A Life Less Average

thirty

poppy 

I had barely left my bed in four days. 

Jasmine had given me the Saturday off work, figuring with the Winter Formal and the possibility of going into town afterwards, I wouldn't be in any fit state to be serving the general public that morning. But as the weekend quickly came to an end, the thought of going to school and facing my problems made my palms sweat and my stomach churn.

Mum had called the school for me, telling them I was bedridden with a stomach bug, though she knew I hadn't been telling the truth. She could see right through my lies. Or maybe it was my tear stained face that had given me away. 

She was unusually nice to me, bringing me biscuits and hot chocolate and soup without me having to ask. Each time she climbed the stairs to my bedroom, she would place down a fresh bowl or mug, and take the empties with her. 

Conversation was lacking, but there was nothing unusual about that. Had she set herself down at the end of my bed and started to talk about feelings, then I would have questioned her motives. 

I had left my phone off since the weekend. I didn't know what was happening outside of my bedroom. Hell, my parents could have redecorated the rest of the house and I would have been non-the-wiser. 

I imagined my inbox would be full of messages and missed calls and voicemails from Faye. We had never been through something like this together, so I didn't know how she was reacting to me going off the grid. 

Rather than scrolling mindlessly through social media, I had been mindlessly watching Netflix. Around day two of my self-prescribed bed rest, Riverdale had gotten too weird, so I switched to Friends. You could never go wrong with rewatching Friends for the tenth-thousand time. 

As season two started, there was a small knock on my bedroom door. My mum slipped her head into my bedroom to confirm I was still awake, and slowly her head was joined by the rest of her body. In her hands was a tray. On the tray were two mugs of hot chocolate.

She joined me silently, and after ten minutes or so she turned to me. She looked different. Rather than the stern expression she usually wore, there was a softness in her eyes. 

"What's happened, Poppy?" she asked, quietly. "I'm worried about you." 

When I didn't speak, which was unusual for me, her eyebrows dug deeper into her eyes. 

"Did something happen with that boy?" 

I felt my eyes prick with tears. I told myself not to cry but Mum was looking at me.. well, like a Mum and everything in me just collapsed. 

"I've ruined it, Mum," I cried. "I've ruined everything." 

"I'm sure you haven't," she said, her skinny arms pulling me into her. She was warm. Her blouse was perfumed with a sweet scent I hadn't caught a whiff of in months, maybe even years. I couldn't remember the last time my mum had hugged me. 

"Tell me what happened," she said. 

I pushed my hair out of my face, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror across the room. I really should have turned it around, I thought. My face was red and blotchy and my hair was an unwashed, unbrushed pink mess. 

I told her about Lewis. Well, the PG stuff. I told her he was my tutor, which immediately got her approval. He was smart and he applied himself. He was checking boxes left right and centre, and I had barely chipped the tip of the iceberg. 

The more I told Mum about Lewis, the more I realised how perfect he actually was. And the more I realised how perfect he had been, the sadder I got. I had really fucked up. Like, really really fucked up. 

From the get-go Lewis had made me feel something I couldn't quite put a name to. It was like I had been cold my entire life and with him, there was a flicker of heat somewhere deep inside me. 

"You haven't ruined it, darling," she said. 

She took a sip of her hot chocolate. Unlike mine, hers was piled high with whipped cream and mini marshmallows. I examined the frothy top of my drink, watching the chocolate swirl around the edge of the mug.

"You need to talk to him. Tell him what really happened. For all you know, he's over the entire thing and he wants to talk to you but he can't because your phone is turned off."

I looked up. "Do you think?" 

"Just try," she said. "You'll won't know until you check. Will you?" 

She was right. I needed to turn my phone on and let the damage run free. 

I couldn't remember the last time my mum and I had sat down and had an actual conversation. Sure, we spoke. But it never delved beneath the surface. We spoke about our days as though we were strangers and never spoke about our feelings. This was uncharted territory for both of us. 

I reached under my bed for my phone and switched it on. 

"Everything will be fine," she promised, taking her mug and the tray it came on with her out of the room. She closed my bedroom door softly behind her. 

I muted the television and sat at the top of my bed, waiting for the home screen to appear. Within seconds the notifications started popping up. One-three-eight-twelve messages. Missed calls. Snapchats. Messages on Instagram and Facebook. Faye had even sent me multiple tweets. 

I opened Faye's notifications first, clicking through the same message each time, only as the hours passed they grew more concerned. After a day she was terrified. After two days she had almost had a full-blown meltdown. But she had finally simmered down to severe distress and extreme loneliness. 

Whatever you're doing (without me), it better not be too much fun. I miss you, Bee. Hurry up and message me! was her last message. 

I messaged her back, confirming my whereabouts for the last few days and reassuring her that I hadn't been doing anything remotely enjoyable without her. Like I would! 

Once Faye was dealt with, I sucked in as much air as I could and opened the message from Lewis. Singular. He had sent me one short message in the last four days.

Please tell me the truth.

I pressed the call button and held the phone to my ear. Only, it didn't ring. It cut straight to voicemail as though his phone was turned off, too. I sighed, slamming my phone against my duvet. 

I wanted to scream or throw my phone across the room, but I knew that my mum would be hovering on the staircase waiting for some kind of reaction. She would be waiting for the right moment to burst back through the door so we could continue the conversation. But that conversation was over. 

As for Lewis and I? I had no idea.

He wanted the truth but he'd turned his phone off. How were we supposed to talk if I couldn't get in touch with him? 

I laughed aloud, aware of the irony. 

Lewis had spent the last four days wanting the truth and I had been curled up in bed feeling sorry for myself with my phone turned off. And now that I wanted to talk, that was exactly what he was doing. 

But I wasn't going to wait four days for an answer. 

I couldn't wait four days. 

I needed to talk to him. Tell him the truth. Tell him that there was nothing between me and Oliver. I needed him to know how I felt about him and nobody else. How I had never felt like this before. 

It might have taken four days of self-pity and crying into my pillow to realise it, and now that I had, he needed to know too.