Chapter Text
The front of the classroom is no place for a new student to sit, especially if that student has a history like Jeremy’s.
It's hard for him to keep his eyes open, and it's not even first period yet. Mom dropped him off early so he could see the place and find his classes before everyone else crammed into the hallways. He remembers her telling him goodbye with that perfect smile, rolling the window up, and driving off.
Only his parents would make their child return to school after spending weeks in inpatient. The old one had always caused him problems, so his therapist recommended that they transfer him to the one across town. According to everyone else, he was getting bullied, and that’s why he tried to kill himself. Again.
Let's get one thing straight: Jeremy didn't try to do it because he was bullied. He wasn't getting bullied—at least he doesn’t think so. But even if he were, he wouldn't try to take his life because of it. That’d make him another statistic, and he’d like to be more than that.
Back to the front of the classroom: the teacher told him to sit there. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, not even the teacher, so he just listened without saying a word. Usually, he would try to argue with the adult about this, about anything—but he already argued with his parents today and doesn’t have the energy to argue any more.
Jeremy tugs on his sleeves, attempting to take a long breath through his nose. God, he got pissed at her this morning.
The room is full of uncomfortable silence, and Jeremy wonders when the warning bell will ring. He looks back at the schedule in his hand for the millionth time, but his focus wanes when his ears and his mind begin to buzz. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think of something to distract himself, but it only makes everything look dark.
When will that ringing leave his ears? He could be at home right now, recovering like he should be. Is school even the right thing to do for him? He overdosed, after all. He has problems that are way bigger than high school. Maybe he should discuss that with Dr. Mendoza; maybe she could write him out of graduating entirely.
He'll probably be fine, though. (But will he be fine?)
The warning bell rings, jolting him slightly. He looks back at the paper in his slightly clammy hands. He shouldn't be so nervous, especially since this isn't the first time he’s had to completely restart. It’s just been too long since he has. He knows things will be different here. Maybe the kids won't be so horrible, and there won't be that many fights. (But to be fair, the last school was an alternative school. He's sure it'll be okay. Everyone keeps telling him it'll be okay.)
But Jeremy doesn't know if it will be. Hopefully, he'll make it here if he keeps to himself.
Several kids begin to step into the room, and Jeremy can feel the dreadful pounding of his heart trying to escape his chest. He's never been much of a people person. As more come in, filling the vacant seats around him, he stays focused on the schedule in his hand, trying to memorize it more than he already has.
He can't help but wonder what they're thinking. There are a few murmurs here and there, but nothing much after that. Only a few people give him even a passing glance, and those who fill the seats next to him don't seem to acknowledge his presence. That's good. He doesn't intend to make any friends (or enemies) for the rest of the school year. If he just lies low, how hard could it be to stay under the radar?
It's February. He'll survive for three more months, right?
Knowing him and his history... probably not. But the thought is what counts.
The day turned out to be slow, and through eight hours of torture, Jeremy learned some things:
- School days were shorter by an hour or so at his last school.
- The energy grows rampant in the afternoons, primarily down the halls and in the cafeteria (which Jeremy steered clear of). He suddenly misses the awkwardness of the early morning, no matter how excruciating silence may be for his non-right mind.
- People will stare at him and make snide comments about his looks while he sits right in front of them. (“Is that a boy or a girl?” “I don’t care what it is…”)
After that, Jeremy stopped tuning in to conversations around him, because yeah. Not even a day in and he’s already an ‘it.’ Sure, he’s handled all of this before, but here, it somehow feels worse. Middle Borough is so snobby. He just barely made it through.
The good news, though, is that nobody wanted to be friends with him. Because he’s a weird thing! The only time he had to worry about anyone trying to talk to him was this morning; some kid in math class kept glancing at him, but when Jeremy glared back at him, he stopped. Another win for the resting bitch face.
Now he's walking home from school because Mom or Dad couldn't be bothered to pick him up. After everything else he had to endure today, he wasn’t about to take the bus, so here he is in forty-degree weather, old snow crunching beneath his soles. It could be worse, he guesses. It’s been worse. He's almost home anyway.
Now that he’s thinking about it, home is the last place he wants to be. His chest gets all tight thinking about it. But he clearly doesn't have any other choice, so he begins plotting how to most efficiently get from the front door to his bedroom.
When he gets there, Dad will be gone, and Mom will be stressing that she won't divorce him. They don't love each other, and they especially don't love Jeremy. He doesn't get why they're all still living under the same roof.
He itches his cold nose, trudging through the dead front lawn to the door. He doesn't bother using the front walk. Mom's car is in the driveway, he notes, which means he’ll have to deal with her.
She’s been neurotic since the last attempt. What med regimen can we get him on? Keep the pills away from him. How long do we need to keep him in inpatient? He’s falling behind in school. How many people should we keep away from him even though he’s still grieving?
Is everything a fucking warning sign to you? Can I live?
Needless to say, his parents trying to fix him makes him worse. When you’re put on suicide watch, it shows.
Jeremy steps into the house, and the smell of freshly baked snickerdoodles hits him like an ice cream truck. Stress baking, he thinks. Of course. Mom is stress baking. Gently, he pushes the door shut behind him and begins trudging to his room; he doesn’t bother with trying to take his shoes off.
But then she calls from the kitchen: "Is that you, Kou?"
Fuck.
"Yeah," he responds.
One thing Mom likes to do is to pretend that she gives a shit about him when she actually doesn't care at all. That’s been evident since childhood. It took her this long to realize something was horrifically wrong with him. Maybe she’s just been too busy shouting about finances, or maybe trying to drag Jeremy with her every time she wants to leave his dad. The cycle repeats itself: he refuses to go, she goes to bed. She knows how much he hates it. Maybe that’s where he gets so much of his crazy from.
All that to say: if she ever decided to try and leave again, Jeremy wouldn’t stop her.
Mom enters the living room from the kitchen, her dark, graying hair messily tied back and flour all over the front of her black apron. Jeremy’s chest tightens upon seeing her. She smiles, which should bring him relief, but it doesn't. "How was your first day, sweetie?"
"It was fine." His automatic response, even if it was complete shit like today.
Mom isn't buying it, though. In her mind, 'fine' is a warning sign.
"Oh, Kou," she sighs. Jeremy stares at his shoes. "Come on, talk to me. What happened at school today? Did you meet anyone?"
"Nothing happened. Everyone avoided me like I’m the human embodiment of the bubonic plague."
She stands there for a moment and tsks with a sigh. "You need anything? I can fix you a snack. I’ve been making your favorite."
"No, I don't want a snack. I’m going to my room." And hopefully, he'll never have to come out of there again. Without another word, he turns on his heel and heads up the stairs, shoulders aching from the weight of his backpack. He's ready to lie down.
His footsteps just barely echo off the walls. His school may be new, but he’s lived in this house since they moved from the countryside. It’s the one thing that’s stayed consistent throughout the shitstorm. The posters on his walls may be different and his bed may be bigger now, but he hasn’t rearranged his room in years. Hell, he’s changed more than this house has. He used to be such a happy kid—god knows what happened.
When he enters, he immediately drops his bag by his bed, flopping onto the mattress. Deep in his blankets, he shudders while curling into a ball; god, how he missed lying in bed and doing nothing. So sleep doesn’t catch him so easily, Jeremy stares at the blue wall and thinks about whatever comes to mind first.
He thinks about how he's staring at a wall.
There's a gentle knock on the doorframe, and Jeremy immediately knows it's Mom. He sits back up, his body so heavy and so sore. He already has homework to do, but he's exhausted, and he'll do it later. He looks at her with a What do you want? glance. She makes no effort to ease him into the conversation; instead, she simply states:
"Tomorrow's Tuesday."
"Yep," Jeremy says, popping the 'p.' His legs hang off the side of his bed. He sticks them out in front of him, staring at his worn-out Converse instead of looking at Mom when she talks to him. Eye contact sucks. Especially with his parents.
"Oh, we’re doing shoes in the house now,” Mom remarks; Jeremy rolls his eyes. “Tuesday, Kou. You know what that means?"
Talk therapy! It means therapy. Another horrible, awkward forty-five minutes of something his parents pay for because they think it'll help him get better. "Yes, ma'am."
Mom sighs. Oh no. "Honey, I’m a little worried about you."
"Honey, I’m a little worried about you." he mocks her.
"I’m being serious, Kou,” she says. He doesn't care if she's being serious. He stays quiet for a few moments, her stare burning through him. Why can’t she go away and realize that he doesn't want to talk?
"My first day was just bad, okay? I’ll... I'll try harder tomorrow," Jeremy forces himself to tell her, though he doesn't really believe himself. She won't believe it either. “Sorry for disappointing you."
"No, I’m not—"
"It's fine. I get it." Jeremy looks up at her for once. Guilt rests upon the creases of her face, as if all those times she hasn't been here have finally reached her conscience. It only took the worst of the worst.
Mom turns and is about to leave, but stops momentarily. Jeremy fears that she’ll try to press again, but he's relieved by what she says instead: "Get your homework done, kid. There are snickerdoodles in the kitchen. Help yourself."
He knows she meant that he could help himself to however many cookies he wants, but maybe she meant for him to help himself in more than one way. We can’t do anything more for you, you're on your own. When we throw you overboard, start swimming. Maybe she's finally given up on him.
Good. That's one less thing to worry about in this miserable life.