Art Deco ▷ Ned Leeds | ✓

12 - NEW FRIENDS

"Give it up for our other host, Brooke Allan, glad she finally showed up, whoo!"

She gave him a small smile, letting it drop immediately as she raced up the stairs, hiding the bottle from view, Flash's voice fading into the background, "She's a little shy, guys, it's alright."

After what seemed like an eternity, Brooke slid back into the bathroom, setting down the bottle and the chips before climbing back into the tub and sighing, shoving her earbuds back in, trying to drown out the noise she had been tuned in to, opening the bag and starting to eat.

She stared at the bottle for a few moments, unsure of what it even was. It was just a clear liquid and her mind said "vodka," but she couldn't be sure, as she had a very small scope of knowledge in the world of alcohol.

She did know, however, that people tended to drink alcohol when they were sad.

Shoving another chip into her mouth, she dusted off her fingers and reached for the bottle, peeling off the paper casing around the top and twisting it off, holding it in her hand as she didn't know where to put it.

She stared at it for a few moments, unsure of whether she wanted to go through with this. Of course, it was just a drink, but she was underage and while that wasn't a true problem, the idea of going so far in rebelling against all her parents taught her without proper reason. Of course, the proper reason would be that she was sad, but the question was if she was sad enough.

She barely had to think before reaching her conclusion: of course she was sad enough.

Her entire day had been awful, and it had all been climbing up to this point. She had been so excited to finally spend more time with Liz. Liz, who hadn't wanted to spend time with her in years, going so far as to throw a party with her, only for it to all come crashing down, because she didn't understand. She didn't get it, she didn't see what Brooke saw because she was never in the shadows, never hid herself, never felt like she had to. She was always herself and out for everyone to see—except for one detail that only Brooke knew—and it wasn't the same for her.

Brooke had to live with seeing, but never being seen. Hearing, but never being heard. She had to live with being the only one in the family who thought it was strange that her father went out late at night and returned in the morning, sometimes not even the next day, claiming to be for work related reasons despite no one knowing what he actually did for a living.

He didn't need a duffel bag full of clothes to do work.

But Liz didn't see it, couldn't see it, didn't want to see it, and there was nothing Brooke could do about it. Her mother even more so, she couldn't just go up to her and try to talk about it, especially when she wouldn't even be given the time of day, and she understood her mother was still learning how to be a mother, just as much as Brooke was still learning how to be a person, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Yes, she was sad enough.

Without thinking, she tilted the bottle back and took a long sip of the drink, coughing and gagging as she managed to swallow all of it, her throat and nose burning. She choked, dry heaving as she reached for more chips, wishing she had brought water up with her as she shoved a handful into her mouth.

She was so caught up in the burn and the music blaring in her ears that she unwittingly drowned out the sound of Flash Thompson's music being cut short downstairs, the boy being dragged off by his foster sister and Liz heading back out to pull the party back into full swing with her Spotify.

She felt her lower lip begin to quiver as a new set of tears sprung loose and she shuddered as she began to cry yet again, her chest constricting despite being sure that she couldn't cry anymore, her body shaking because she was sick of all of this.