I’m stifling a yawn and waiting for my parents.

They like to be late, like to make sure I drink mocha lattes until my heart is beating so hard and my hands are shaking and I want to jump up and down and down and up. They like to make me all jittery, sitting at the Starbucks across the street from the beach, like to make people stare at the stupid adopted lying girl. I don’t know why. I’ve never even met them, but they pay for everything for me, like the special school I go to, like the therapist who asks me questions, like the psychiatrist who prescribes me pills that I sell at that special school for messed up people, for people who like lie like me, or even worse than me.

And despite the fact that I’m so hyperactive that I want to jump all over tables and go up to the really cute guy working at the counter and kiss him so hard that his lips bleed, I’m stifling a yawn because I couldn’t sleep last night because I was thinking about them, my parents, the one’s who I think will probably look like movies stars. They’ll want to know if I’m taking the pills, if I’ve stopped lying, but I’ll lie about that, I can already imagine it, the high it gives you when they think you’re not lying, but why should they trust you? They’re stupid if you ask me, stupid, really stupid. They’ll probably think I’m stupid, too, but I don’t care. So I’ll just drink mocha lattes until they get here, and I’ll watch the guy working at the counter and hope he’ll come over here and talk to me, so he can learn how fucked I am, and maybe he likes fucked teenagers, maybe he likes that they want to make his lips bleed, and maybe he likes the way we lie about everything, even our favorite flavor off coffee. Maybe he likes it that when he asks, “What do you want?” I lie to him, and tell him a mocha latte, but he doesn’t know that I don’t even know what’s in a mocha latte, and I just want an energy drink, because that’ll make me even higher on hyperactivity, which is even better than lying.

Maybe he likes that the parents I’m thinking about aren’t real, and that actually ran away from the special school because they wanted to shove those dumb dumb dumb pills down my throat. I don’t need pills.

I just lie for the high, and get hyper off the high, and even though they’ll probably find me in less than an hour, sitting at the Starbucks that isn’t really across the street from the beach, I can just sip my mocha lattes and wonder if he’d like his lips to bleed.