Confessions of a Teenage Caffeine Addict

15 // Food, Warmth, and Ian Somerhalder

Maybe there's something

You're afraid to say,

Or someone you're afraid to love,

Or somewhere you're afraid to go.

It's gonna hurt.

It's gonna hurt because it matters.

—John Green

____________________________________

KATIE

JANUARY // WEEK 6

I walked down the empty halls with Isabel after class. There were a a few students here for various clubs, but other than that, there was no one... The only thing I could hear was the cheerleaders shouting in the gym about being aggressive... or something about fences. What do fences have to do with sports anyway?

"Go to dinner with him. Hear him out, Katie," Isabel said to me. She always saw the best in people, which was understandable because nothing bad or tragic had ever happened to her. Her childhood and basically her entire life was daisies, smiles, and two parents with steady jobs.

"I don't want to." I shot her a look.

"Don't you want some answers?" Isabel inquired.

"Yeah, I do, it's just—" I tried to find the right words, but Isabel cut me off.

"You're afraid that they're not gonna be the answers you want to hear." Isabel said the exact words I had been thinking.

"Yeah..." I looked down at the dull white tiles, shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt.

"KitKat, if you don't go to this dinner, you're gonna regret it and it will keep you awake at night," Isabel said, solemnly and she was right. More awake than Jake Roswell? Or no heat? "Besides, it gives me a reason to finally do your hair and makeup and dress you up like a princess."

"I hate it when you're right." I grimaced at the thought of Isabel brandishing a curling iron.

"See you tonight, Katie." Isabel dismissed my comment before she went right, towards the parking lot. I, unfortunately went left, not towards the library. No, I walked straight past the library and down a few flights of stairs towards the locker rooms—towards my father.

Practice hadn't started yet because my father was still in his office, and I didn't know whether that was a good sign or not. The door was propped open with a hockey stick doorstop. Typical. I didn't even bother to knock because he didn't deserve that courtesy. I just walked in. No hello. No sitting. I got right to the point.

"So, where are we going to dinner?" I asked him crossing my arms.

He was so surprised by my appearance that he sat up a little straighter and dropped his pen. "We're going to The Castleton ," he told me, regaining his confidence. The Castleton was a classy, upscale hotel with a classy, upscale restaurant. And yes, it had plenty of classy, upscale people on business trips. Last time I checked, I wasn't classy, and I was pretty sure that having no hot water landed me just short of the "Upscale" category. When I didn't respond, my father's confidence wavered. "Uh, if that's okay with you." He tried his best not to stammer.

"What time?" I ignored his anxious nerves.

"I'll have a car pick you up at 8." He swallowed and then nodded, like everything was settled.

"I don't need a car to pick me up, Father," I said, restraining myself from sneering at him.

And with that, I turned on my heel, and walked out, trying to get far away from my father. Even though Jake Roswell was in the locker room a few feet away, I didn't slow down, or look back. The library was calling me.