You're Not Worthless Read online

  You're Not Worthless

  Kayaleah Bradley

  Published by Rosebud Press, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  You’re Not Worthless. Copyright © 2020 by Kayaleah Bradley.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without express written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations within critical articles or reviews. For more information or permission requests, write to the publisher addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020905294

  ISBN: 978-1-7346771-0-2

  9711 S Mason Rd. #414 Richmond, TX 77407

  www,rosebudpress.net

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  You're Not Worthless

  Trigger Warning

  This work contains triggering or sensitive material. Self-harming, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts, and more are some topics covered/mentioned in this work. This book may not be suitable for all. If you feel triggered please know that you are never alone. You are loved, supported, and needed.

  To anybody who may be struggling; may you forever

  continue to fight like the ​warrior you are . . .

  One

  “Kalani!” I hear my name being called from downstairs. Reluctantly, I pull away from the homework that I was pretending to do and make my way across the room. My bedroom is big, too big for a bedroom if you ask me. There’s enough room for a king-sized bed which sits by the window in the corner, a desk for homework and studying, which sits next to the head of my bed, two dressers for clothes, which both sit side by side against the wall across from my bed, and a walk-in closet, placed at the back of the room, near the dressers.

  Once out of my bedroom, I make my way down the massively long hallway until I reach the grand staircase-It starts on both sides of the upstairs hallway, and spreads out to two main stairs, lining the walls. It’s completely made of marble. At the center of the downstairs hallway, in the middle of the two staircases, is a glass table with a single red rose, sitting in a vase, on top of it. Once down the stairs, I take a left turn, and walk down another annoyingly long hallway, until it finally opens up to a huge main room-the living room. This room is larger than my bedroom-and that’s saying something. A huge flat-screen TV dominates the back wall of the room, and a tan plush couch takes up almost the entire length of the hardwood floor right in front of it, leaving only enough room for a single chair-that matches the couch-to sit beside it.

  My mom and dad are sitting on the couch watching something on the TV that I don’t recognize. They still haven’t noticed that I even entered the room.

  “Did you guys need something?” I ask.

  My mom turns around to face me, but my dad makes no effort to acknowledge that I even exist-like always.

  “Yeah, are you almost done with your homework?” My mom asks. “I need you to pick up Caden from his soccer practice at 3:30.”

  Before I can even answer, my mom turns back to face the screen, as if the conversation has ended.

  “Um, why can’t you?” I ask. “You’re not doing anything right now.” I try to hide the irritation in my voice.

  “Because your older sister can’t pick him up, so you need to.”

  “Again, why can’t you​ ​pick him up?” I ask. “You’re not doing anything!”

  “Why are you so upset about this?” My mom asks. “Just go pick up your brother. He gets done in fifteen minutes!”

  I let out a frustrated sound, and turn on my heel. I make my way towards the main entrance of the house, and search for my car keys; my dad is the CEO of one of the biggest banks in town. In other words, he makes bank. That’s why we can afford the house we live in, and why we have so many cars that I can’t find my car keys from the ten key hooks attached to the wall by the door.

  Once I find them, I snatch them from their hook and make my way out the front door. I make sure to slam it shut extra hard so that my parents know how irritated they’ve made me. Ten cars. Why do we have ten cars, you might ask? I’m not sure either. Because we can, I guess.

  The truth is, we’re only a seven-person family so I’m not sure why we need three extra cars. My car is a silver 2016 Chevrolet Malibu, which sits behind two of the other cars that we have lining the sidewalk. Once I’ve made it to my car, I buckle in and speed down the road. I guess I can understand why my parents asked me to pick up my little brother, Caden-he’s ten because I have the ability to. I’m seventeen years old, have my license, and my car. There’s no reason I couldn’t pick up Caden from soccer practice. Other than the fact that I don’t want to.

  My car is hot from being left out in the sun all day. We’re nearing the end of the year, but the temperature hasn't dropped yet; it still feels like summer. I’m not complaining. I’ve never liked the cold, despite living in Colorado all my life. After a few left turns here, and a few right turns there, I pull into a parking lot next to a giant field. I can see my brother gathering his bag and water bottle before he finally darts across the field to meet me. He slides into the front seat, without even looking at me.

  “Hey bud,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “I thought mom was picking me up today,” Caden says.

  “Yeah, I did too,” I say. “I don’t know, she just asked me to today. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah,” Caden nods, finally meeting my gaze. He has bright green eyes and shaggy brown hair-like our dad.

  He looks nothing like my sisters and I. The four of us have matching blond hair and brown eyes-like our mother. Caden is like the outcast of the family and I’m right there with him. We’re what you would consider the middle child; the oldest of the five of us is Mia. She’s twenty-four years old, officially graduated from college for two years now, and is living on her own, with a steady job. She’s what the rest of us call “The Perfect Child.” Then there’s Amelia: twenty-one years old in her last year of college, already announced as the valedictorian of her class, and already has a job offer for once she’s graduated. Not to mention, she’s already engaged and planning to marry her fiancé in a year and a half. (My parents can’t wait for the grandchildren to come).

  And then there’s the youngest of the entire family: Skyler. Skyler is only seven years old but is already considered one of the best dancers in the entire ballet academy that she’s attending, according to her teachers. Not to mention, she’s “Daddy’s Little Princess” and receives all of his attention that the rest of us, well, lack. Caden and I, we’re not what you would consider “gifted”. While Caden plays soccer, and practices every single day (even when he doesn’t have soccer that day), he’s not all that great. (I know I’m a terrible sister for saying that.) And me? I’m average. My grades are mediocre (pretty much all C’s at this point), I don’t play any sports, I’m not seeing anybody, and I don’t have a job, either.

  The truth is, I don’t know what my purpose in life is; not the way Mia and Amelia know, like how they know everything. ​I’m never the favorite; not the way Skyler is. I don’t even attempt​ to play a sport; not the way Caden does. I’m the average Joe in the family. I’m not the smartest, not the most athletic, not the prettiest, not the most successful. I guess all of those roles have been taken. And what role am I left with? Nothing.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “You wanna go get some ice cream? We can hang out for the rest of the afternoon. Just you and me
.”

  Caden’s eyes light up immediately. “Yeah!” He shouts, a little too excitedly.

  I know exactly how Caden feels when he always sees me picking him up from practice, or school, instead of mom or dad. I know because when I was his age, it used to be Mia or Amelia picking me ​​up. I know because, at the end of the day, Caden and I are the same. We have a different bond than the rest of our siblings. Because we’ve been there. Together.

  * * *

  Caden’s favorite flavor of ice cream is chocolate-and that’s it. No sprinkles. No syrup. No Nothing. Just chocolate. I decided to buy him the biggest size the ice cream shop offered, just because I love him. I’ve never seen a ten-year-old boy devour an extra-large chocolate ice cream cone the way Caden does, that’s for sure.

  “Brain freeze!” Caden shouts, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead.

  “That’s what you get for swallowing the whole thing in one bite,” I teased. Caden nudges me but laughs anyway.

  I’m about to make another sarcastic comment about how he’d better not throw any of his ice cream up in my car-or else-but my phone begins vibrating on the table, detouring me from such. I quickly grabbed the phone from the table to see that I have a new message from my mom:

  Where are you?

  I groan, and reply:

  With Caden, why?

  ...

  Come home. Now.

  I let out a sigh of frustration.

  “Alright, it’s time to go,” I say, finally looking up at Caden.

  “Why?”

  “Because mom wants us to come home. Now.” I explain.

  Caden doesn’t say anything. Instead, he nods, stands from his chair, and throws the rest of his half-eaten cone in the trash. I follow him out the door, uneasy about his sudden silence.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, carefully.

  Caden only nods, so I don’t push any further.

  I’m sure he’s probably just upset about having to leave early. Ever since I started my senior year of high school three months ago, things have been kind of crazy. Filling out college applications, trying to get my grades up, and applying for scholarships and grants have eaten away at the time I used to share with Caden. Ice cream today was a treat for both of us, time to spend together. And our mom just took it away from us.

  The ride home is quiet. I try to talk to Caden every once in a while, but the most I get is a groan in response. It’s better than nothing; half the ride he wouldn’t respond at all.

  Once we get home, Caden tries to book it to his room without being seen, but he’s not quick enough.

  “Caden!” My mom shouts from the end of the hallway. Caden turns on his heel, still standing on the first step of the left side of the grand staircase, as our mom makes her way down the hall.

  “How was your practice?” She asks, resting her hand on the rail of the staircase.

  “Good,” Caden says, simply.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope.”

  My mom and Caden don’t say anything, not for a long time. They just stare at each other, and if I’m being honest, I don’t quite understand; Caden was upset about not getting to see mom this afternoon, but when she tries to talk to him, it seems like he doesn’t want anything to do with her. But maybe I do understand. Maybe I understand because I’m the same way: stubborn. I feel like if someone doesn’t care, then I shouldn’t either; if they don’t want to talk to me, then I don’t either. So, naturally, when my mom tries to talk to me after almost a week of not, ​​she’s ​​gone.

  My family is together, but we’re not. Somehow, we’re separated-not legally-but emotionally.

  I pull the comforter down from my bed and snuggle in. I don’t care if it’s six o’clock on a Sunday. It’s been a long day, and I’m ready for it to be over.

  Two

  Lucas is my best friend, and if I’m being honest, he’s kind of my only friend. I mean, sure I talk to a few other people occasionally, but he’s the only one who understands me. Its’ kind of works both ways: He’s my only friend, and I’m his. He’s waiting outside for me right now; we carpool. It’s lame, to carpool to school, but hey, it saves gas money! I open the door to leave just as he honks the horn of his massive truck-a red Toyota, with lifted wheels that make me have to jump to make it into the passenger's seat.

  “You good?” Lucas asks. He stares at me, and I can’t help but stare back into those dark green eyes of his. They mesmerize me every time.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say after a moment. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, you just looked a little overwhelmed for a second.” He explains. His dark hair-almost black-is disheveled, as if he didn’t brush it this morning when he woke up.

  “Well maybe if the wheels on this thing weren’t so big, and I wouldn’t have to jump for my life.” I tease with a fake smile.

  “Kalani-” Lucas puts a hand on my shoulder, sending hot shivers down my back. I look at him, and he looks back. Neither of us says anything, not for a long time.

  “I know what the other kids are saying about you.” He says.

  I turn away from him and stare out the window. I’m not one for confrontation, or for being straightforward in general.

  “I don’t care what they say,” I lie. “I don’t even know them, so why should it matter?” I explain, but it’s only half-hearted.

  Lucas doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes all over me, breaking me apart and analyzing me, just like he always does; that’s who he is: an analyzer-someone who can’t help but study everything that might be a puzzle to them-a problem solver.

  “Okay,” he says after a long time. Once I feel the gear of the car shift, and the car moves forward, I let out a quiet sigh. The truth is, I don’t like it when Lucas studies me. I feel bad because, at the end of the day, he can’t help it. But something about the way he always greedily stares at me-not, but in a scientific way-makes me uncomfortable, self-conscious.

  Like not only is he breaking me down but like he might be judging me, too. I know that I should listen to the lies I tell Lucas every day: that I don’t even know them, so it shouldn’t bother me. But it does bother me. It does.

  * * *

  I can hear the whispers all over me, creeping up my neck and consuming me. On the outside, I look calm as I hear the words: freak. Weirdo. Annoying. Irritating. ​​Along with other words like a slut. Hoe. Fake. Wannabe. ​​Which also leads to rabies. Herpes. Disgusting. Contagious. I’m not sure where they came from, or when it started. A few months ago, I guess, right at the beginning of the senior year. All I remember is walking into school one day, and hearing someone I don’t even know shouting, “All hoes are fake!” and then another person shouting “Don’t trust her! She’s fake!” It took a second for me to realize that the people shouting, were shouting those things at me. I also remember sprinting to the nearest bathroom, locking the door behind me, closing myself off in a stall, and sobbing for the rest of the day.

  And why it started? I don’t know. I’ve never had a boyfriend before, so it couldn’t have been some random guy trying to get back at me for a nasty break up. And Lucas is the only friend I’ve ever had since the third grade. He would never do something like this, so I know it wasn’t him, or some ex-friend of mine trying to get back at me because I’ve never had an ex-friend before.

  I guess it was someone bored and thought it would be funny to spread a rumor about someone else and watch it spread like wildfire. And I just so happened to be the unlucky victim of that decision.

  Now the kids at my school don’t shout awful obscenities at me-all the time-but they talk about whatever rumor was spread about me, and they do it loud enough so that I can hear. I guess I should have asked someone what people were saying, or what the rumor was, but after a whole day of sobbing in the bathroom, it seemed to have slipped my mind. And now, after a few months of the name-calling, it seems kind of pointless to ask.

  “Come on,” Lucas says. “Let’s go.” He
grabs the inside of my elbow and steers me to the stairs.

  For a second, I forget where I am. It takes Lucas pushing me up the stairs to remember that I have a class on the fourth floor-which is starting in two minutes. The main staircase is huge. It starts in the middle of the main hallway and works its way up to the fifth floor. The school, like my house, is divided into two parts: North and South. The staircase is one that you would see in a movie. It continues up the entire school, with platforms on each floor, so that students and teachers can make it to the hallways of that floor level. So again, like my house, the school is connected by the main staircase.

  Once we get to my classroom, Lucas gives me a half hug and a sympathetic smile.

  I know he feels bad for me.

  “I’ll be down here at the end of class to walk you to your next class, okay?” Lucas says.

  “Okay.” Is all I can say. This has become a pattern since the name-calling began.

  Lucas is an entire year older than me and should be in college by now. But his parents held him back a year for reasons that I don’t understand.

  In a way, Lucas feels like a big brother to me. I’m sure he feels the same because ever since the rumor-whatever it might be-spread, he’s stuck to my side like glue: protecting me.

  “Please don’t try to walk by yourself, okay?” Lucas says, with a sense of urgency in his voice. “I promise I’ll make it back here quickly.”

  I nod again. I never told him this, but I appreciate him walking me to all of my classes. I don’t ever feel safe anymore, but having him by my side makes me feel safe again. Lucas smiles one last time before turning on his heel and walking down the hallway. Reluctantly, I turn and step into the classroom. The classroom is wild today, with students shouting and laughing, throwing paper balls at each other, and refusing to pick them up off the floor.

  And I know why the class is insane today: Substitute. She’s sitting at the teacher’s desk in the back corner of the room, trying to get everyone’s attention. Panic begins to set in. Mr. Smith is always telling the other students to leave me alone when they decide to attack me. He’s the only teacher in this whole school that cares enough to defend me. A substitute in this classroom is not good. She won’t defend me; she can’t even defend herself.