"I'll take a large Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and caramel." I stare hard and long at the shiny menu palette behind the impatient barista. I'd lied to the parasite about going to the convenience store. I didn't want an overpriced bag of Fritos-smelling air (that's what they were).

            "Will that be all?" The pretty little woman behind the counter asks, tapping her fingers against the marble. Tink, tink. The rhythm of a slow drumroll that's approaching its peak. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

            What else should I get? What the hell does a parasite want? Gingerly, like I have no idea what I'm doing (and I'm unsure of where he's gone), I swivel my head like a turret. "Yes?" I mumble, scanning the semi-empty coffee shop. He's nowhere to be seen.

            Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT.

            "Will that be all for tonight?" She asks, more forward this time. "There are other customers I need to help."

            Crap. It's not the season for the Pumpkin Spice Latte, so I'll have to go with an iced coffee. I pray he doesn't smack the cup out of my hand and scream in my face to order something "suitable for a parasite." My brow begins to go slick, the saliva in my mouth squirms down my throat, and whatever extrovertness I have vanishes like my love life. "Iced coffee." I stumble through, grasping my right arm tightly. "That's all, thanks. I love your eyes, by the way." It slips out before I can disappear into thin air.

            Her expression squalled: Eww, you gross child, learn to control yourself. "Thanks, I guess?" She pulls her hair loose and takes the card I hand her. When she gives it back, I step to the side to await my drinks.

            "Ouch, you made a fool of yourself." Apollo whispers, shaking his head mockingly. "You never cease to amaze me, Violet."

            I grab his arm, stopping him from declaring peace and running off. "Shut up, you're lucky I'm not a vixen."

            "At least you'd be muscular. And fit." He gives me a shameless face, and that's when I realize the comments about my lack of an exercise regime are affecting me. Stop taunting me; I'm more of your gamer girl stereotype. Physical activity isn't my strong suit. I would rather lounge on the couch in a crop top with naked toes dangling off the edge and a family-sized bag of Clancy's Cheese Curls in hand than show off my toned calves by doing squats at the gym.

            With fingers bright orange, hair unkempt, full of white dandruff, and skin glistening, all attention is on the fictional avatar running across the screen in a game of Fortnite. That, my dears, is what it means to be a reject of society. Trapped in a prison of your own making, unable to will the squishy stomach muscles you've garnered after hundreds of pitiful hours to take a step outdoors. Some would say selfish, while others: a common problem with my generation. Me? A compromise.

            Then, like I'm in an Isekai, my body whooshes back to the plane of existence where I'm in a coffee shop. I remember what I was writhing in anger about while standing in line. The parasitic entity following me around like a dog referred to me as unhealthy. Disturbing.

            If fewer people were here and it wasn't so close to midnight, I would rip the hat off the barista and wing it like a frisbee at his forehead. When the blood came gushing out, and the apologies flooded me like a geyser, I would bow. Then, I'd express my gratitude by seizing the nape of his neck and tossing him into a raging furnace (just let my imagination run wild). But not before accusing him of pedophilia. He's hundreds of years old, and I'm a child.

            "Order for Violet!"

            I stare at the parasite standing beside me and pick up both beverages. You're safe for now, villain. I think, breathing heavily out of my nose. "Here." I pass off the cold, plain coffee. "You should like it. If not, I don't care." We walk into the sleeping darkness, holding our drinks close to our hearts.

            "This is disgusting," he says like I'd bend down and give him a doggy bone. His jaw turns upward into a smile. "But, nothing like experiencing something for the first time."

            The stoplight turns green, and we stop. Light polls overhang like overgrown weeds. Everything is asleep, only the constant hum of crickets or a couple exchanging formalities where nobody can see them. It was quiet and serene. Grass squishes in between my toes while we veer off the path. A warm lightness drifted under my feet, and I felt light as a feather, regardless of the actuality.

            As the signal to walk blinks across the panel, we cross the street. The slurping of our drinks makes the silence all the more tolerable. While that happens, I take in whatever this parasite is. Long, blue curls. Nothing could break me from this trace that handsome and this parasite went together fluently. Those two aspects were like the concurrent pieces of a puzzle. Ying and Yang. Whatever you wanted to call it. "May I ask a question?"

            "Again?" He smacks his head, "You asked one the other day."

            I tilt my head sideways, eyeing him with a new perspective. (Nobody told me parasites were hotter from the side profile.) "Four months ago, man. That's not yesterday!"

            "Pretty close to me." He swirls the straw around, letting the brown liquid splash over me. He's the definition of what a gentleman shouldn't act like. "Besides," his eyebrows go up, "I never said yesterday."

            "What's your name? Since you know mine, wouldn't it be more appropriate if I addressed you by your name and not 'he' or 'it?'" I walk around the plump and defined row of round ball bushes. "Please?" I've dropped my voice to a whisper, as I can hear my parents, or someone, talking in the kitchen. They're being quiet, so it's hard to understand them. Heck, I can't piece together a sentence. Simple words like 'shush' or 'angry' are audible. I'm curious about the confidential level of this conversation.

             He sighs, walking with me through the front gate into the backyard. "You pose a great argument, Violet." I notice his hands are tucked neatly into the pockets of his jeans. "So I'll tell you."

            "Duh, now say it," I murmur, straining to push the window. "Or you sleep outside, in the rosemary bushes."

            "Yeah, I'd love to see you try." He slips inside, right past my defenses. "But, for the record, my name's Apollo."

╔═══════ ೋღ 🌸 ღೋ ═══════╗

            What's with the desire to stuff Noah in my care while my parents rush off on a romantic date? Sure, it's only for four hours, but do they know the damage done to my heart? Irreversible. It's the kind that will resurface after 20 years. When I'm grey, in a wheelchair, living at a nursing home connected to hooks and wires. 

            Thankfully, he's in his rocket-ship-inspired bedroom (no, I'm not joking. It was full of stuff you'd see in a children's tale). I'm relaxing, watching K-dramas on my phone. Nothing beats doing absolutely nothing.

            Footsteps echo loudly in the hall, and Noah's face appears out of my peripheral vision. "Mom called."

            I take out an earbud. "What?"

            "Mom called and said to turn the oven to 350." He says, flipping his phone, making my stomach churn. There's no reason for him to be staring that intently at me. Unless I had ketchup or a foreign substance (I don't do drugs) on my face, he needed to step away from me. Or else my knee would wind up in the center of his skull.

            "'Kay," I pause the movie and kick the footrest on the chair down. Man, I went and got cozy too. My favorite strawberry-sprinkled pajama bottoms were distraught, having to forfeit their pent-up heat. "Do you need anything else while I'm up?" I offer counterintuitively, hoping for the obvious reaction. I shuffle past him, feeling my chest tighten.

            Something was off.

            "She also said..." he glances at the ceiling uncomfortably. "She wants us to make up."

            I finish setting the dial, turn, and arch my eyebrow. "Like that'll happen." I peek into the oven to see what's cooking. "Blech, I'm no health freak like them," the vomit, waiting for an opportunity to escape, gets swallowed. If I had to give a name to what was brewing in the oven, I would call it trauma-inducing garbage. "If that's all you have to say, go back to purgatory."

            "A whole year hasn't changed your mind, huh." He furrows his brow, "You have the patience and willingness to forgive a half-assed friend, but not me?"

            My eyes roll back; this is terrible. My baby brother begging for forgiveness after snitching? Gosh, you should know better. Now, cue sister revenge music. Duh, duh, don! "Yes, precisely."

            "Come on, be reasonable!"

            "That's what mom said earlier, but do you know why?"

            "No, and quite frankly, I don't care."

            "She went out of her way to call me fat," That wasn't entirely true, but I was a drama queen who needed validation. "So yeah, I hate this family."

            Noah looked hurt. His mouth opened, but no words came forth. His shoulders slump in sad silence. He scratches his chin and disappears into the hallway, not acknowledging my existence, swaying from side to side like a dying elephant. Do I care? No. I'm proud of my actions. I stood flexing my arms while my adversary groveled at my feet. "Please forgive me!" He cries, grabbing my boots. Then I'd be the big bad wolf and squash him. Thump! Problem solved! All I had to do was sit on his face.

            Suffocation station, baby.

            A large, problematic smile erupted across my cheeks as I sat down. My ears once again filled with the exasperated demands of half-naked Korean women. "Rawr," I whisper, seeing if Noah is eavesdropping on me talking with myself. I lift my hands, dropping them into make-shift claws. I'm tampering with a dormant imagination that I haven't allowed a breath of fresh air in six years.

            When the movie I'm watching decides to cast itself into an infinite loop, I grow bored staring at the grey orbs circling over and over. Honestly, what am I doing on my phone? I could indulge in the same head-scratching K-dramas on a gigantic flat screen. There's just one stomach-curdling issue. The TV remote is nowhere to be seen.

            "Where, oh where, are you," I toss off the couch cushions and sift through the cracks and crevices, allowing my hand to feel the gooey slime. Yuck! Talk about traumatizing.

             By the time the knob begins to turn off the side of the kitchen, and my parents stand side by side, allowing me to face the pain alone; I still haven't located it. By the looks of it, they're enjoying themselves. Smiles strewn across their faces like porcelain dolls.

            "Someone's dedicated," my dad says, glaring at my mom sarcastically. He was always the one for inappropriately timed jokes. Like, you're no comedian. Stop acting like one. If you were, I'd laugh and clap my hands, then run up and hug you tight.

             I blow a strand of hair out of my eye and straighten the shirt that menacingly rides up my stomach. Stupid graphic tees, you've earned a despicable grade on longevity. "Repugnant behavior, father." As I lean against the arm of the couch, my eyebrows shoot up like a bamboo stalk. "Making fun of me?"

             He sets the Walmart bags full of groceries on the counter, "Never, you're my daughter, I'd never." My dad turns to face me as my mom sets herself down at the dining room table. She gives me a don't-test-our-patience-girl stare-down. "I love you, Viola."

              A chill runs down the outermost layer of my spine. Then a rush of heat, then awful feelings of insecurity. Hot molten lava flows from my mouth, warm and sticky but straight to the point. "That's not my name." The edge in my voice grabs Noah's attention from the depths of his bedroom. Somehow.

              Now I'm directing traffic here, the one all eyes are on. To ease the pressure, my dad speaks up. "Okay, okay," He shows his hands, willingly admitting defeat. "Nothing to burst a blood vessel at." He winks, going back to sorting through apples and oranges, my new choice of snacks.

              I'm not overreacting. What don't you lunatics understand? Am I talking in a strange new language only intelligent beings can decipher? "Dad, stop thinking I'm making a big deal out of it." My cheeks burn with hatred, a fire stoked by little inconveniences. "You saying I'm dramatic?" The self-consciousness stuffed inside my soul lashes out at me. It beats upon the safety cages of my ribcage. It jumps on my stomach, shifting nausea to my brain. The clever part realizes it's dumb to retaliate like that. My heart lunges against my ribcage: Thump, thump. The depravity of this situation is seriously messing with me.

              "Come on, Violet, be reasonable." He murmurs, shaking his head as if I'm an idiot. Does this imply that my father would rather talk to a wall? Am I that boring?

              My fists clench harder, and my teeth strain my gums. The taste of fresh blood trickles onto my tongue. "Be reasonable, my ass," I snarl, about to explode. My left eye twitches inhumanely, "Dad, stop always assuming when it comes to me."

            He freezes, putting aside the apple on its way to his mouth. "When did I? I'm simply stating my piece." He wipes the fruit juice onto his blue flannel. "Violet, what's going on with you?"

            "I'm hurt. It shouldn't take a math magician to figure that out." I whisper, biting my tongue as hard as possible. If this doesn't prevent me from boiling, I'm not sure anything will. Keep calm, Violet. Keep calm, please. "I'm stressed, freaked out, and overworked."

             Mom chooses this as a good time to chime in with her irrelevant two-sense. "Okay, maybe you need to quit after-school activities. For example, cheer..."

             I smack the round coffee table, making my fingers tingle. "I walked away from that months ago! Didn't you notice the earlier times I got home? Or are you too absorbed in Noah to realize you still have a daughter to care for?"

             The house goes silent. Nobody talks, nobody breathes, nobody moves. Finally, my dad tosses the half-eaten apple into the trash. His forehead is full of scary wrinkles, a sure sign of his progression in age. Mom, standing, laughs, like what I said was a funny joke. Then there's Noah, responsible for my recklessness to tear us apart. He stares at me, wide-eyed, waiting for my reign of destruction to continue.

            But I, tired of the buzz of dying light bulbs, bid goodbye to this dysfunctional clan. "You know what? Screw this! I'm leaving for the night." Rushing into my room, I swipe my violet lanyard on the shelf. When I return, my dad stands in my path. He's a lumberjack of a man, a pillar that shrouds my plans in climatic anticipation. "Move," I elbow him to the left while my mom screams for me to come back or else.

            What'll she do? Call me a dirty, atrocious pig to my face? Spit and call me unworthy? Come at me, selfish whore. Do your worst, I dare you.

            "Violet, think about what you're–" I pinch Noah's nose, dragging him with me. He fights meekly, going as far as to slap me. "Let me down! Mom, Dad!"

            "Oh my gosh, be quiet, be grateful we're about to go for a road trip." I hiss, "Be back after school tomorrow." Both my parents growl at me but press no further. Noah and I are in for a long night.

             Outside, the heat flows into my bones. I'm exhausted and want to crash before I've taken four steps. Athletic or not, the heat is everyone's number one sparring partner. But, man, that makes me regret wearing full-fledged pajamas. (Heat stroke is alive and well. I can promise you that.)

             What the hell was I doing? Sadly, this wasn't an improv class. I was running away from my responsibilities again.