Sweet Iced Tea

Chapter 11

Monday, September 22nd

I catch a ride to school with Bailey and Luke. Josh offered, but I didn't accept. I might like him, but I don't want the whole school to know.

But perhaps they already do, if my bringing him tea was any sign. Yeah, they already have guessed it, chances are. I groan softly as I watch the world fly by out the window.

"What's wrong, Lee?"

I shake my head, feigning distant-ness. "Nothing."

She shoves my shoulder good- naturedly. "Come on, something's up. What is it?"

"I don't know if I'll be able to stand the teasing if the poplars got wind of me and Josh."

"Yeah." She takes my hand comfortingly. "Don't worry. I don't see how they could know."

I shrug, and look back out the window, dragging my hand out of hers and resting it in my lap. "I sure hope not, Bail."

♡}¤{♡

"Leah, I didn't say anything, I swear!" Josh whisper-shouts, and I try to hold back tears after a verbal attack by some popular people.

"How did they know?" Their words echo through my mind, bouncing around and reverberating off the walls of my memory like a hyperactive bouncy ball.

Loser. Easy. Joshua. Whore. Child. Leah.

He reaches out to hug me, and I stiffen at his touch, flinching away from the electricity that shoots through my arm. I want to hide, I want to bury their accusations and the truth with it.

"It's okay, they don't matter. It in no way affects the way I feel about you."

I raise my eyes to his. Every fiber of my being wants to fire back a cutting reply, but I bite my tongue and life instead.

"I know. I'll be fine."

He smiles gently and brushes my cheek with his thumb. "It'll be okay."

Bailey comes running into the hallway.

"Hurry up! Class is starting!"

♡}¤{♡

I collapse on mine and Cora's bed after running blindly through the house, holding everything back until I reach the quiet and privacy of the dark room.

I curl into the fetal position and tuck my arms around my head, grasping tightly grasping handfuls of my hair. Letting out everything I've held in, I spill out my tears, sob, and allow my mind to go gray.

My doctor calls this a relapse of depression. It's the land of no return, where my mind swims in words of hate and thoughts of terrible ways out. This isn't an unknown thing to me. I've been here many times before.

Whore. Loser. Leah.

"Honey?" my mom peeks through the doorway and switches the light on. Her face twists into an expression concern and recognition. This isn't the first time she's seen me like this. "I'm calling Dr Frank."

I don't respond. Face emotionless, I blink, staring blankly at the pastel pink wall.

Child. Joshua. Easy.

She comes back with her cellphone to her ear and sits down on the edge of the bed. She brushes my hair out of my face, and eyes me critically.

"Yes, Dr Frank? It's Emily Dodson. I think Leah has had a relapse." She glances down at me, and combs my hair with her fingers. "Yeah, it seems bad." She covers the mouthpiece with her hand. "What happened, sweetie?"

Whore. She will never be good enough.

I choke out a strangled sounding sob.

"Sweetie?"

"They said I wasn't good enough to live." I say as calmly as I can, before my voice trails of into a feral sounding wail. That, as well as other things I won't repeat, I add mentally.

Joshua. He could do so much better.

"It sounds like she was verbally assaulted." She waves Cora out of the room when she starts to come in. "When?" She nods. "Okay. Yeah. I'll bring her in." She pulls the phone away from her ear before tapping the screen and laying it face-up on my quilt. "We're going to see him tomorrow."

Whatever she may or may not have expected in reply doesn't come. I slip back into my place of gray.

Loser. She shouldn't be allowed to live.

I curl into a tighter ball and pull the corner of a blanket onto my bare shoulder.

Mom sits with me for an hour or so, not expecting me to talk or reply when she talks. She figured out that depression makes one unresponsive after the first five times I succumbed to it.

My mind is becoming tired.

Whore. Loser. Easy. Joshua. Leah. Child.

The thoughts are becoming more muffled by the weariness of melancholy. She'll never be good enough. He could do better. She shouldn't be allowed to live.

I don't cry. I'm too tired of crying.

My phone's screen light up for what seems like the hundredth time, another message, and for the hundredth time I ignore it.

My eyes drift partially shut.

Loser. Child. Whore.

The phone goes off again, and I move a stiff, cold, cramped, hand and look at the message.

*I hope you're doing okay. I would've come over, but Dad said I should leave you alone. I love you Leah.*

This does get a reaction out of me. I almost smile, and lay back down, close my eyes and relax my clenched jaw. One last thing drifts through my head before I fall asleep.

Sweet tea.