The Route to Nevada

The One Where I Have Crippling Social Anxiety

7:30 am.

 Monday morning had whipped around with frightening speed, and I sat at the kitchen table, hyperventilating as I waited for my Dad to finish his phone call and drive me to school. 

The week had passed in a blur of endless shopping trips trying to locate all the items on the mile-long school supply list that St Cadmus had provided. Naturally, my father had absolutely no desire to accompany me, and my dumb ass had failed to learn how to drive in my three years of being AWOL, which meant that I had spent days in the back of an Uber, suffocating under shopping bags. It had never really occurred to me that my wardrobe (which basically consisted of a bunch of faded sweatpants and t-shirts, plus the occasional dress) was inadequate as hell until I had walked into the stationary store to buy school supplies. Apparently, the rest of the city had the exact same idea, meaning that I was stranded with a bunch of modelesque girls in jean shorts with perfect hair, and realized that I looked like a crackhead pigeon amongst a bevy of swans. Aside from independence, the one upside to having an emotionally unavailable parent is the guilt money, so the first thing did when I got home was to go online and order an entirely new wardrobe. But even a frantic online clothing haul can't show up overnight, so I was now dressed in the same strappy red summer dress I'd worn on my first day back, hoping that it wouldn't look totally obvious that it was the only decent thing I had to wear. At least my sneakers were cute. 

My fingers tapped against the marble work surface as I glanced at my phone: 7:45.  I could hear Dad's voice echoing in the entryway, voice raised and with no sign of the conversation coming to an end. The last thing I needed was to be late on my first day and have the entire world stare at me when I walked in. I was seconds away from getting up to find him when he burst in, brows furrowed together furiously. He grabbed his coffee from the island, barely sparing me a glance as he rushed out of the kitchen. I followed mutely, my previous indignation disappearing in the face of his temper and climbed into the car, taking care not to slam the door too hard. We drove silently for the entire journey, the sun flashing periodically through windows till we pulled up at the massive parking lot. Unlike the last time I had been here, the lot was packed to the brim with cars, hundreds of roofs glinting in the sun. I barely heard my father unbuckling his seat belt as I sat frozen in the passenger seat, palms damp and mouth dry. Then his door slammed, jerking me out of my frozen freakout and I scrambled out after him, squinting against the glare.

There must've been hundreds of people in the parking lot, parents and students alike as I followed behind my father to a set of giant glass doors that slid automatically open as we approached. Friends greeted each other loudly, parents smiling at each other in recognition and I kept my eyes trained on my feet, feeling the stares as we stood at the reception desk. My father's fingers tapped against the glass surface, glancing repeatedly at his wristwatch as we waited for the receptionist to arrive back to her seat. What felt like minutes later, a blonde woman with hair in a slicked-back bun clacked back on stilt-like heels, lips painted scarlet.

"How can I help?" her lips peeled back in a smile

Dad jerked his head in my direction, already turning to head back to the car.

"She starts her today. I spoke to the principal over the phone. I'm assuming I can leave her in your hands?"

She nodded, smile still perfectly in place: "Of course sir."

With that, my father twisted on his heel and walked out, phone attached to his ear before he'd even made it out of the door. I stood awkwardly, wondering where I should go and what I should do. The woman had turned her back on me, ruffling through paperwork. I cleared my throat.

"Um-excuse me? Could I have my schedule please?"

A heartbeat passed before she turned back, ignoring my question. She held a camera in one hand, a bunch of sheets in the other. and motioned for me to follow her to a room behind the front desk. I made my way around the desk, stepping inside just as the bell rang. She left the door wide open, letting everyone in the reception see inside as she stood me against a wall, barely giving me a second to register anything as she snapped a photo, then ushered me out to a set of chairs outside.