Keyframe

Oh No!

"One track mind, one track heart.
If I fail, I'll fall apart.
Maybe it is all a test.
Cause I feel like I'm the worst,
so I always act like I'm the best."

- "Oh No!," MARINA (2010)

Lillian

I'm so dead. I'm so, so dead.

I reach the door to our apartment after a ten minute sprint from Jordan's building, pulling my coat around the dress I wore for his party last night. My parents let me go because they trusted me—because they knew I was responsible enough to be home by midnight, sober, and in one piece.

But it's 10:34 AM—the morning of the next day, and I am incredibly, horribly, unimaginably late. We were supposed to have brunch with my grandparents today, so my screw-up is now ten times worse than if it happened just in front of my parents.

Maybe I could leave the country...yeah...I could take the Dawson's jet and fly to Mexico...I'm fluent in Spanish, I could do it. Or maybe I can knock myself out and pretend I was at the hospital all night. Anything but facing their wrath. How are they going to react? I've never done this before—I've never dreamed of doing this before. I'm dead.

I know they'll think I slept with Jordan. They won't believe, not even for a second, that I didn't—even if it is the truth. Even if I wanted to. They won't want to hear that I had one drink to dull the constant aching in my chest and fell asleep in his bed until morning. That I woke up with his arms around me and felt better next to him than I ever do at home.

I've spent my entire life trying to be perfect: the perfect student, the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect grandchild, the perfect...kinda-girlfriend-whatever. But it's getting so hard now; to keep up, or even just...keep going. I messed up. Who am I now that I messed up?

I place my fingers on the door handle, expecting to hear my parents arguing over me as usual, but all I pick up is quiet murmuring. That's a good sign...right?

I look down at my feet, finally pushing the door all the way open and letting myself in. Although the conversation was already hushed when I decided to enter, the silence goes deafening as I keep my eyes on the floor and close the door behind me.

"Nothing happened," I say quietly. "I just fell asleep on accident—I promise."

Everyone just stares at me: my parents sitting next to each other on the couch, Nana as straight as a board in an armchair, and Grandpa standing near the window.

And I wait.

I wait for someone to yell at me, or lock me in my room, or tell me off like I imagine parents do when their kid messes up. Like Jordan's dad does to him. But both of my parents just stand in unison, not saying a word as they meet me in the middle and hug me with enough force to squeeze out the breath I'm holding.

"Hell's bells, Birdie," my dad nearly whispers. "We were so worried about you. Are you...are you okay?"

"I'm—fine."

I'm not lying, but I'm so confused that my answer comes out strangely.

"I'm glad you're safe." My mom pulls my pink overcoat off of my shoulders, folding it over her arm as her eyes search my body for any ailments. "But don't ever do that to us again."

"I won't."

Another complete truth.

There's an empty pause, in which I remember that my black BodyCon dress is little more than a tight wrap from my upper body to the middle of my thighs. I pulled my hair back before making my mad dash here, and I'm starting to realize that that panicked decision might have been a little short-sighted.