Chapter 1
I reluctantly covered my face with the comforter that is intertwining with my body, the sunlight penetrating through the window blinded me. I sit up, swinging my feet over the edge of my bed before rubbing my eyes. I stretch my arms above my head and yawn, staring at my legs that had been dangling just above the solid wood flooring. I place my feet onto the ground before I languidly stand.
I walk to the opposite side of my room, gazing out of the tinted window that had allowed the beams of aureate sunlight to enter elegantly. On this autumn day, the scenic view above consumes me with the opinions of auburn and gold, playful in the bright light. The trees always bring beauty to the world; their branches hugging the sky. For a moment, I stand observing the delightful view before dressing myself for school. I shift my focus from the graceful Autumn view before taking small steps to where my wardrobe resided.
My wardrobe was nothing exquisite; it mostly consisted of hand-me-downs, jean shorts, and fishnet tights. I pleasantly enjoyed the slight tinge of a grunge aspect in a look; my style references were of those from the nineties. It made me look heaps more confident than what I appear to be; besides, it shifted the teenage females’ focus onto me as I confidently strut down the school hallways.
I graze the handle that was latched onto the door of my wardrobe and gently pulled, revealing the cluster of clothes that are hanging correctly from a small, cylindrical metal pole that lay perfectly horizontal. I piled clothes that I did not usually wear clothes amongst the very bottom; I never really was interested in sorting it properly.
I remove one of my favorite shirts from it’s a hanger and toss it behind me as it settles on my bed; I gather a select few pairs of pants before examining them as they filled the space that once resided in my hands, I struggle with a dilemma. Which team would complete my outfit fully?
I favored my black denim over my blue; the black denim exaggerated my curves and my voluptuous rear beautifully.
I swiftly shift my direction towards my bed and tiptoe over. I admire my outfit that lay on my bed for a brief moment, ensuring each particular garment accompanied one another well. I ponder in thought, and I was hesitant. I proceed to dress in the outfit that lay there; in my view, it was well-balanced. The colors had perfect contrast with one another, the black denim jeans with a slight tear in the knee was a perfect final touch.
I hurriedly dress, I strenuously insert one leg into my pants at a time; with a considerable amount of difficulty as I am trying to be as quick as possible, I only have a substantial period before starting my everyday journey to my school. I take limp steps over towards my mirror, where I could criticize my final appearance before taking a route downstairs, the probability of my breakfast entirely fixed on the table would be high.
I stand stagnant as I examine every piece of clothing that tightly clench my body, my simple white shirt with a plunging neckline accentuated my cleavage slightly enough to be considered eye-catching.
My focus shifts from my self-reflection towards the ledged door. It connected me to the darkened, narrow hallway, leading straight to my open concept kitchen and living area. I stroll towards my door before grasping the doorknob, slightly twisting it. As I swing the door open, a mouth-watering aroma filled my nostrils. My mother must have started cooking breakfast while dressing myself in the minutes that had passed. The scent gains strength as I near the kitchen; the smell of bacon and coffee were gaining intensity.
Potentially potent if you will.
Around the corner of the wall that had been separating the kitchen from the hallway, I peek. My mother was standing adjacent to the stove, poking the bacon with a miniature metal fork as she began to hum a soothing harmony. If she knew I was standing nearby, she’d hush; she would never share her angelic voice with anyone in her presence. I’ve been fortunate to hear her hum, but never fortuitous enough to listen to her sing a melody aloud.
My mother hastily whirled in a ninety-degree angle, coming face to face with myself, she jolted backward. I must’ve startled her.
My mother and I bear no resemblance. On her face, freckles reside in every possible crevice and corner. Her nose was slightly crooked, but her face remains unblemished. I envy her, she was grazing perfection with her fingertips, and I still struggle to keep mediocre within my reach.
In front of me now lay thin slices of bacon and scrambled egg on a pristine, snow-white plate. I flash a thankful grin toward my mother before annihilating the meal residing on the scale in front of me. I take a swig of the juice from the glass that has just finished filling to the brim while I was inhaling my food; I have to dash soon. I glance at the vintage clock hanging from the wall, and my eyes widened when I discover less than fifteen minutes remain for me to arrive at school, on time, that is.
I always position my backpack in the corner next to the front door, acquiring a trait such as absent-mindedness can be contemplated. Through my eyes, it’s my hamartia. My hamartia’s come in abundance; if I say I have a singular hamartia, it’s an extreme understatement.
I snatch my backpack up off the dirty floor and scurry through my front door, the Autumn breeze whirling around my body instantly. I come to a halt as I shiver, the crisp breeze releases me from her grip, she then began to follow the presence of another. The sun was gleaming, and I felt the subtle warmth protruding from the giant ball of gas in the clear blue sky; it was pleasant.
I begin to propel myself forward, taking a few short steps as I make my way down a small flight of stairs leading to my asphalt driveway. I walk to school every day; it was never an obstacle for me as the distance resulted in a five-minute walk. I could see the large, grey building that I considered a school in plain sight through the windows of my living room.
When I begin my route to school, I pretend that nothing around me exists. If I focus on anything other than my thoughts, I panic. Internally I always struggle with conflict; I hear voices that aren’t still positive. I always feel that someone is stalking me, trying to make me worry as much as my nervous system could employ. By focusing on everything else other than my thoughts, I lose sight of who I am, and it feels like my mind gradually deteriorates.
I’m at war from the moment I wake up at dawn to the moment I shut my eyes at dusk. Battles within my head are a recurring obstacle that I have to face every single day. Being Bipolar is a whirlwind of intense desires, suicidal thoughts, and wanting to feel the adrenaline pump through my veins every second of my existence.
My brain is in complete turmoil.
Focusing on my thoughts, I passed the time by relatively quickly. I approached the lengthy parking lot of my school and marched my way toward the entrance. I try to avoid the reckless teenagers who are whizzing around, most of them are attempting to show off their new cars that their wealthy parents had bought for them, but I didn’t pay any mind.
I’m able to hear the distant echoes of voices in the distance, and I discover that a handful of pupils are neighboring my school entrance. In this handful of pupils, only a singular person is distinctive: my childhood friend Tatum Embry.
Like an Emerald, her eyes a brilliant green, the intensity exceedingly overpowering. Her wavy blonde hair covers her face; her facial features meticulously resemble those of a mouse. I extend my strides as I casually arrive face to face with Tatum; for once, her cell phone wasn’t precariously close to her face. Tatum furrowed her thick brows as she placed her hand lightly on her narrow hip.
“Are you okay?” she inquired, Tatum appeared to be puzzled.
“Yes, why would you ask?” I snicker. Why would she assume I wasn’t?
“You’re here on time,” she added, with far too much enthusiasm.
It’s challenging to comprehend if Tatum is genuine or mischievous; every remark that slips through her lips is questionable. I roll my eyes, unable to control the smirk that is forming on my face. I pace myself comfortably as we venture toward the school entrance.
The wind blows gently across my face as my hair entangles itself with my lips. I delicately remove the strands of hair and tuck the pieces behind my ear as I stumble through the school doors.
Oh, how the school’s repulsive stench filled my nostrils instantly as I set foot in through the metal doors, it revolted me.
I study the endless hallway decorated with dark grey lockers, classroom doors resting in between the gaps separating them. The lockers are always reminding me of how much I will miss high school. I have doubts, but I believe the adult world will carry me into a more significant pit of misery. I should enjoy these moments while they last, but my mind cannot help but wander off into other ideological, conceptual universes that panic me.
Tatum and I venture straight through the hallway. Students are scattered everywhere, some are running, and some are shouting. I feel as though all eyes are staring at me; maybe I’m consumed by paranoia, misleading myself into thinking so. I focus on the wall at the end of the hallway, pretending that everyone around doesn’t exist to help ease this overwhelming feeling of anxiety. Tatum remains close as we force ourselves through the crowd.
I take a sharp turn into the classroom that now resides directly across from me. I notice that my fellow seniors are beginning to stack into this particular room. Maybe this is the classroom where I am supposed to attend my morning classes.
“Nellie!” I hear a familiar feminine voice holler. I gaze at the room, searching where it is originating from, “Over here!“.
Tatum and I exchange confused glances before seeing a hand waving from across the large room. Even though I may not seem like the girl who has a cliche friend group, I have a cliche friend group. We all have different personalities, lifestyles, and questionable habits, but we remain close.
“You know I hate it when you call me Nellie,” I sigh, dropping my backpack to the floor beside the desk that resides behind Aspen. She rolls her eyes before leaning against the wall.
“You know I don’t care.” She snickers, “it’s way easier to say Nellie instead of Penelope every time I call out to you, isn’t it?”
“Do all of you have to have an attitude?” I giggle as a sigh follows, both Tatum and Aspen shrug their shoulders in sync before turning to face our teacher.
“Oh! Nellie?” Aspen shouts as she turns her body to face me for one last brief second.
“Yes?”
“As long as we’re friends, the attitude is never going to stop” Aspen smirks as she turns around and faces forward, leaving me sitting here in annoyance. I can’t get angry with her, though; they always say my attitude is worse than all of them encased in one.
English class was disinteresting, we endured lecture after lecture about Oedipus and incest, and I frankly was concerned about Julius Caesar’s mental health. Who wants to write a full play on marrying your mom and gouging out your eyeballs? Why did it become so famous? I have so many unanswered questions, but I knew if I asked them during class, my classmates would groan and complain about how I lingered on the topic for far too long.
It was utterly vile, nonetheless.
“What a waste of time,” Tatum groans. I agree; even though I was slightly curious, I can’t deny that it was exceedingly ineffective to our knowledge of real-world problems.
“Why can’t we have a class that teaches us how to handle bills?” Aspen savagely slaps both hands on her hips before furrowing her eyebrows, “Or, just maybe, handle a mortgage? Deal with insurance?“.
“I agree, instead we’re forced to learn about an Oedipus complex, or how the Pythagorean theorem can help us find the surface area of a shape which is completely irrelevant when it comes to life problems by the way” I feel the rage within rising to the surface, I shake my head as I try to calm myself.
“Completely infuriating” A deep, husky voice startles me as I look up slightly to see Eli.
Elijah Flynn. A fellow senior and our school’s most honored athlete. He has won countless awards since entering his Junior year; on top of that, and he’s in line for being this year’s valedictorian. It’s remarkable what he’s achieved after all that he’s endured in his Sophomore year.
“Eavesdropping again, Elijah?” Tatum examines Elijah’s stance before he crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow.
“For one, it’s Eli,” he grunts, “and no, I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just happened to be close-by and heard what you were talking about.”
“Nellie, be like Eli and accept you have a nickname,” Aspen giggles as I roll my eyes. I wish that they would stop talking about this.
“Oh c’mon, Nellie is a cute nickname” Elijah punches my shoulder with the least amount of force possible.
“It’s a name someone would call their pet horse,” I groan; I wasn’t wrong. I would prefer they all call me by my actual name, Penelope.
I step adjacent to the locker before I begin to turn the lock once to the right, then the left, then to the right one final time before it clicks, hauling it downward unlocking it. I tug on the rusted door with the slightest force since the lockers are decades old, the rust prevents the hinges from opening it properly.
“What class do you have next?” Elijah asks as he leans against the locker next to mine. If I have to endure a class with Elijah for the next hour, it will be excruciating. He never leaves me alone for a single minute. I raise my head and scan the space around me where Tatum and Aspen once stood. It’s like they vanished into thin air.
“I think I have Chemistry, but I’m not sure.”
Elijah lets out a slight chuckle, a smirk slowly forming on his chiseled face. His expression concerns me slightly, “Say hello to your new lab partner.”
“Yeah, no way in hell.”
“Well, that’s a little rude, isn’t it?”
“Eli, I don’t trust you with my life without chemicals, let alone with them.”
Elijah rolls his eyes before turning his body away from me; he begins to take long strides down the now empty hallway. I examine his every move until he comes to a halt. As he reaches the end, he jolts his body around instantly before shouting across the distance of the hallway to me.
“I’ll be saving you a seat, Finch!“.
I enjoyed Elijah’s company for the first month of last year’s Chemistry classes when our partners were only temporary; now, the given partners are to become permanent since Elijah dodges any other given a chance to have another possible partner. Given the circumstances, I think Elijah may be infatuated with me.
I grab the necessary books out of my locker, slam the door, and jog to the Chemistry lab. I know I’m going to be late for class, I’m going to be the one at fault even though Elijah completely threw me off guard, I’m usually unpunctual regardless of what course I have.
I run as fast as my legs will take me, so I’m not overly tardy; our Chemistry teacher is extraordinarily specific about his pupils arriving late. It seems like a matter of seconds, I arrive at the laboratory door, and my stomach feels about to rupture. No one intimidates me more than Mr. Meza.
I knock on the door faintly, but enough for Mr. Meza to hear me. I wait casually by the door, my books cradled in my arms tightly as my fingers tap intensely against the concrete cover of the book.
Mr. Meza opens the door just enough to examine who I was. His glare intensifies as I, a ball of nervousness, stand there intimidated.
“Finch,” Mr. Meza completely opens the door now and crosses his lanky arms, “You can’t keep showing up to class late, it’s only the second month of school, and you’ve been absent and late more than you have been attending or on time.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I had to stay late in class and finish up one of my literature assignments. You know how annoying those are-”
“Finch-”
“Listen, sir, it won’t happen again, I promise.”
“I’ve given you too many detentions for tardiness, next time I will get in contact with your parents and discuss a possible suspension,” Mr. Meza grumbles through his teeth before giving me the cold shoulder and returning to class.
He never believes any excuse that comes out of my mouth, so I bow my head, and I follow behind like a stray dog; I inspect the room, trying to find Elijah amongst the dense crowd. I instantly recognize him by wavy locks and walk toward him like there were burning coals under my feet.
Elijah pulls out the stool from under the desk, and I throw my books down, not caring at the slightest if they displaced themselves.
“Suspension?” Elijah whispers with a concerning tone.
“Yeah, my parents will put bars on my door if I get in trouble anymore,” I mutter. I’m not proud of my tardiness, but I would never try this on purpose.
“Get your shit together, Finch.”
