Girls Don't Know Jack

Sick Days

♫ Trashfire - Tommy Lefroy

Knock, Knock.

The soft tapping at my bedroom door forces me to pop my messy head out of my blanket cocoon, which I have now been residing in for days.

Nestled inside the safe plush fabric of my lavender comforter, only the sound of my ceiling fan whirring above me and the smell of my decaying body fill the air.

"How are we feeling today, Freckles?" my dad calls out.

In response, I give him a loud solid groan—the only evidence of life I'm able to muster in my current state. The gesture signals a hearty chuckle from my father. The weight of his body sinks my mattress as he takes a seat at my feet.

Flopping my arms out of the soft blanket, I sit up watching the old man teeter on the edge of my bed. His light brown hair is dusted with grays, a pair of plastic framed glasses perched onto his nose as he cups a ceramic blue bowl.

He raises it at me. "I brought soup!"

I groan again, collapsing back onto my bed. "I'm never eating again!"

Three straight days of puking your guts up will do that to you. Well actually, one puke in a Burger Shack potted plant will achieve the same effect.

Rolling over, I sink my face into the pillow, recounting that disastrous day. I should have known better than to allow myself to be alone around a boy that out of my league. The plush fabric presses against my face, muffling the sounds of my whines.

A soft hand places onto the top of my back, as my dad gives me a few pats for comfort.

"Eat, child, you'll feel better soon," he assures me in a calming voice as the sound of the soup bowl clinks onto my nightstand.

And with no further response from my motionless corpse, his bare feet patter out of the room, down the hardwood floor into the hall.

I love my dad. He may actually be my favorite person ever.

He's been a stay-at-home dad my whole life—well technically, he's a writer. He published his first book when I was two and has been working on that second one ever since.

Man, I bet that's going to be a freakin' masterpiece once he finishes it up.

With a huff, I roll back over, staring up at my ceiling fan spinning in circles. I will never be able to show my face around Jack Moody again.

As if me getting him kicked out of Burger Shack wasn't bad enough, I had to make him pull over at least five times to throw up before he even got me home—and it's not that long of a drive.

We rode in complete and utter silence. I suspect it will forever remain that way as he will never speak another word to me again.

I can't blame him.

Having lost all sense of dignity, I reach over to my white nightstand carefully avoiding the bowl of soup to grab my phone instead. Pulling up Instagram, I search the name: Jack Moody.

A couple dozen profiles appear, and I sort through each one. My fingers start to hurt from scrolling before I give up on the failed attempt.

Instead, I go to Facebook and try there.

Thumbing through a few pages, I find one that seems to match. The picture is old, but it's Jack. He has a baby face holding up a green and orange skateboard. My cheeks flush at the sight of him.

Trying to find more information, I hit a wall. It's privated, and I'm not about to friend the kid after our latest debacle. So, for now, I'm back to square one.

Jack Moody is a total question mark.

Annoyed, I toss my phone to the hardwood floor, clattering with a loud thud as it hits the ground. And then, I retreat back to my safe haven, pulling the heavy comforter up over my head.

..........................

"Honey, I'm home!" my mother's voice calls to me.

Emerging once more from my fortress, I pout at the woman standing in my doorway. Her honey blonde hair and kind blue eyes peer back at me.

"Oh, dear. Are you feeling well enough for school tomorrow?" She comes and sits next to me on my bed, frowning when she sees my untouched bowl of soup still on the nightstand.

With heavy eyes, I whine. She pulls me in for a hug and I sink into her thin frame. The worst part of getting sick over the weekend, I didn't even get to use the time to avoid Jack.

"Mom, I don't think I'll be able to go to school for a long time," I mumble into her neck.

She ruffles my matted, bed head before cupping my cheek, pulling me to face her.

With a frown still fixed onto her pale face, she says, "Are you sure it's just the flu that's bothering you?"

Here we go.

My mother is a childhood psychologist and I think it's safe to say, I've always been her favorite patient. It's impossible to get anything past her, but that never stops me from trying.

"Yes, I'm just so sick," I pout with big eyes.

Patting my cheek, she tells me, "Alright, you can take tomorrow off, but then we will have another chat, okay?"

Quickly, I give her a nod before she can change her mind, satisfied she isn't forcing more of an explanation out of her.

"And Dad will bring you up some fresh soup," she says standing from the bed. "Eat it this time."

She points a finger at me with raised brows, and I smile at her trying to be stern.

It's not a look that's ever suited her—it's not a look that's ever suited either of my parents. They've never been the strict or punishing type.

We're a talk-it-out kind of family. Pour our hearts out over dinner and move on kind of people.

My mom offers me a wink before heading out down the hall, footsteps disappearing down the stairs.

Well, I have at least another day of wallowing.

And after that, I will be attempting to buy even more time off away from Wilcrest—I fully plan on milking this illness for as long as the good lord allows.

I'd rather die rotting in this mattress than have to confront Jack Moody ever again.