Learning Curve

Scottie

I wake up with a start to the bright overhead lights of my room, still blaring from last night when I finally cried myself to sleep. My face aches, my head pounds, and my eyes are a crusty mess of dried, salty tears.

There’s no question that what happened really happened and that it wasn’t a dream as I sit up slowly, last night’s clothes and shoes pulling at my tender skin.

I glance at the clock above my door since my phone is still halfway across the room on the floor where I tossed it last night when the social media notifications reached an unrelenting buzz. For all I know, it’s broken beyond repair. It’s only six a.m., but it feels like I’ve been asleep for both a lifetime and no time at all.

I crawl off my bed slowly, my stomach pitching with upset. I threw up twice last night, and the lining feels nearly as raw as my emotions. My reflection in the mirror on the back of my door is horrifying—messy hair, red and splotchy skin, and mascara caked beneath my sad eyes.

I’m a mess. But who wouldn’t be?

I grab a bottle of water from my mini fridge and nearly guzzle down the entire thing. My bladder screams for me to go to the bathroom and pee, so I stumble into my half bath and relieve myself.

I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and push myself back into my room, my entire body crying out for the scalding water of a shower.

I need to wash it all away, but the thought of leaving my room is beyond terrifying.

What if I run into someone who was at the party? Or someone who saw all the gory details on social media?

I have no concept of how far it’s all spread, but I know how these things work. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole planet knows, not to mention everyone at Dickson University.

I know I shouldn’t look at my phone—that it’s the worst of worst ideas—but I can’t stop myself from walking across the room and picking it up. The screen is littered with notifications. Missed calls and texts. Mentions on Instagram and TikTok. Snaps on Snapchat.

It’s an overwhelming popularity I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

I have hundreds and hundreds of unread messages, a huge chunk of which are from Kayla, Julia, Ace, and Blake. All four of them are kind and consoling and worried—desperately. I’ll never forget the way they all supported me last night and stood by me despite the ridicule from everyone else, but I’m not ready to face them yet.

I’m afraid I’ll see everything I’m feeling in their eyes.

There’s one message that stands out above the rest, however, making my heart ache for too many reasons to count.

Finn: I just want you to know that I’m here for you, Scottie. Always.

He was there for me last night—silent and stalwart and strong without pushing. He was kind and calm and reassuring and everything I love about him. But I’m still not sure if that changes anything.

It’s been a roller coaster of ups and downs with him, and the bottom of the last hill scraped the depths of hell.

Despite my better judgment, I keep scrolling, and when I spot the conversation I had with my sister last night, tears well in my eyes. She thinks our mom is sober. She thinks she’s doing better. She thinks she’s on the road to recovery, for shit’s sake, not fucking frat guys at college parties while she’s too far gone to know her own name.

Wren would be devasted if she knew. I can’t tell her the truth. At least not right now. Maybe someday, but not today.

Today, I’m going to crawl back into bed and cry until I can’t anymore.

Yesterday, I was a cheerleader with a broken heart but the world in front of her. Now, I’m just the girl whose alcoholic mom showed up to a college party, got drunk, and had sex for all to see.

I’ll never be the same again.