As I walk up, I spot both of my parent's cars in the driveway. I don't really want to go home, but I know I have to.

It's already late, my appointment was over at four-thirty, and now it's five forty-two. My conversation with Travis wasn't that long; even with everything with Ryder, it still wasn't that long.

I was walking slow, extra slow. My mind kept replaying Ryder's words. I'm done with you; I'm tired of you. You and I aren't friends.

God, I'm so stupid; why would I even attempt to say that. I know he and I aren't friends. I don't want to be friends with him. I just thought maybe... maybe, I don't even know what I thought. That was my problem. I shouldn't have been thinking anything. I already know... I know who he is; I shouldn't be thinking about him becoming someone else because he will never change.

I walk up to the house and grab the key out from under the mat. I unlock the door and go in.

"Jayda? Jayda, is that you?" My mother asks from down the hall. She sticks her head out of her office. Her office? She must have stayed home from work. But why is she in her study? She never works in there. She rushes over to me. "Oh, sweetie, are you ok?"

"I'm fine." I simply say.

"Why didn't you call. We called you several times," She says.

"My phone died." I walk past her and toss the house key into one of the bowls.

My father appears at the top of the steps and asks, "Where were you?"

"I went back to school after my appointment. I left something in my locker." I lie.

He walks down the stairs and over to where my mother and I are standing. "Why didn't you answer our calls?" He asks.

"Marcus, her phone died." My mother says before I can answer his question.

"How was your appointment?" He asks.

"Honey, she just got in; why don't you let her go get cleaned up? We can all talk about this over dinner." My mother says. My father looks at me and then moves out the way. I walk past him and up the stairs.

As soon as I open the door to my room, I walk over to my desk and place my bookbag in my chair. I unzip my bag and pull out the small container of pills. I read the label.

Clexa take one a day.

I've never heard of this one before. I think back to my time at the facility; during group, people would talk about the medication they were on; I don't recall anyone taking Clexa. I sit the pills on my desk, walk over to my nightstand and place my phone on the charger. I undress, grab my towel, and then head to the shower.

...

I dry my hair with my towel and shake my head, allowing my curls to fall. I walk over to my dresser and grab my blue basketball shorts along with a white T-shirt.

"Jayda, dinners ready!" My mom calls.

"Coming!" I yell back. I slip on my clothes and then walk over to my nightstand and grab my phone. Soon as I pick it up, I see seven missed calls from Ryder. Another call comes to my phone. It's him. I quickly decline the call and then turn off my phone. I place it back on my nightstand and then walk out of my room.

After an awkward 30 minutes of silence at the dinner table, my mother asks.

"How was school?"

I reply by saying the same thing every teenager says when asked about school, "It was fine."

"So when does this stem team meet? Is it every day, every other day?"

"We meet twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays." I say.

"Stem? I didn't know you liked stuff like that." My father says.

"Well, it's a lot; you don't know about me." I huff. Soon as the words leave my mouth, the room goes quiet. I continue to eat the food in front of me, but I know my parents are looking at me.

"So tomorrow after you finish with Stem, I'll pick you up." my mother says, changing the subject.

"I really don't want to go shopping. I have plenty of clothes,"

"Yeah, I know, but you need something a little fancy, something more elegant for the opening."

"I have a dress."

My father shakes his head and says, "The only dress you have is that black dress, and you're not wearing."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Well, one you wore it to a funeral, and two, it's too short."

I roll my eyes at his comment.

My mother tries to soften his words by saying, "It's fine you look nice in it, but I think something new would be better."

...

The rest of the dinner has been silent. I can feel the tension at the table, especially from my father. I know he wants to say more about the whole medication thing, but he's not. He's holding back, probably for my mother.

Let me just put both of them out of their misery. "I have the medicine; I'll take it tomorrow," I say. They both look up from their phones and at me.

"Well, it looks like I'm not paying Rachel all that money for nothing." My father jokes.

"Marcus." My mother snaps him. She turns to me. "That's great, Honey. Why have you decided to take it? Was it something she said?" My mother asks

"Yeah, she did say something, and I had time to think on my walk home. I'm not taking the medication for you guys, though. I'm taking it for me." I say. They look a little shocked at my words. I hope they don't take offense to them. It's the truth. I need to start honestly telling them how I feel.

"Well, that's great." My mother smiles.

My father's phone rings. He looks at me and then my mother. "I have to take this." He says. He stands up from the table and then walks away.

My mother and I continue finishing our meal.

...

My prescription bottle is sitting on the side of my sink. I've been staring at it for about five minutes now; I tossed and turned all night at the thought of taking them. I'm scared to take it. I'm so scared.

I've concluded that I'm not scared to take it only because of having a bad reaction. I'm afraid to take it because what if it actually works. What if I take it, and I no longer feel that sense of hopelessness?

For the last seven years, all I have thought about was dying. I never imagined the future. I never thought about having a life; I think I've thought more about the afterlife than about life itself.

There is a knock at my door; my mother enters and walks into my bathroom. "Hey, just checking to see if you're ready," she says. "Have you taken it?" her eyes go to the bottle sitting on the sink.

"I'm about to," I say to her.

She smiles at me. "I know it may not seem like it, but your father is grateful; he's happy that you've decided to give it a chance." She says.

"Doesn't seem like it." I snarl.

"Well, he is. You know how he is, his words always come off forceful and demanding, but he means well. Sometimes I think he's harder on you because he sees the potential in you. He just wants you to be great."

"I know."

She wipes a fallen tear from her cheek. "Well, I'll be downstairs when you're ready." She backs out of my bathroom and then walks out of my room.

I pick up the bottle and screw the cap off. I take one of the tiny pills and roll it around on the palm of my hand. I laugh to myself. I told myself I wouldn't take any more pills, and here I am, taking more pills.

It's funny because it looks like the pills I used to take; the only difference between them and those is that one is prescribed, and the other ones aren't. I mean, they both can become addictive; they both have side effects, they both make me feel good. So why am I prohibited from taking one and not the other?

I quickly place the pill on my tongue and then swallow. I look at myself in the mirror and say out loud.

"I'm doing this for me."

...

"So 6:30, right?" My mother asks.

"Yes, 6:30."

"Yay, I'm so excited to go shopping later. And in less than 24 hours, we will be at the big apple." My mother cheers.

"Have you ever been before?" I ask her.

"Once, your father took me there for our second anniversary. We stayed in a five-star hotel, and he took me to dinner at this fancy restaurant right in the middle of times square." She has a beautiful bright smile on her face

"That sounds wonderful."

She sighs. "It was." She pulls up into the school. "If you need anything or if you start feeling weird or whatever, you go to the nurse's office and call me immediately," she says.

"I will,"

...

My history teacher didn't show— again. I wonder why he always takes off; he's here like every other week. I am surprised I'm even passing the class.

The substitute doesn't teach anything while he's in there. He just sits there, and that's it; everyone does what they want; they spend their free time walking in and out of class, gossiping and laughing.

I don't gossip, and it's rare when I laugh, and there is no need for me to roam the halls, so I left, and now I'm here searching through the aisles of the library looking for something new to read. I would finish reading Hamlet, but I'm not in the mood for Shakespeare right now.

I'm in the science fiction aisle. I know I won't find anything here; I think I've read every science fiction book there is. Science fiction is undoubtedly my favorite genre of books. Living in a different world, a world apart from this world, I love the idea.

In the ninth grade, I read book after book after book; I always wished that somehow I could be zapped into that book and leave this world.

Back then, living in a world with divided fractions or a world where children fought to the death sounded better than living in a world like mines. It still does.

"Why didn't you answer my calls?" Ryder says from down the aisle. I pretend I don't hear him; even though my heart is freaking pounding, he scared me.

I turn the opposite way and start walking. I won't answer him. I won't even acknowledge him. He walks up and then stands in front of me, blocking me.

"Why didn't you answer me? I called you," he says again. I don't respond, and then he asks, "So what, you're not talking to me? Just because I said I m not your fucking friend."

I look up at him. I look into his green eyes. "I won't keep doing this," I say. "You can't treat me anyway and then think you can call me as if nothing happened. I don't know if this is something you did with Ashely, but I'm not Ashely." I say sternly.

"I know you're not Ashely!" He yells. "You're nothing like her," he says.

"You know what? I really don't care about any of this. I don't even know why I care how you treat me—you're disrespectful. You're arrogant; you're selfish. I know all these things, so I don't know why I even try with you. You're going to be who you want to be regardless of other people's feelings, regardless of mine. "

He stares at me blankly. His lips press together in anger. I give him a second to try to defend himself. But he doesn't. He just turns around and walks away.

Thank God!

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