Page 56 of The Rebel of Raleigh High

Alex: Wanted to give you some space, but now I really need to know if you’re alright.

Me: Not really.

Alex: Bad, huh? What can I do?

Me: Rescue me. Kidnap me. Whisk me away.

Alex: Don’t joke. I’ll do it.

If only he could. I’d jump into a car with him and drive off into the sunset in a hot minute if I didn’t think everything would fall apart the moment I left. My hands hover over the keyboard on my cell’s screen while I think of what to type back.

Me: What’s your email address? I’m going to write you.

Alex: A breakup letter on day two of our relationship. Shit. That's a record.

Me: Nothing like that. We have a relationship?

Alex: YES.

Alex: You’re mine, I’m yours, remember. Hate to break it to you, but you’re achieved GF status. I’ve already alerted the media.Email is[emailprotected].

Girlfriend status? I try not to grin from ear to ear, but it’s a futile task. I decide to play it cool and not mention how giddy and stupid he just made me.

Me: passerotto?

Alex: Another time.

Me: I won’t forget.

Alex: I don’t want you to.

I planned on putting off writing my account of what happened at Leon’s for as long as I possibly could, but that feels so wrong right now. I just forced my own mother into keeping a terrible secret, and I’m beginning to feel like a bit of a monster. I have to tell someone some kind of truth, otherwise I’m never going to be able to look at myself in the mirror again.

I was going to write down what happened with pen and paper, but there's so much emotion involved here; I don't trust myself to be able to write legibly once I get to the difficult parts. Starting the email is hard. Fuck, all of it is hard. It takes me two hours to put it all down into words, and by the end, I'm shaking so hard I think I'm going to pass out.

No. No, I'm not going to pass out. I'm going to throw up. I nearly don't make it to the bathroom in time. As I hug the toilet, cold sweat running down my back, my stomach churning over on itself, throat raw, the taste of vomit in my mouth, I panic. I've got to delete it. I can't send any of that to Alex. It's too much. It's all just way, way, way too much.

Making my way back to my desk, my legs feel like they're going to collapse from underneath me. My laptop screen is still displaying the pages long email as if it's just another school project or something I've been working on. The words snag, catching at me like barbs, and I'm so damn tired all of a sudden. My life shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't have to deal with any of this shit. Not on my own, anyway.

Before I can change my mind, I hit the blue button at the bottom of the email’s draft screen, and my laptop chimes, signaling that the message has been sent.

Too late to take it back now.