If hell had a waiting room, it would look exactly like my high school the morning after a senior party.
Who the hell has a party on the first day back at school?
Fluorescent lights that buzzed like they wanted to drill through my skull. Lockers slamming open and shut like gunfire. The faint smell of cafeteria pizza that honestly might have been a war crime. And me—half alive, mascara smudged under my sunglasses, dragging my body through the halls as though I'd been personally cursed by God.
I wasn't alone, though. The whole senior class looked like survivors of some battle no one warned us about. Heads on desks. Groans echoing through English lit. Even Mr. Davis gave up halfway through a lecture and just muttered, "Read chapter six." like he couldn't stomach looking at us.
By the final bell, I was running on caffeine fumes and maybe half a granola bar. Every part of me ached. My skin, my hair, even my eyelashes hurt.
Finola staggered beside me as we pushed through the doors into the heat, looping her arm through mine like two soldiers limping away from the front lines. "Congratulations." she groaned. "We officially look like the cautionary tale they warn freshmen about at orientation."
I made a noise that was supposed to be a laugh but came out more like a death rattle. "Speak for yourself. I think I look amazing."
She gave me a side-eye, laughing. "You have Cheeto dust in your hair, Hattie."
"Battle scars, actually." I muttered, tugging at my ponytail.
We trudged across the parking lot, the asphalt radiating late-afternoon heat, until we reached my car. I leaned against the hood, sunglasses sliding down my nose, trying to remember how breathing worked.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it—I was too busy pretending not to be waiting for Cody, Jackson, and Aura, like some reluctant family chauffeur.
Finola blew out a sigh and tilted her head back, squinting at the sky. "Last night was insane though! People were literally dropping like flies. I had to drag Mallory from the debate club out of the bathroom before she drowned in her own vomit." She turned her head toward me.
"But you. Where the hell did you go? One second we were dancing to that awful remix playlist Tyler had, and the next—poof. Gone. I was looking everywhere. What happened?"
Her voice fuzzed around the edges of my brain because that's when I saw him.
Scott.
He was walking across the lot with a knot of football guys, laughing at something, his hands shoved into his pockets like he didn't have a single care in the world. His hair was still damp from practice, curling just enough at the edges to make it look careless but perfect. And then—he glanced my way.
For a split second, the noise of the parking lot dulled, like someone turned down the volume on life. And when his eyes found mine, he smiled. Just a flicker of it, but it hit me square in the chest.
I smiled back before I even knew I was doing it.
My stomach flipped so hard I thought I might collapse right there on the pavement.
Beside me, Finola went rigid. "Oh. My. God." She turned her whole body toward me, her voice a sharp whisper. "Hattie! He just smiled at you. You just smiled at him. What the hell happened last night? Tell me everything."
I tore my gaze away too fast, heat rushing to my cheeks. "What? Nothing. I mean—nothing happened. We just talked and danced."
Her eyes narrowed, glittering with suspicion. "You're a terrible liar. Harriet. Spill."
I fiddled with my car keys, throat dry. I could say I left early. I could tell her I was tired, that the headache hit last night instead of this morning. I could lie.
But the truth tumbled out before I could catch it. Barely louder than a whisper.
"...I lost my virginity."
The world went still.
Finola's jaw dropped so hard I thought it might break. "WHAT?!"
"Keep your voice down Fi!" I hissed, shoving at her arm, glancing around in pure panic. A couple sophomores were walking past, and I swear they turned their heads like they'd heard everything.
But Finola was already clutching my wrist, eyes wide and wild, half shock, half gleeful disbelief. "You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."
My chest squeezed. My stomach churned. "I'm not. It just... it just happened. And now I don't even know if I'm supposed to feel happy, or scared, or both at the same time. I was really drunk and so was he and one thing just led to another.."
Her mouth opened, like she was about to fire off a million questions, but then I saw Cody heading toward us across the lot, Jackson close behind him, tripping over his shoelaces, Aura balancing a smoothie like it was a crown she didn't dare spill.
I straightened too fast, fumbling with my car keys, trying to act normal. Like I wasn't holding this enormous secret in my chest that felt too heavy and too fragile all at once.
But the words wouldn't stop echoing in my head, louder and louder, until they felt like they were stamped across my skin.
I had officially lost my virginity.
And suddenly, it wasn't a secret at all. It was real. Terrifyingly, permanently real.
By the time my siblings finally wandered across the parking lot, dragging their feet like the pavement was quicksand, I was already half-dreaming about collapsing face-first into my bed. My head throbbed with every movement—each sound around me was too sharp, like the world hadn't bothered turning its volume down for my hangover.
Finola had squeezed my arm before leaving for her car, mouthing, 'text me everything' like a pinky swear. I nodded, trying to look normal, but my chest still hummed like a live wire.
When my siblings piled into the car, the silence hit immediately. Cody slumped into the backseat, ripping open a candy bar with way too much noise. Jackson followed, tossing his bag to the floor and letting out a grunt like just existing was painful. Aura slid into the passenger seat without a word, her sunglasses on, her smoothie clutched delicately like it might shatter if she squeezed too hard.
I started the engine, but no one spoke.
Normally, my car rides were a mess. Jackson humming whatever random song was stuck in his head. Aura arguing with him about how he was off-key. Cody trying to referee with his too-patient voice while I reminded them both to put on their seatbelts. Noise, chaos, life.
But now? Nothing. Just the hum of the AC blasting at full force because Cody had immediately turned it down to "polar vortex." Just the faint rustle of Jackson shifting, restless. Just Aura's straw squeaking as she pulled at her smoothie.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my palms slick. The silence pressed down on me, heavy, and I couldn't tell if it was just my headache or if everyone else was drowning in it too.
My chest buzzed, my secret still lodged there like a stone I couldn't swallow. The longer no one spoke, the more unbearable it felt.
So I forced something out. Anything. "So... how was seeing Harper last night?"
My voice cracked halfway through.
Aura didn't turn her head. She just adjusted her sunglasses and took another long sip of her drink before answering. "Yeah. Fine."
One word. Flat. Sharp. Like the snap of a rubber band against skin.
I blinked at her, waiting for more, but she gave me nothing.
Jackson shifted in the back, muttering something about how he was going to pass out the second we got home. Cody made a point of crumpling the candy wrapper as loud as possible before settling back with a sigh.
And me? I just stared at the road, throat dry, hands locked on the wheel.
Aura finally broke the silence, her voice low but sharp enough to slice through the hum of the engine.
"Harper's coming home tonight. So...you'll get to see her then."
The words landed in my chest like a stone dropping into water. My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
I forced a smile that was so brittle it could've shattered. "I...can't, actually. I've got my college placement shift at the hospital tonight. It'll run late."
The air in the car shifted. Cody leaned forward from the backseat, his voice softer, almost coaxing. "Then you'll just see her tomorrow. No big deal."
"Right." I muttered, but the word sat in my throat like a splinter.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow meant no more excuses, no more avoiding. Tomorrow meant Harper.
I stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the red light glowing above the intersection. The words slipped out before I could shove them back down.
"Is she even well enough to come home yet?"
Aura turned, her dark eyes narrowing, her tone clipped. "She's fine now. She's better."
Better. Fine. Those words are the Baldwins' favorite safety net. They roll them out at dinner parties, at Christmases, at school meetings. 'She's fine. She's better. She's just having a rough patch. She's okay.'
They're band-aid words. Neat little labels slapped on something far too big, far too messy to contain.
But nothing about Harper has ever been simple.
She was ten when the word bipolar first crept into our home. Ten. She was still collecting dolls and leaving her socks out near the pool, and suddenly she was also the first Baldwin with an actual diagnosis. The one who had to take pills at exact hours, who went to therapy instead of gymnastics, who had doctors whispering to our parents in hallways while we sat outside pretending not to listen.
I didn't even understand what it meant back then. I just knew my sister changed. Some weeks she was so loud, so alive, so impossible to keep up with—laughing too hard, too fast, staying awake all night drawing and writing and making lists of things she was going to do. And then there were the crashes. Days where she wouldn't come out of bed, where the only proof she was still in the house was the sound of her crying and screaming behind a locked door.
Whenever that happened, Mariah would always turn the TV up to the loudest volume so we wouldn't be able to hear it. But we always did.
Hospitals came next. Ward after ward. Whitewashed walls that smelled like bleach and lemon disinfectant, plastic mattresses wrapped in sheets that crinkled when you touched them. She'd disappear for weeks, sometimes months. And every time she came back, it felt like she wasn't really my little sister anymore—like she was someone new, someone fragile, someone I had to tiptoe around because anything I said might break her.
She did school through a screen, while the rest of us packed lunches and rolled our eyes over uniforms. She was always elsewhere. And somehow, in a family of five kids, she was the one who took up all the space, even when she wasn't there.
And here's the part I don't say out loud, I don't know how to be around her. I love her—I really do. I always will. But love feels tangled up with guilt, and resentment, and fear.
So when Aura says "she's better." what she really means is "she's stable enough to keep at home."
For now. Until the next time she isn't.
The light turned green. I pressed the gas, the car rolling forward into another stretch of silence. My siblings went quiet again, but my head didn't.
Stable or not, Harper was coming home tonight. And I wasn't ready for it. Not even close.