Are You Okay? by S.Pudliner at Inkitt

Prologue

By sixteen, Kyle Miller had gotten pretty good at knowing which arguments were serious.

There were levels to them.

Some were quick.

His mother would ask his father why he had left his work boots in the middle of the kitchen again. His father would tell her he had just worked ten hours and would move them when he was damn well ready. She would say she worked too. He would move the boots. Twenty minutes later they would be watching television together like nothing had happened.

Those didn't bother Kyle much anymore.

Then there were the arguments that started quietly.

Those were worse.

Tonight was one of those.

Kyle sat on the edge of his bed with his headphones over his ears, Rush playing loud enough that he could make out every instrument but not quite loud enough to drown out the voices downstairs.

He could still hear his mother.

"You said you'd be home."

"I am home."

"At eight-thirty, Paul."

"So?"

"So you went to the bar after work again."

Kyle closed his eyes.

There it was.

His stomach tightened.

He turned the volume up.

The music helped sometimes.

Not because it made anything disappear. It just gave his brain something else to follow.

Guitar.

Bass.

Drums.

Lyrics he'd heard so many times he didn't have to think about them anymore.

Downstairs, something hit the counter.

Not hard.

Probably keys.

Kyle opened his eyes anyway.

His history book sat open beside him.

He had a test tomorrow.

He'd read the same paragraph four times.

Something about the Progressive Era.

He couldn't have explained a single fucking sentence of it.

Kyle pulled one side of the headphones away from his ear.

"I worked all goddamn day, Pam."

"And I didn't?"

"I didn't say that."

"You never have to say it."

Kyle put the headphone back.

His stomach twisted harder.

He swallowed.

I'm going to be sick.

The thought came automatically.

He wasn't sick.

He knew he wasn't sick.

He hadn't eaten anything weird. He didn't have a fever. He hadn't felt bad twenty minutes ago.

Still, his stomach didn't seem interested in the evidence.

Kyle stood and started pacing.

Bed.

Window.

Desk.

Door.

Turn.

Desk.

Window.

Bed.

Again.

Movement helped.

Sometimes.

He stopped at his desk and looked down at the history book.

He needed to study.

He had gotten a seventy-eight on his last math test.

A fucking seventy-eight.

His mother had asked what happened.

His father had told him he needed to apply himself.

Kyle knew that.

That was the problem.

He knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing.

He just couldn't make his brain do it.

The voices downstairs grew louder.

Kyle's chest tightened.

"What do you want from me?" Paul shouted.

"I want you to act like you actually want to be here!"

Kyle froze.

There were certain sentences he wished he could unhear.

That was one of them.

A bedroom door opened across the hall.

Kyle knew what was coming before the footsteps reached the stairs.

"Cam," he muttered.

Too late.

His younger sister's voice cut through everything.

"WOULD YOU TWO JUST STOP?"

Silence.

Kyle pulled his headphones completely off.

"Camille!" Pam shouted.

"No! I'm trying to do homework and Kyle's trying to do homework and all you guys do is scream at each other!"

"Go back to your room," Paul said.

"Maybe you should go to yours!"

Despite everything, Kyle almost smiled.

That was Cam.

Kyle internalized every argument until his stomach felt like it was trying to crawl out of his body.

Cam walked directly into the fire and told it to shut the hell up.

"Cam, upstairs. Now."

"This is so stupid!"

"NOW!"

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

A second later, Cam appeared in Kyle's doorway.

"Assholes."

Kyle glanced toward the hallway. "You know they're going to take your phone."

"I don't care."

"You absolutely care."

"Okay, I care a little."

Kyle managed a small laugh.

Cam looked at the open history book.

"You studying?"

"Trying."

"They're fucking loud."

"Yeah."

"You're going to fail because of them and then they're going to yell at you because you failed."

"I'm not going to fail."

"You got a D on that quiz."

"Thank you, Cam."

"Just saying."

"You're incredibly supportive."

She leaned against his doorframe.

The anger disappeared from her face for a second.

"You think they're getting divorced?"

Kyle looked down.

There it was.

The question he had been refusing to ask himself.

"I don't know."

"They hate each other."

"They don't hate each other."

"Sounds like they do."

Kyle didn't answer.

Cam folded her arms.

"Are they staying together because of us?"

"Cam."

"What?"

"I don't know."

"But you've thought about it."

Of course he had.

Almost every night lately.

Why stay together if being together made them this miserable?

Was it him?

Cam?

Money?

The house?

Did they still love each other underneath all the screaming?

And if they did, what the hell did that say about love?

Kyle's stomach rolled again.

"Go back to your room."

Cam studied him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

The answer came so quickly he barely noticed he'd said it.

Cam shrugged.

"Night."

She disappeared.

Kyle put his headphones back on.

His phone vibrated beside him.

Gabrielle: You alive?

Kyle smiled slightly.

Kyle: Barely. Studying history.

Gabrielle: Ew.

Kyle: Very supportive girlfriend.

Gabrielle: That's what I'm here for ❤️

He stared at the little heart.

Eight months.

They had started dating the previous February, and somehow they'd made it through the end of sophomore year and summer without killing each other.

Gabrielle was pretty.

Funny.

Fun to be around.

And Kyle liked having someone who wanted him.

Another crash of voices came from downstairs.

His stomach clenched.

Gabrielle: Wanna call?

Kyle hesitated.

Kyle: Nah. Parents are being loud. Gonna study then sleep.

Gabrielle: Again?

Kyle stared at that word.

Again.

Kyle: Yeah.

Gabrielle: Sorry babe

Kyle: It's fine.

There it was again.

Fine.

Kyle Miller was always fucking fine.

He put the phone facedown and stared at the history book.

He had no idea that three rooms away, Cam was probably lying awake listening too.

He had no idea whether his parents would still be married by Christmas.

He had no idea why his stomach kept doing this to him.

And he certainly had no idea that there was a girl sitting in another house less than twenty minutes away who was also telling everyone she was fine.

---

Natasha Bennett stared at the number at the top of her paper.

94.

She hated it.

Which was stupid.

She knew it was stupid.

Ninety-four was an A.

Most people would be thrilled with a ninety-four.

Natalie had gotten an eighty-two on the same assignment and had celebrated like she'd just been accepted into Harvard.

But Natasha didn't want a ninety-four.

She wanted the six points she'd lost.

Her red pen hovered over the first mistake.

She had already corrected it once.

Then again.

She was now rewriting the entire problem on another sheet of paper because her handwriting on the first correction looked messy.

"Tash?"

She looked toward the doorway.

Dean Riker stood there holding a laundry basket.

"Yeah?"

"You planning on coming downstairs tonight?"

"What time is it?"

Dean looked at the clock on her wall.

"Almost nine."

Natasha blinked.

"Shit."

"Your mother would prefer you use a different word."

"Mom isn't here."

"Your mother would prefer you use a different word remotely."

Natasha smiled.

Dean had been around for as long as she could remember.

Her biological father technically existed somewhere in the world, but Natasha couldn't have picked him out of a crowd.

Dean was Dad.

She didn't call him that often anymore. She wasn't entirely sure why.

Maybe because she was sixteen and suddenly everything felt complicated for no reason.

"There's food downstairs," Dean said. "I saved you some."

"I'm not hungry."

"You didn't eat much earlier."

"I had something after school."

Dean hesitated.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm looking at you like I'm wondering whether I'm allowed to tell a sixteen-year-old to eat dinner."

Natasha laughed.

"You've been telling me what to do since I was like four."

"Yeah, but four-year-olds don't roll their eyes as professionally as you do."

"Years of practice."

"Come down if you get hungry."

"I will."

Dean started to leave.

"Dean?"

He turned.

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"Saving me food."

He smiled. "Always."

The door closed.

Natasha looked back at the ninety-four.

Her phone buzzed.

Natalie: Three Ns tomorrow after school?

A second message appeared.

Naya: She means she wants us to drive her somewhere.

Natalie: SLANDER

Natasha smiled.

Natasha: Can't. SAT practice.

Natalie: on a friday???

Natasha: Some of us have futures.

Natalie: wow

Naya: She's joking, Nat.

Natalie: I am deeply wounded.

Natasha: You'll survive.

Natalie: Barely.

Natasha set her phone down.

SAT.

She looked toward the stack of books on the corner of her desk.

One belonged to Tanya.

Of course it did.

Her sister's handwriting filled the margins.

Notes.

Shortcuts.

Practice questions.

Tanya had gotten an incredible score.

Then scholarships.

Grants.

And finally—

Princeton.

There was still a Princeton magnet on the refrigerator downstairs.

Her mother showed practically everyone who came into the house Tanya's acceptance picture.

Natasha had been proud too.

She was still proud.

Tanya had worked her ass off.

She deserved it.

Natasha missed her.

They texted. They called when Tanya wasn't buried under work. But college had changed the rhythm of everything.

For sixteen years, Tanya had simply been upstairs.

Now she was in New Jersey building some enormous future.

And Natasha was next.

At least, that's what it felt like.

Her phone rang.

Mom.

Natasha answered.

"Hey."

"Hi, honey. You still awake?"

"It's nine."

Jill laughed tiredly. "You'd be surprised what counts as late around here."

"How's work?"

"Don't ask."

"That good?"

"I've been here since six-thirty this morning."

Natasha winced. "Jesus."

"Language."

"Dean said the same thing."

"See? I trained him well."

Natasha smiled.

"You studying?"

"Yeah."

"For what?"

"Everything."

"That's my girl."

The words should have felt good.

Instead, for reasons Natasha couldn't explain, they made something tighten inside her.

"I found Tanya's old SAT book."

"Oh, good. She did really well with that one. You should ask her about the math section. She had some kind of system."

"Yeah."

"And don't wait too long to start doing the practice tests. Tanya started early junior year."

"I know."

"You're going to do great."

Natasha stared at the ninety-four.

"Yeah."

"I mean it. You're every bit as smart as your sister."

There it was.

Jill meant it as encouragement.

Natasha knew that.

She loved her mother.

Her mother loved her.

Nobody was standing over Natasha demanding Princeton.

Nobody had told her a ninety-four was unacceptable.

Nobody had said she needed Tanya's SAT score.

Nobody had told her she needed scholarships or grants or some prestigious university name across a sweatshirt.

Nobody except Natasha.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"What if I don't?"

A pause.

"Don't what?"

"Do as well as Tanya."

"Oh, honey."

Natasha immediately regretted asking.

"Never mind."

"No. Natasha, listen to me. Tanya is Tanya. You're you."

"I know."

"You don't have to go to Princeton."

"I know."

"You don't have to do anything your sister did."

"I know, Mom."

"Okay."

"I should study."

"Don't stay up too late."

"I won't."

"And eat something. Dean said you barely touched dinner."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Jesus, you two communicate."

"Occupational hazard of marriage."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

The call ended.

Natasha stared at her phone.

Then at the SAT book.

Then the ninety-four.

Tanya is Tanya. You're you.

She knew that.

So why didn't it make her feel any better?

Natasha stood and walked toward her bookshelf.

Rows of novels filled two shelves.

Romance mostly.

Some fantasy.

A few mysteries.

There was a new YA romance she'd bought three weeks ago sitting untouched beside her bed.

Normally she'd already have finished it.

Probably twice if she loved it.

She picked it up.

Read the first paragraph.

Put it down.

She wasn't in the mood.

She hadn't been in the mood much lately.

Probably stress.

Junior year sucked.

Everybody said junior year sucked.

SATs.

Graduation project.

Grades.

College conversations.

Teachers suddenly acting like every assignment determined the next sixty years of your life.

Of course she was tired.

Of course she was stressed.

There wasn't anything wrong with her.

Her stomach growled.

Natasha looked toward the door.

Dean had left food downstairs.

She should eat.

Instead she sat back at her desk.

She could eat after she finished correcting the assignment.

Ten minutes.

Maybe twenty.

She picked up the red pen.

---

The next morning, Ridgeview High School filled the way it always did.

Cars poured into the student lot.

Buses lined the curb.

Teenagers shuffled through the doors carrying backpacks, coffee, energy drinks and the collective resentment of being awake before eight in the morning.

Kyle Miller entered through the east doors with Roger and Jamie.

Roger was explaining why he had forgotten his math homework.

"I didn't forget it. I made a conscious decision not to know where it was."

Jamie looked at him.

"That's forgetting."

"It's philosophically different."

"No, it isn't."

Kyle laughed.

Across the lobby, Natalie was talking animatedly enough for half the hallway to hear while Naya shook her head beside her.

Natasha walked between them, holding a book against her chest.

Kyle knew who they were.

Everybody did.