Do You Realize? |l.s.|

XXXIII

"Louis, see me after class," Mr. Finch says in a hushed tone that is laced with disapproval, handing my test back with it folded and facing the floor. I turn it over and look at the big, fat F marked at the top of the page and the red slashes through each question number with a blank expression. My grades have been shitty since I moved back with my dad, as I have no motivation for school anymore, and even if I did, I wouldn't have the time.

Between working two jobs to pay for basically everything plus dad's beer, and the recovery I need from the beatings from home and school, all my free time is spent crying, sleeping, and tending to my injuries. I can never seem to focus during school, so basically, I've got no hope of getting into college since a scholarship is my only option, so I get to stay with my shitty dad for the rest of my life.

"Your grades have been dropping significantly over the past few weeks, and I'd appreciate it if you could do more to improve. Try focusing better, and if there is any other reason, I'd recommend you look into tutoring or seeing a counselor to make a plan that helps you out. Don't hesitate to ask for help during class, either," he says.

"Sorry, I'll try harder," I sigh.

"I know you're a bright student, Louis. You were at the top of your class in the beginning of the year, so please do what you need to get back to that. You have a lot of potential to impressing a lot of important people that can affect your future."

"Alright, have a good day, sir."

"You as well, Louis," he smiles as I walk out. I read my textbook as I walk to the diner I work at. It's in the nicer side of town and despite the walk, it pays very well. The workers are luckily nice, though a lot of the guys from school who dislike me go there since they are very well off. At first, they gave me shit about working there, but now they just silently judge. I'm not exactly sure which one I hate more, because those judgmental stares can cause one of the worst feelings of insecurity.

Arriving, I place my school things in the back as I put on my work button-up top with my name tag before cleaning my hands, grabbing my notepad, and heading to the people who just sat down in the booth. It's a 50s themed diner, with sparkly red seats, light blue and white checkered floors, silver tables, and a jukebox in the corner. There's some random fifties instrumental song in the background that I hum along to as I wait for their food to be ready.

Six hours later, I'm leaving with aching feet and bags under my heavy eyes. I walk all the way home, which takes a good half hour, and by the time a step back into the house, I get a beer bottle thrown at my head, barely missing me as I flinch. Dad must be wondering where dinner is, as I'm the one who is expected to do all the cooking, even if I am shit at it.

"Where the hell were you? I'm fucking starving!" he slurs as he marches over to me with clenched fists.

"Sorry dad, I was at work," I say timidly as I place my backpack in the closet. I quickly heat up a frozen pizza and he eats it while he watches a random footy game, cursing and yelling when he takes a bite out of a piece that is too hot. He's got the telly blasting and I lay awake all night, despite my body's pleas to rest.