to me.

"Wear it," He says. "You look cold."

"I'm fine," I say on impulse, handing it back to him. "I'm not cold anymore."

"Can you please just wear it?"

"No, thank you. I don't need your clothes." Of course, he would jump at the chance to give someone the literal clothes off his back.

"Stop arguing with me, Hazel." He says getting out through his side. "I can see your bra through that shirt."

I look down and see that he's right. I can see the lace of my light blue undergarments pretty clearly.

"Oh," I say taking it back. Shouldn't there be a quota on the number of embarrassing moments a person goes through in one day? I pull the black hoodie on and mimic him, "I can see your bra through that shirt."

So annoying.

**********************************
A/N

Next update on Friday

Thank you for reading