no control

• seven •

gladys

Mr. Mysterious didn't make an appearance once the entire weekend. Not a single stalker-ish moment, even.

And I would know, since I compulsively checked the windows every few minutes and went on a borderline manic number of neighborhood walks. Bernice probably thought I lost my mind, but I was so desperate to see him that I didn't care.

Maybe I had lost my mind after all.

What was I even doing? Waiting for him to come around?

Fuck that. I didn't even know this guy and I was tripping over myself to catch even a glimpse of him. It was pathetic.

What was wrong with me that I even liked his creepy ways? Any normal girl would have reported his ass by now.

After everything I'd been through, I deserved more from a guy than this. I deserved someone who wasn't afraid to be with me in public, who didn't think they had to sneak around.

By Sunday evening, the self-loathing for myself reached an all-time climax. And not the fun kind.

Shoving myself out of the bed and away from the cracked window, I tromped out to the living room. I needed to do something to get my mind off of my stalker.

Alyssa and Bernice were curled up, surrounded in a cloud of smoke. They'd been like this all weekend, not that I could judge.

I jumped into the recliner and extended the foot rest, glancing at the television. Bernice turned down the volume of the Seinfeld episode they'd been absorbed in. Alyssa whined and tried to grab the remote, to which my cousin just ignored her.

"Wanna order a pizza for dinner?" Bernice asked me.

"Sure," I said, fishing my phone out of my pocket. "What do you guys want?"

"Pepperoni," Alyssa moaned.

"Just get the meat trio or whatever for you two and a white chicken pizza for me," Bernice said.

I dialed the local pizzeria we liked and placed an order. Halfway through, Bernice got up to use the bathroom. My eyes remained on the television screen while I spoke to the nasally boy on the phone.

When I hung up, I sank back into the chair and glanced at Alyssa. Her slim body lie flat on her back on the couch, one arm dangling over the side. She smiled up at me and that was when I noticed the blanket shift  around her hips.

Eyes widening, I discovered the movement was from her hand and the realization struck me: she was touching herself. There, on the couch, in front of me.

"When do you turn 18 again?" she asked.

Her voice snapped me out of my shock. I looked away from her, blinking.

"What?" I said.

"Your birthday," she said. "When is it?"

An itchy sense of discomfort gripped me. I kicked the foot rest down and rose from the recliner. Gulping down a fortifying breath, I turned and walked toward my room.

"Hey—Gladys, wait!" she called after me.

I pretended like I didn't hear her and shut myself in my room once more, propping the chair under the knob. Sighing, I pressed my forehead to the cool wood door.