Sometimes It Happens by Lauren Barnholdt Read Free Book Online Page A

sense that it wasn’t going to get much use this summer, since in my depressed state my hygiene habits have so far taken a backseat to other, more important endeavors, like stalking Sebastian online.
    “Honey, it’s broken,” my mom says. She sounds like she’strying to break it to me gently. I can’t really blame her. The other day she told me there was no more vanilla ice cream, and I burst into tears right in the middle of the kitchen. She obviously knows I’m fragile.
    “But I need clothes!”
    “Well,” she says. “I’ll drive you to the Laundromat on my way to the hospital.” My mom’s a veterinary technician, and she works nights at the emergency animal hospital in Grafton, which is about forty minutes away. She wants to be a veterinarian though, which means that when she gets off her shift, she takes classes at Tufts’ veterinary school. Which means she’s never around. Which means I should be throwing lots of parties and having fun and kicking people out all panicked when my mom pulls in the driveway unannounced. But I can’t do that since Ava’s not here and I have no boyfriend and I’m too depressed to clean my clothes, let alone plan and throw a whole party.
    “The Laundromat?” The only thing worse than spending your Friday at home doing laundry is to spend it at the Laundromat doing laundry. “Forget it.” I close the lid of the washer, leaving the clothes in there. “I’ll just find something else to wear.” What, I don’t know. Everything I have is dirty, but I’m sure I can figure out something. Maybe I can make a dress out of a garbage bag. Lady Gaga wore that meat dress to the VMAs, so I should be able to dress in garbage bags. I’ll get black ones, to symbolize my current state of mind. Like performance art or something.
    “Come on,” my mom says. “I’ll help you get everything ready.”
    “No.” I head out of the laundry room and into the great room, where I lay down on the couch and pick up the remote, getting ready to turn on the TV and pick up my Friday Night Lights marathon right where I left off. Tim Riggins is so hot.
    My mom follows me. “Hannah,” she says from the doorway, “do I need to call your father? Maybe you should go and spend some time with him since being here obviously isn’t making you feel better.”
    I glare at her. It’s an empty threat (she would never send me to stay with my dad, and my dad wouldn’t want me even if she did), but it’s enough to get me going. The last thing I need is my dad calling, asking me how I’m doing. To put it bluntly, my dad is kind of an asshole. My parents got divorced when I was ten, and my dad lives, like, two hours away, but he hardly ever calls or sends money or anything. Which is probably why I’m so depressed about Sebastian. I clearly have issues with abandonment.
    “Fine,” I say. “But we’re getting the washer fixed.”
    “Of course,” my mom says. “And then maybe this weekend we can sit down and talk about you possibly getting a job.”
    Geez. So much for her knowing I’m fragile. I ignore the part about the job and make a big production of heading up to my room to get the rest of my clothes together. I mean, if mom thinks a job is going to cure my depression, she really couldn’t be more wrong.

     
    There are actually a ton of people at the Laundromat, which is kind of annoying because almost every machine is full. I already can’t wait to get out of here, and it’s going to completely suck if I have to wait for a dryer. Don’t people have anything better to do on a Friday night? Oh, well. Judge not lest ye be judged, or whatever.
    I heft my two garbage bags of clothes (one for whites and one for darks) up onto an empty washer. I couldn’t put them in laundry baskets because I’m going to have to walk the twelve blocks home and there’s no way I can do that with baskets—as it is, I’m worried about doing it with bags. Then I feed one of the twenty dollar bills my mom gave me