My superpower is invisibility. Not by choice. It's the only way I know how to be.
Until the cute guy on the bus shows me how to fly, but there's a catch.
And it has nothing to do with me being the one who can see him.
But sometimes falling feels...
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"Mom!"
"Mom!" I shout, crying. "Something's wrong. Something is really wrong."
Not only do I feel like shit and can't get out of bed, but one side of my face is completely numb, and my vision is blurry. Now I know little about being hungover, but I know this isn't it. All throughout the night, I've been puking, trying to rid myself of the nauseous feeling growing inside of me.
My eyes are streaming with tears, and I'm in a state of panic. Those same tears are probably the cause of the white spots I see.
Could I have been drugged?
"Randi?" I hear my mom bust in my room and instantly, I'm startled, like I didn't call for her. "What's going on?"
I cry. "M-My head hurts so badly, and I-I can't feel my face. Something is wrong."
It took almost three minutes for me to get my sentence out. Sobs are preventing me from speaking and I'm having difficulty taking a deep breath.
"Okay. Calm down," she says in a weirdly calming voice.
"What about me dying is calm, mom?" I shout, not intentionally.
I get headaches, super bad migraines, all the time, but nothing like this. And if it is from drinking, I promise I'll never do it again. What about feeling like this the next day is appealing?
"You are not dying, Randi. Lie back and hold on," she answers, leaving my room. In seconds, she returns with a wet rag, checking my temperature before placing the cool cloth on my forehead. "What you're probably feeling is your body rejecting the alcohol. And you know what? It serves you right. What were you thinking?"
I shrug, keeping my eyes closed. "I don't know. I'm sorry."
"That doesn't answer my question. What were you thinking?" she barks, and it's frightening. "I leave you girls' home when I'm away because I trust you. But to come back home and see my house trashed with drunk teenagers is unacceptable. And to see my youngest, drunk out of her mind, talking to herself on the lawn is even more unacceptable, Randi."
Of course, that's what it looked like, and if I had my phone, I would've seen her texts. She decided to come back home because she didn't want to stay in a hotel. And after she kicked everyone out, we got yelled at for an hour straight at one in the morning. Then after, she made us clean up while still yelling.
She's not happy, and neither am I with this raging headache.
"I am trying," she mutters, flipping the rag on my head. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to support three teenage girls, work, and deal with the fact that I'm a widow? I have three girls to put through college, and I come home to this after working all day."
"I know," I cry. "It was selfish of us. I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix it. I didn't expect this from you, and I'm disappointed. Do you know how much alcohol was in my home? I could've gotten into serious trouble, you know that, right? Could've been disbarred."
