Loser || WlW

Ten

"Sweetie, open the door." Dad knocks for the fifth time this morning. "You're going to be late for school." His words are muffled through the door.

"I told you, I don't feel good."

"Jo." He sighs. "Just come out and talk to me."

I let out a long breath, push myself out of bed, and unlock the door. I'm back under the covers by the time he peeks into the room.

"What's gotten into you, kiddo?" He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls the blanket down to see my face.

I shrug. "Just on trial for murder. Nothing major."

He winces. I can't imagine how stressed he is right now. First Mom, then Zach, now me? I was supposed to be the kid who held it together. The one person he didn't have to worry about.

"I told you," he scratches his five-o clock shadow, "we'll get you a good lawyer."

"With what money?" I scoff.

He chuckles. "I'll tell Zachary to sell some more coke." He nudges me in his playful dad way.

"Too soon, dad." But we both laugh. It's all you can do at some point. Laugh it off.

We stop and take in the silence. Dad pushes the palm of his hand into his back and groans. Work has been killing him lately. "Alright, sweetie. Get up. I'll drop you off at the therapist on the way to my shift." He points a stern finger at me. "But you have to go to school after."

I sigh and pull the blanket over my head again. "Do I have to?"

"What's gotten into you?" He pulls the blanket away. "First murder, now you're cutting class?"

I punch him in the shoulder. "Too soon, Dad!"

"Sorry." He's laughing as he jumps to his feet and jogs out the door.

I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling for a moment before I push myself out of bed. He's right. If I skip school they'll just twist it and make it look like I was murdering someone else.

***

"Did you have a good relationship with her?" Dr. Perry is wearing a black cardigan and a white blouse. Very professional. I wish I could sink into the large armchair and hide my torn-up Converse and T-shirt.

"I don't remember her much." It's not a lie. My mom was locked up by the time I was in the second grade.

She jots something down in her notebook. "Did you ever reach out to her?" She waits for me to say something but when I don't respond, she looks up from under her eyelashes and flashes one of those generic warm smiles.

"Not really." I keep my eyes on the ground and avoid her stare. I know she wants more. If she can get me to open up, maybe she can get through to me. She wants me to admit I murdered Claire. I bite my thumbnail. "When I was a kid, I thought she would get better, you know?"

She makes a noise that resembles a laugh. "Childlike optimism."

"But she's not there, you know?" I run a hand through my hair, trying to think of the words the doctors used to describe her condition to us. "All the meds..." I trail off, shake my head, "She's basically dead."

Dr. Perry leans forward. "When's the last time you saw her?"

I shrug. "I don't remember."

Lie.

I was in middle school but I remember her glassy, bloodshot eyes, staring me down like it was yesterday. Her skin was gray and bruised from the restraints, the needles, the rough nurses. My dad didn't want to take me. Told me my mother was no longer in that body; she slipped away with the mental disorder but I begged until he gave in. I wanted to see her one last time after the accident.

"You tried to kill her, correct?"

My head snaps up. "What?"

Dr. Perry shifts in her seat; clears her throat. "I said..." she watches my eyes. She's always analyzing me. "Your time is almost up. Is there anything you'd like to talk about before you go?"

I swallow hard, watch her skeptically. "No. No, I'm good." I stand, pulling my backpack over my shoulder.

She stands too. "Next week, I'd like to talk about the night at the pizza shop." She watches me, but her eyes don't tear into mine like Officer Kyle's do. She's soft. Everything about her is gentle. "It's common for people with anxiety disorders to faint when faced with prolonged stress."

I wave the idea away. "I don't have an anxiety disorder." I let out a nervous chuckle and start toward the door. "I'm- I'm not my mom."

"I didn't say you are, Jordan." She reaches toward me but pulls her hand away when I stop walking. "Your mom is a unique individual. I have no doubt you are very different."

We stare at each other. I force a smile and nod. "See you next week then." I half-wave and her eyes crinkle with her smile.

I walk quickly, hoping to get the session out of my head. Every time I see her, I feel worse. I shake my head. She's supposed to have the opposite effect on her patients. Officer Kyle must have put her up to this.

I stop at the local gas station. There's a familiar ding as I push through the door too fast. I'm at the counter in a second, a bottle of Pepsi and a Kit Kat in my possession. I don't hear the price when the older gentleman rings me up. Instead, I dig through my backpack, grab my wallet, and slip him a five. Leftover tips from Papa's Pizza but something shiny catches my eye as he counts out my change. I pull at the black debit card tucked neatly into my wallet.

My chest clenches when I see the name on the card.

Claire L. Davis