How It Ends by Catherine Lo (classic books for 13 year olds .TXT) 📕

putting it away months ago and stored the memory away in case I ever needed it.

I stole into their bathroom and slipped the key into the lock. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until the key turned with a little click and relief flooded through my body. Just two pills, I decided. Mom will never notice two pills.

There was a jumble of prescription bottles on the top shelf—mine, my mom’s, and my dad’s. I fumbled through them as quickly as I could, nervous that I’d be caught before I could find the Ativan. My fingers closed around the bottle when—

“What are you doing in here? Oh my God! I knew it! I knew those pills were a bad idea!” Mom’s shriek was like an explosion in the tiny bathroom. You’d think she’d caught me shooting up heroin, the way she was freaking out.

“It’s not what you think, Mom,” I said, holding up the bottle and backing away from her. “I just need another one or two for my emergency pill bottle.”

“Why? Why would you need more? You had an anxiety attack, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?” She was getting hysterical, and my heart started to pound.

“Stop it, Mom! You’re freaking me out!”

“I’m freaking you out? I catch you in here breaking into the drugs you know you’re not supposed to take without supervision and I’m freaking you out?”

I sat down on the side of the bathtub, trying to breathe slowly. Two attacks in two days was more than I could handle. I looked at the bottle in my hand and wondered how ballistic my mother would go if I popped a pill right in front of her.

“Stephen!” she screamed, dropping to her knees in front of me. “Are you okay, honey? Are you having an attack? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No!” I whisper-screamed. “This is nothing, Mom. Just leave me alone for two seconds.”

The thought of my dad coming made my heart clench alarmingly in my chest. I needed to be alone, but I was afraid that if I ran off, my mom would call 911 or something equally ridiculous.

My dad sauntered into the bathroom. He knows my mother and her hysteria too well to get worked up until he sees the sight of blood. “Meredith, I swear to God! I was on a conference call. What is the problem?”

“Look at her!” my mother screeched, pointing at me as though I was at death’s door. “She’s having an anxiety attack and she’s sneaking pills.”

“Jesus Christ,” my dad muttered, snatching the pills out of my hand and reading the bottle. “This is her own medication, Meredith. If a doctor prescribed it, she can take it. Do you need one?” he asked me.

I nearly snapped out of the attack from sheer surprise. My dad does not believe in anxiety. He thinks my issues are all in my head and that I need to toughen up instead of making excuses and hiding behind imaginary problems.

I shook my head at him. “I’m okay.”

“Good girl.” He turned to my mom. “You. Out!”

“I don’t think you understand what’s happening here . . .”

“We’ll discuss it in the other room.”

My dad rarely yells, but when he does, we listen. Mom pursed her lips and looked at me disapprovingly, then relocked her medicine cabinet before following my dad out of the room.

I put my head between my knees and took deep breaths. I could hear Mom and Dad fighting in the next room.

“She’s having a panic attack. We can’t just leave her in there alone.”

“She’s having a panic attack because you’re panicking her. You were so hysterical that I’m pretty sure the neighbors have called the police by now. You need to calm yourself down. Jessica is just fine until you start freaking out.”

“She was sneaking pills, Stephen. Those pills are supposed to be given only under supervision.”

“And did you ask her why she was sneaking them?”

“It’s because she had a panic attack! I need to find out the details.”

I heard my dad sigh and then I heard the squeak of their mattress as he sat down. “Meredith, I’m going to be very clear about this, and it’s something you’re not going to want to hear. Jessica is just fine. She’s a shy, nervous teenager, not a deranged lunatic. You’re turning her into a bundle of nerves with your overreactions. This is a crisis entirely invented by you. You’re the one who dragged her to the doctor and had her put on medication, and now you’re freaking out that she’s taking it. You are the one with the issues here, not Jessica.”

“You have never been supportive of Jessie’s mental health issues.”

“Because she doesn’t have any mental health issues!” Dad roared. “This is getting ridiculous. I have never, not once, seen Jessie out of control. I have, however, seen you out of control when it comes to her. I think you are the one who needs a visit to the doctor. Now, I don’t want to hear another word about this nonsense. And if you don’t stop pathologizing our daughter, I’m going to drive you to the therapist myself. Deal with your own shit, Meredith, and stop dumping it on Jess.”

The door slammed, and I could hear Dad storming down the stairs.

My heart was hammering, but not in an anxiety-attack way. I found that I could breathe deeply, and that my brain was strangely quiet. My dad thinks this is all my mother’s fault. It was a confusing and depressing thought. Do I blame my mom? That was a question that hurt my heart to ask. So instead I cleared my mind and waited for my mom to come back in.

It took ages.

When she finally walked into the bathroom, her eyes were rimmed in red. She pasted a smile on her face as she picked up the Ativan bottle Dad had left on the countertop. “I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Morgan on Monday,” she said brightly. “I think it will work out best if we discuss this