The Coffee Pact

6| Crazy girl

The nightmares are back with a vengeance. I toss and turn all night, recalling the feel of that knife against my skin as I scream for them to stop. I wake up sitting in a pool of my own sweat, my lungs trying to claw for more breath.

For a minute, I just sit here, trying to steady my breathing. Anger rises up through my stomach, catching in my throat, the same way it always does after a nightmare. Not just anger at them, but at myself. I keep thinking I should have done more. I could have done more. Maybe if I'd screamed more loudly, or if I'd hit back much harder, then it wouldn't have lasted as long. Maybe I wouldn't feel like this.

Feeling shaky, I get to my feet and pull out my sketchbook, focusing on the images of Dad. His face is so warm that whenever I see it, the anger disperses a little. I imagine him here, imagine what I'd give just to hug him one last time. Everything – I'd give everything.

Mom spends the rest of the weekend asking me what's wrong. I don't know how to tell her that I'm tutoring the devil while going through withdrawal, so I don't say anything.

The symptoms are getting worse. If it's not my headaches, then it's the shaking, and if it's not the shaking, it's the yearning. I think that's the worst part–not the physical signs, but the cravings. The mentality. Every thought is consumed by the urge to drink coffee, every dream plagued by memories of that night. When will it stop?

On Sunday, when Mom leaves for her book club session, I collapse on the sofa and watch old movies, trying not to think about my headache. I used to pray for brothers and sisters growing up. I hated being an only child, but on days like this when the house is kind of peaceful, I thank my lucky stars.

Priya calls me right before I try to nap and tells me she hates her mother. Mrs. Selvaran has found out about the whole eyebrow fiasco, and she's confiscated the tweezers. I don't tell Priya this, but I think it's a good thing.

I listen to her rant about how unfair her family is. She starts with her eyebrows and ends up with how her sisters are always taking her stuff—yet another reason I am grateful I'm an only child.

"It could be worse," I say.

"How?" she asks.

I think about telling her she could be craving coffee while battling a headache, but that would be selfish. This is Priya's turn to rant. So instead, I tell her she's right and that her life is unfair, and if it were me, I'd steal my sister's clothes right back.

Priya laughs and tells me I'm evil before resuming her story. I um and ah at the appropriate times, counting down the minutes until school tomorrow. I'm not usually a fan of institutionalized education, but at least I'll have plenty of distractions. Here, sitting eight feet away from coffee-making facilities, is proving too hard.

When Priya hangs up, I stand in the living room. A small voice in my brain whispers, He'll never know. And my god, I want to give in. Before I know it, I'm scrambling into the kitchen and opening up the coffee pot, staring into its contents.

I hate instant coffee, which is why I go to The Coffee Pod. It is somehow the perfect mix of too strong and too weak, too sweet and too bitter. But I am desperate.

My phone vibrates. The sound makes me jump and the pot slips, crashing to the floor. The ceramic smashes into tiny little fragments, hidden among the coffee grounds.

Great.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and see Jake's name pop up. Double great.

"Hello?" he says.

For a second, I think maybe it's a prank or something, so I don't answer. It's happened to me before: the guys on the football team got a hold of loads of people's numbers and thought it would be funny to say crude things down the line. I don't think Jake was one of the guys who took part, but I wouldn't put it past him.