11 | False Alarm

DOMINGO

9:35 AM

Dahlia Gray

I snuck back to my house at seven am.

No, that was a lie—Claudia caught me sneaking out of the house at seven am. She was sleeping on the floor—she offered me her bed—and when I was trying to maneuver off the mattress and leave the room without making a creak, the door revealed my location.

Claudia woke up after that.

She had asked me what I was doing, I told her I was going home. She tried to convince me to stay for breakfast, but I declined the moment she finished. She told me she would drive me home—I told her I could walk.

It ended with her giving me the one thing she refused to budge on: her phone number.

It was really simple.

She told me sternly that she felt safer knowing I had a contact I could call immediately, and she felt better knowing I was returning home with it. Though she knew she couldn't change my mind, the only thing she could do was write her number on the palm of my hand.

I walked home after that.

I didn't see Harlow on the way out, and I wasn't sure how I was going to react to seeing him at school tomorrow. I've always seen Harlow as a common enemy—someone who reminded me too much of my father, someone who stole my spot and smoked cigarettes for fun, and someone who swore too much for his own good.

But Harlow brought me here.

I don't know whether to be thankful or afraid.

Now, I'm back in my room. I snuck through the front door with our hidden key, disabled the alarm system, and quietly crawled up the stairs. Everyone was asleep when I came in, and my father's light snoring could be heard from the first floor.

It's been a whole two hours, and I've been wide awake with anxiety building in my chest with each passing moment. I feel a lot better than last night—and I know it's from being able to talk about my situation—but there's a fear lingering in my stomach that's hard to ignore.

Claudia, Presley and Harlow know what happens at home.

They know my situation.

They can tell anyone.

I've always kept quiet about my problems—not even my friends know about it—and I always try to live my life day-by-day. It hurts, holding everything in, and with each secret it weighs me down like an anchor. The moment I told Claudia, I felt like I could float.

But I wasn't thinking with my head.

I was thinking with my heart, and all the emotions that were dwelling in my chest made my thought process fuzzy and indistinguishable. I wasn't thinking about the future, I was just thinking of how I was feeling.

I'm not supposed to do that.

I'm panicking in my bedroom, scared for what's going to happen next. I'm afraid the police would show up and apprehend my father, or they don't—and I'd have a hell of a price to pay. I'm afraid of the backlash I could receive, from my father, from my neighbors, even from my friends.

I'm so scared that my life might flip upside down, and I'm waiting for it like a ticking bomb.

A knock on the door snaps me back to the ground, and I turn my head just to see the lock jingling. A few seconds pass before the knob turns, revealing my father behind the wood.

I had locked it.

He holds a small cupcake box in his hands, his eyes scanning my bedroom with a quick glance before he finds me in the middle of the room, pacing, and greets me with a smile.

I instantly stiffen.

I try not to think about how my fingers are trembling, or my legs felt weak the moment he approaches me. I try not to think about how I'm clenching my fingers into a fist to avoid suspicion, or how my father looks nice and clean, less intimidating than last night.

"Hey," he smiles softly, playing with the edge of the plastic box containing a red cupcake. "When did you wake up?"

I press my lips into a thin line, glancing down at the carpet floor and picturing patterns from its fuzz. I mumble, "not long ago."

"That's good," he said, his voice slightly pitched at the end. "I didn't see you coming home last night. Did you stay over at a friend's house?"

I don't respond. This could be answered with a nod.

"I hope you had a good night's sleep," he said, sounding genuine. I'm still staring at the floor. "Dahlia, could you look at me?"

He sounds desperate, trying to catch my attention that I'm refusing to give to him. I feel reluctant, and with that, I tilt my head upwards to meet his gaze with mine.

My father is tall, maxing at six-foot-one. He's wearing his familiar glasses and his blond hair is swept to the side. The only things I match with him are my eyes and my nose.

I hope I don't get anything else.

"I got you this," my father holds out the plastic box, giving me the red cupcake. I concluded it to be red velvet. "I remember when you used to love these as a kid. Remember when we were at the store and you begged me to buy you a whole box just to eat?"

I nod, slightly smiling at that fond memory as I take the box into my hands. This gives me an opportunity to break eye contact with him.

He doesn't know that I stopped eating red velvet ever since I was twelve.

Too much fat.

"What happened last night..." My father sighs, causing me to stiffen even more so. I hear him scratching his head. "I didn't mean what I said last night."

I stay silent, staring at the cupcake.

"I was just—at work, it was so stressful, and when my friend gave me the gun as a joke, I thought it would be fun to mess around and relax. When I came home and you looked so stressed, I thought it was a good idea to start shooting bullets at you."

I bite my bottom lip, clenching my hands into fists. Don't cry.

"It was Styrofoam, Dahlia. It couldn't have hurt you that bad," my father declares softly, "I didn't think it would've hit your eye. It was a mistake."

But you laughed. You laughed at me.

"I didn't think anything about it. I wasn't going to yell at you about it, but then you swore at me, Dahlia," he continues to say my name, except this time, it oozes with disappointment. "We didn't raise you to be like this."

I press my lips into a thin line, clenching my hands so tight that I'm losing blood circulation in my fingers.

"I just...I just snapped. On top of everything that's going on at work, and this problem with one of my coworkers, I was just so upset that my daughter—my only daughter—didn't respect me as her father."

My lips parts, my eyes beginning to grow teary. The worst place to cry right now is in front of my father.

"I know I wasn't in your life most of the time, but I was in the army. If I could go back in the past and change it, I would. I regret taking that job, I regret losing time with my daughter over a stupid paycheck." My father continues, causing my tears to build. "I'm trying to make up for lost time, Dahlia. I'm trying here."

"It just feels like you aren't."

That made me cry.

I look back up to him with tears in my eyes, blinking as the tears fall down my cheeks. I use my free hand to wipe my tears away, meeting my father's gaze with blurry vision.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, clutching both hands around the plastic box to stop myself from clenching. "I'm so sorry, dad."

I villainized him to Harlow, to his family.

I told them my side of the story, but I didn't tell his.

"It's okay," he mumbles, closing the gap from me. "I'm not mad at you."

"I'm so sorry," I repeat, tears building up in my eyes and I can't stop myself. My father is about a couple of inches from me, his eyes swept with concern over my crying. I just can't stop.

"Dahlia," he declares softly, raising his hand as he cups my cheek. He wipes my tears with the back of his thumb. "Don't cry. Strong girls don't cry. It's okay. It's okay, sweetheart."

I choke, heaving in a heavy breath as I try to calm my accelerating emotions. I nod, just as my father leans in and pecks a small kiss on my forehead. It was warm, inviting, and sweet.

"I love you, okay?" He declares, his voice boasting with honesty. "I will always love you."

I nod, appreciating the words deeper than he knows. I'm still crying, my whimpering coming off softer, and I'm trying so hard to stop myself from bawling. I'm a strong girl. I don't cry.

My father pulls back, dropping his hand by his side as the warmth of his hold grows cold. He gives me a soft smile. "Your mother is making breakfast downstairs. Come down, okay? Join us."

I couldn't find myself putting together coherent words, and instead, I nod my head. To give him the all-clear, the nonverbal yes.

He takes it.

And he leaves.

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LUNES

8:03 AM

Dahlia Gray

"How was your weekend, Dahlia?" Josie asks, her green eyes meeting mine with a smile. Juliana "Josie" Hartfield is the epitome of a modern-day princess. Not the one that carries herself through sheer force and arrogant will—but she's sweet. She's charming, has a sociable personality, and she's popular.

No one hates her. No one dislikes her. She has everything going for her.

"It was, um, it was good," I reply with a small smile, drowning out the thoughts that occupied my head. I tuck a hair behind my ear, after seeing the black strand covering my vision. "How was yours?"

"It was really good," Josie declares with a genuine smile, running a hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair. I notice that it's always maintained, and never a hair out of place. "My dad hosted a family BBQ, and I invited Hannah along. We had a good time."

My lips falter at the mention of them hanging out without me. I mean, I'm used to it and I've already accepted that they're closer in their relationship than I am with either of them—but it doesn't sting any less.

"Oh," I say, trying to not let disappointment seep through my words. "What did you guys do?"

"Well," Josie muses, just as Hannah returns from the bathroom, wiping the palms of her hands against her jeans. "Our dads were prepping the grill downstairs and our moms were inside making the side dishes. Hannah and me went upstairs and we watched a movie, learned a new Tik Tok dance and then we headed downstairs to eat."

"What are we talking about?" Hannah queries, adjusting her pants. "Are we talking about the BBQ?"

Josie nods wordlessly and Hannah immediately brightens. She turns to me, "did she tell you we did karaoke outside? It was so funny, Josie's dad tried to sing the high notes to Ariana Grande's song and he was so into it but so offbeat. I thought the glass was going to break!"

Hannah throws herself back in laughter from the fond memory, and Josie's lips pull into a shy smile at the thought. I smile in return, to appease the atmosphere, but I didn't understand a thing. That's a perk of being left out.

Hannah tries to sober herself from laughing too loud, and drawing attention—but I knew she doesn't care. Hannah Coulter is outgoing one of the group. She tends to be very hyper, and cares little about people's opinions on her. She's plus-sized, and curvier than Josie and I—but I never saw her as her weight. I always saw her how she carries herself, and that was Hannah: the spontaneous, rebellious and fun-loving girl to be around.

I shift awkwardly, looking down at my outfit. I like it today: it was a yellow turtleneck and high-waisted black jeans that hook over the top with two straps. I mimicked it from a tv show I watched.

"Wait a minute!" Hannah announces, out of the blue, grabbing the attention of some passing students. Josie acknowledges them with a smile, and an apologetic expression. I turn back to Hannah. "You should come to the next dinner!"

Josie tilts her head at the suggestion, before nodding her head in agreement, a grin breaking out on her lips. "Yeah," she agrees, "the next dinner would probably be at Hannah's house but you should bring your parents. It'll be fun. We could hangout upstairs."

The gesture seems genuine, but I couldn't find myself agreeing immediately. Josie and Hannah seem like they have a good relationship with their parents, where they have family dinners every so often compared to my once-a-week type of ritual. I feel like I would be intruding into something so intimate, something meant for their eyes and ears only.

So, I scratch my neck, wary about the offer. "My mom speaks Spanish," I excuse, "she doesn't know a lot of English to talk to your parents."

"That's fine," Josie shrugs nonchalantly. "You could translate or you could bring your dad."

"Oh, yeah, your dad!" Hannah said, pointing at me with a sudden thought. "I remember him. It feels like I haven't seen him in so long, how is he?"

I bite down the bile forming in my throat. I didn't want to talk about my father, especially since yesterday where I realized I was in the wrong. I was overreacting and was an emotional mess. I villainized my father to strangers who now formulated opinions on him without knowing who he is.

I feel terrible.

"He's good," I said with a slight grimace. "He's still working."

"At UPS, right?" Hannah queries, and got it right. I was impressed that she still remembers. "That's good. You should definitely bring him over. He was always so funny to be around and I think our parents would love him. I remember the time he picked us up from school and drove us to the local arcade."

"And we went out for ice cream, right?" Josie asks, bumping Hannah with her elbow. Hannah nods in agreement. "I honestly can't remember. No wonder I'm not passing bio."

Hannah chuckles, but says nothing more. "I just think it'll be a great idea. We could finally hang out outside of school again, and your parents could have a good time, too. Come on, Dahlia, it's a win-win."

I grimace, still indecisive about the whole dinner. It's been forever since I've visited either one of their houses. Who my father was back then, in eighth grade, is different from the person he is now. Returning home from the war. Retired.

"I'll think about it," I admit, and both of them squeals. They both lean forward in a hug, embracing me in a three-way.

"You won't regret it, I promise," Hannah declares, her long curly auburn hair moving in front of my face. I could feel Josie nodding in agreement. "It'll be fun."

I don't have time to say anything else—and I wasn't sure what else I was going to say—when the bell rings and signals for transition to first period.

They both pull apart, still grinning ear-to-ear. "Just try to text me before Friday of next week," Hannah declares, pushing her auburn hair back. "I'll tell my parents so they won't be surprised when a third family appears at their doorsteps."

"Got it," I nod, clutching the strap of my backpack. "I'll text you if anything happens. Now, I got to get to class."

"Okay," Josie said in understanding. "Go get that degree!"

I smile, and this time, it was genuine. Without another word, I head in the opposite direction towards Mr Calloway's class. It took a couple of hard pushes and maneuvering before I enter his class with a couple minutes to spare.

I went to settle into my seat, at the three-legged desk with the wobbling leg. I pray that Harlow isn't here today, so I wouldn't have to face him and be pulled back into the submission of guilt.

I am wrong.

I intertwine my fingers on the desk, waiting patiently for students to appear through the door and settle into their unassigned-assigned seats. I counted three, five, eight that appear through the door.

But none were Harlow.

With the minutes down to one, I could find myself releasing a breath I've been holding in. I look down to my lap, inhaling and exhaling to regulate my breathing.

"Dahlia," I hear a voice call, just as the bell rings. My posture immediately stiffens, and my fingers clench down into fists.

Crap, crap, crap.

I swallow hard, deciding to pretend that I didn't hear him. It's better than having to look him into the eyes.

"Dahlia," I hear Harlow calls, with more persistence this time. This forces me to look up, greeting his soft gaze with mine. I instantly felt my chest tightening.

Just like nothing's wrong.

"Hey, Harlow," I wave with a tight smile, "how was your weekend?"

I know how it went. He was with me.

Harlow looks at me strangely, shrugging off his backpack as he drops it to his side and settles into the seat beside me. His blue eyes not once wavering off of mine, and he begins to read my features. My expression. Everything and anything.

Nothing's wrong. Nothing's wrong. Nothing's wrong.

Mr Calloway begins teaching, his voice echoing off the concrete walls as his words carried the exposition of today's lecture. I try to tune into his words, listening, but I couldn't strip my eyes off of Harlow. If I back down, I'm hiding. I'm scared.

Something would be wrong.

"Dahlia." Mr Calloway calls, snapping me out of my stare and turning to him. He looks to me, his brows furrowed together in mixed confusion and curiosity. "Are you listening?"

"Yes sir." I nod, feeling the heat of embarrassment crawling to my cheeks. He nods, taking it, and continues on. For once, I was thankful that he decided to call me out. It gives me a valid reason to look away.

But it doesn't stop Harlow.

He whispers, "what's going on at home?"

Concern drips through his words, and I couldn't help but feel the guilt intensifying at this. Harlow is being nice to me. Harlow cares about what's going on with me. The same guy that is rude and guarded and blunt to everyone is nice to me.

I continue to look forward. "Nothing."

"Bullshit, Dahlia," Harlow said with slight irritation lacing his tongue. He doesn't like how I'm dodging his questions. "You don't come to a park bench crying at midnight because nothing happened. You come because it's something."

I pull my lips into a thin line, trying hard to contain myself. It's my fault. It's my fault. I was wrong. "Don't worry about it. Just drop it."

Mr Calloway is saying something about an in-class project.

"No," Harlow whispers viciously, "I'm not going to drop it. I need to know if you're safe there. Did anything else happen with your dad? Are you going to need a place to stay tonight?"

I wince at his words, because they sound so genuine. They sound so concerned and afraid and for the first time, I felt like I could tell someone about my problems without being judged. It made me almost feel wanted.

But, nonetheless, I shake my head.

Mr Calloway is saying something about partners.

"No, to all of those," I say calmly, not letting my emotions seep through. Mr Calloway turns to the board, writing down something with the dry-erase marker. I take the chance and turn to Harlow. My eyes soften. "Just drop it, Harlow. Nothing is wrong. I was just overreacting. It was stupid. Let's just forget about it, it's already embarrassing it happened."

Harlow looks like he was going to protest—and I expected him to—but he was cut off by Mr Calloway's clap and declaration for us to go find a partner.

I took the chance, jumping to my feet and throwing my backpack strap over my shoulders. I give Harlow one last glance—and he was staring at me—and I walk away.

Off to find a partner.

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AVA'S NOTES

how are everyone today? how do you feel about the story so far? (pls comment, a girl needs validation)

please vote and comment!!