Living With Boys

Chapter Sixty-Four: And Just When Things Get Better. . . They Don't

Chapter Sixty-Four: "And Just When Things Get Better. . . They Don't."

FIVE DAYS.

Five more days of being in Los Angeles before heading back to Canada for the rest of the school year.

I love L.A., don't get me wrong, and I absolutely loved my time here this break, but honestly after the past week, I can't fucking wait to leave–even if that means trouble in Canadian Paradise. At least with Landon, we have no history, and it was just a simple misunderstanding on his end. With Taylor, it's one problem after another after another, and now I guess he misses the old Brooklyn? He's so fucking confusing, both boys are just so confusing and I'm tempted just to fly to the Himalayas and live under a mountain for the rest of my life.

Becoming a mountaineer sounds very tempting at the moment.

Scanning around my room, I try to think of possible places where my parents kept emergency stashes of medication. We always saved doses in case an emergency happened and we ran out (such as my dad's asthma medication in case he forgot his inhaler at work or something) so now I'm hoping that mom and dad didn't pack all of them up.

Finally remembering where they could possibly be, I tiredly drag myself out of my room and to the hallway and go into the closet to fetch the safe.

Punching in one of the passwords, followed by a few others, I come up short by telling me it's incorrect for the sixth time. Still overwhelmed from Monday's occurrences two days ago, I start balling from my stress and rush of emotions and grab my phone numbly. I press number one on my speed dial.

"Hello?"

"I need the password for the medicine safe," I blubber out.

"Brooklyn? Honey, what's wrong?"

"I. . . I forgot my medication in my locker and I'm ill today and I need them." I choke out.

"Can't you get one of your friends to run them over?"

"No, they have clubs after school."

"Baby, are you sure you're okay?"

"Just please give me the password." I cry.

"Okay," she whispers, "it's your name."

"My name is too long, mom. It can only be four digits."

"It's your middle name, hija."

"I have two middle names, mom. Which is it?"

"Oh, shit." She hisses. "Um, try Dita."

I cringe at the name.

My full name is Brooklyn Garcia Amadita May. I hate it. Not only do I not understand why it's so hard to pronounce (Ah-ma-dee-ta) to the American language, but why I couldn't have a regular middle name. Well, Garcia is normal and Spanish, but two Latin American middle names? Come on. I mean I know my mother is all-things Spanish and she believes everything Spanish-speakers do, but again, two middle names? It's a little much. Mexico is a bit different from Spain, but mom somehow manages to squeeze both into one culture.

I actually had so much trouble pronouncing Amadita when I was younger–I'd mess up Amadita with Garcia and have it come out as Amacia, which is ridiculous because they're so different. So, when people ask what my middle name is, I just say Garcia.

"Mom, none of them work." I growl out, growing agitated. I try another code, and thankfully it works. "Never mind, I got it." I mutter. "Mom?"