"Shit, shit, shit," I say as I pull on my black skinny jeans, barely managing to stay on my feet. Guess who slept in on the first day back at school after Christmas break?

That's right, this bitch right here who forgot to set her alarm last night.

Gerard's never successfully taught me to do eyeliner properly, so after smudging it messily under my eyes, I run down stairs. My outfit today is just a grey hoodie and black jeans, my galaxy bag slung over my shoulder and the laces of my black boots tucked in because I don't have time to tie them.

I've never been very good at tying shoes. Gee, and even Lindsey, has learned by now to always tells me it's time to leave the house about five minutes in advance so that I can take my sweet time while doing them up.

"Eve, Emerald's h— oh, there you are." I almost bump into Gerard as I dash into the kitchen. He made it a habit of getting up in the morning to make me breakfast (and make sure I ate it), and now that I'm more independent he makes Lindsey breakfast every morning and takes it upstairs to her.

Couple goals, right?

"Hi Dad," I say as I grab a cereal bar from the cabinet. "Gotta go, bye Dad."

"Hey, no, hold on." He stops me before I get to the front door, sliding across the floor in his Star Wars socks.

"What?" I ask through a mouthful. I take a second to swallow, then go on. "I know this is a small breakfast, I'll grab something more at school. You can trust me."

The first time I said that, "you can trust me," ended with us both in tears. We both knew I was lying. It took a while until he regained trust in me and I understand why.

"I know, it's not that. Did you take your meds?"

"Ah, shit. I forgot." I run back into the kitchen and grab my pills from the cabinet. I'm not allowed to keep them in my room. It was thought it'd take some convincing to get me to agree to being prescribed antidepressants. But, no. If my brain can't produce the happy chemicals, then so be it. I'll take them out of a plastic bottle any day.

Gee once told me during another conversation that ended with us both in tears that one of the worst parts about me being in hospital was when he had to clean up my bathroom. He had to pick up every little pill I'd left on the floor. He'd also found every dollar of wasted lunch money I'd left in that drawer.

I don't keep secrets from him anymore. Not big ones, anyway. He doesn't need to know about the time I broke the handle off one of his favourite mugs and glued it back on.

When I finally climb into the backseat of Emerald's mom's car, I'm convinced whoever decided to put heaters in cars is the only valid person. It snowed again last night.

"I slept in," I say apologetically. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting."

"Bitch, how could you?" Emerald asks dramatically.

Her mom taps her lightly on the arm. "Emerald!"

"Sorry." I don't know if she's apologizing to me for calling me a bitch, or to her mom for saying the word, but I laugh.

"It's okay, Ms. Jack— I mean, Jane. I'll get her back." Every time I call her "Ms. Jacks" she tells me it's too formal, that it makes her feel old and I ought to just call her Jane.

Em laughs too and the sound sends more serotonin flooding to my brain than any pill could ever manage. I never thought I'd be the type of person that gushes over her significant other to a point where it's gross and cheesy, but this girl has proven that anything is possible.

It took a while for us to finally have the courage to do little things like hug and hold hands at school, but they're not really little things. Not for us. But it's mainly because I didn't want to draw anymore unwanted attention to myself.

I used to just be the "emo" girl, the one who was adopted, the one with that band guy with the ever-changing hair and eyeliner as a father.

And then I was the girl who was sent to a treatment ward (that one didn't gain me any more popularity points than Gerard carrying me in his arms out of the nurse's office did).

But now I'm the girl, who after being subject of outlandish-sounding rumours, was finally confirmed to exist when articles stating, "The members of My Chemical Romance have been spotted outside mental health and addictions ward in New Jersey, read more." had to be addressed.

Nobody at school cared until the media got involved.

Em and I walk into school hand in hand. "What class do I have first?" I ask her.

"You have to start remembering your schedule, Eve."

"What class do I have first?" I ask again.

Although we're not making eye contact as we walk down the hallway, I can tell that she's rolling her eyes as she replies. "French."

"Ah, oui. Merci, ma chérie."

When I found out I could take French class I knew I wanted to do it. I've never had a use for my French before, but now I can use it to worsen my depression and anxiety by staying up way too late to finish the assignments.

Just kidding.

Maybe.

The worst part by far, though, is that the only thing keeping me from being the top of my advanced French class is someone named Charlotte.

That's right, that bitch that beat me up when I was thirteen is making another appearance.

She hasn't given me any trouble since then (I don't doubt that Gerard truly would knock her out if she did), but likes to remind me, "Well my grandmother and grandfather own a chateau in France. I visit them every summer. Your dad might be famous, but he doesn't own a chateau."

We both almost got sent to the principal's office after I replied with, "No, but he's been on more magazine covers than your photoshop looking face could dream of." But it wasn't because of the argument and insults, it was because we weren't speaking French while we were supposed to.

If that doesn't tell you something about our school system, I don't know what will.

After a quick stop at our lockers, Em and I part ways. I over dramatize it by reaching my hand out toward her as she walks away in the direction of her calculus class.

Calculus. My girlfriend is, like, super smart. Boy, if I wasn't gay before...

"I'll miss you," I say, dragging out the "you". I purposefully ignore the annoyed looks from a group of girls that walk by.

"I'll see you at lunch, Evie," she replies back.

• • •

did I ever give Em's mom a name? I don't think I did... oh well it's Jane now and that's where Emerald's middle name comes from