Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) by Jennifer Jamelli Page A
Authors: Jennifer Jamelli
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at the clippings.
My name. My words. Right here in print.
Pretty cool. Something I fantasized about as a kid. Having my words published.
But published correctly. And in order to publish something correctly, in order to get those words there, here in these newspapers, I read each and every one of them three meticulous times. Three.
But he wants me to turn in a paper without three read-throughs.
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
At least there shouldn’t be any blood work today. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be since he’s working all day.
Unless that was a lie. Unless he’s actually going to show up somewhere with Judy and a needle.
My stomach rumbles. {More and more “ Over the Rainbo—” }
What if he shows up at—
Callie! Stop. Why would he lie?
Because all you two do is lie to each other and not tell each other things, Callie.
Damn it. That’s true.
But please don’t let him be lying about this. No lying this time. Not this time. Please. Please. Please.
Still praying, I jump off of my bed to get ready for work and to do my leaving-the-house routine. Praying. Praying. Praying.
Please no lying. Please no lying. Please no lying.
I’M PROBABLY NOT SUPPOSED TO compare my life—or my therapy—to the Bible, but it’s like the Bible up in here today. For real.
Peter denied…rejected…refused Jesus three times in quick succession back when Jesus was about to die. Today, I have denied my therapy, his therapy requests…rejected therapy directions, his directions, three times.
EXHIBIT A
Before I went to work, I couldn’t possibly eat. I couldn’t risk throwing up at the writing center (and it’s good that I made such a responsible decision because I spent all three hours of work worrying that Judy was going to walk through the doors of the writing center with a tourniquet and a needle. If I had put food in my stomach, I would’ve easily thrown up all over my computer).
So…obviously, I didn’t eat any pancakes or any syrup this morning. Instead, I shoved two pancakes (and around two hundred calories) down the garbage disposal. Then I squirted a significant amount of syrup down there as well. After that, I cleaned my whole sink to make sure that there was no sticky residue left behind.
The first denial. Complete rejection. And cover up.
EXHIBIT B
After work, I went to the little campus store near the writing center. And I picked up a bottle of water (total price - $1.25…which is sort of ridiculous. For WATER. But, oh well). I went up to the counter. And I tried to smile at the female college student who scanned the bar code on my bottle. She smiled back. Then she told me my total price ($1.25).
And then…then I lied to her. I held out my baggie of money, held it open in front of her. I asked her to pull the money out of the bag for me since my hands were really sticky…since I had just eaten PANCAKES DRENCHED IN SYRUP.
She believed me. She even dropped my three quarters, my change, into my baggie so I wouldn’t get them sticky.
A mega awful hardcore despicable lie. The second denial of my therapy.
EXHIBIT C
I started to proof my pregnancy paper rough draft during work. I didn’t get anything done, though. Too busy watching for Judy.
So, after getting my water and going home, I locked, locked, locked up my house. After I was confident that Judy couldn’t somehow show up in my bedroom, I managed to do a read-through, a check-through, of my paper. So I should’ve been done then.
But I wasn’t. I found a loophole.
He asked me to NOT check it three times before turning it in .
So I didn’t read over it, or check it, three times.
I did it six times.
The final denial—just accomplished it a few minutes ago as I emailed my paper to Dr. Harper.
Now I’m just waiting for a cock to crow.
11:03 P.M.
I’m in bed. Wearing old old old silky pajamas.
But I’m not sleeping.
I’ve checked my closet and under my bed and
My name. My words. Right here in print.
Pretty cool. Something I fantasized about as a kid. Having my words published.
But published correctly. And in order to publish something correctly, in order to get those words there, here in these newspapers, I read each and every one of them three meticulous times. Three.
But he wants me to turn in a paper without three read-throughs.
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
At least there shouldn’t be any blood work today. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be since he’s working all day.
Unless that was a lie. Unless he’s actually going to show up somewhere with Judy and a needle.
My stomach rumbles. {More and more “ Over the Rainbo—” }
What if he shows up at—
Callie! Stop. Why would he lie?
Because all you two do is lie to each other and not tell each other things, Callie.
Damn it. That’s true.
But please don’t let him be lying about this. No lying this time. Not this time. Please. Please. Please.
Still praying, I jump off of my bed to get ready for work and to do my leaving-the-house routine. Praying. Praying. Praying.
Please no lying. Please no lying. Please no lying.
I’M PROBABLY NOT SUPPOSED TO compare my life—or my therapy—to the Bible, but it’s like the Bible up in here today. For real.
Peter denied…rejected…refused Jesus three times in quick succession back when Jesus was about to die. Today, I have denied my therapy, his therapy requests…rejected therapy directions, his directions, three times.
EXHIBIT A
Before I went to work, I couldn’t possibly eat. I couldn’t risk throwing up at the writing center (and it’s good that I made such a responsible decision because I spent all three hours of work worrying that Judy was going to walk through the doors of the writing center with a tourniquet and a needle. If I had put food in my stomach, I would’ve easily thrown up all over my computer).
So…obviously, I didn’t eat any pancakes or any syrup this morning. Instead, I shoved two pancakes (and around two hundred calories) down the garbage disposal. Then I squirted a significant amount of syrup down there as well. After that, I cleaned my whole sink to make sure that there was no sticky residue left behind.
The first denial. Complete rejection. And cover up.
EXHIBIT B
After work, I went to the little campus store near the writing center. And I picked up a bottle of water (total price - $1.25…which is sort of ridiculous. For WATER. But, oh well). I went up to the counter. And I tried to smile at the female college student who scanned the bar code on my bottle. She smiled back. Then she told me my total price ($1.25).
And then…then I lied to her. I held out my baggie of money, held it open in front of her. I asked her to pull the money out of the bag for me since my hands were really sticky…since I had just eaten PANCAKES DRENCHED IN SYRUP.
She believed me. She even dropped my three quarters, my change, into my baggie so I wouldn’t get them sticky.
A mega awful hardcore despicable lie. The second denial of my therapy.
EXHIBIT C
I started to proof my pregnancy paper rough draft during work. I didn’t get anything done, though. Too busy watching for Judy.
So, after getting my water and going home, I locked, locked, locked up my house. After I was confident that Judy couldn’t somehow show up in my bedroom, I managed to do a read-through, a check-through, of my paper. So I should’ve been done then.
But I wasn’t. I found a loophole.
He asked me to NOT check it three times before turning it in .
So I didn’t read over it, or check it, three times.
I did it six times.
The final denial—just accomplished it a few minutes ago as I emailed my paper to Dr. Harper.
Now I’m just waiting for a cock to crow.
11:03 P.M.
I’m in bed. Wearing old old old silky pajamas.
But I’m not sleeping.
I’ve checked my closet and under my bed and
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