Lola

(Warning: Mentions of suicide, mental health, and substance abuse)

She was the most popular girl. On the streets.

           A girl who could charm any man that strolled her way. A girl whom the other girls wished they could become. A girl with luscious brown hair and quick feet. A hip-hop R&B artist who loved rap more than anything else in the world. She was a girl on the top of her game, waiting for her big break. Everywhere she walked in her Brooklyn neighborhood, all the residents would say the same thing.

           “Oh Lola! Dear Lola!”

           Lola loved the attention. At seventeen, she rose higher than most people around, always wearing a bright smile with her nose stuck in paper. Pens and papers were usually stuck in her school backpack, ready to be used on a moment’s notice. Yes, Lola was going places. That was how she always put it.

           Lola usually began her days waking up in her small bedroom in her apartment, sometimes because of one of her friends begging her to come hang out. Usually, she ate breakfast before joining them, running along the roads to the nearby schoolhouse. Lola held excellent grades. Even her teachers were impressed with her hard work. Lola adored school, though she adored lunchtime more. It was there she could put on her rap performances, sometimes going into rap battles with her classmates. Lola always won battles. And every time she won, her boyfriend greeted her with a congratulatory kiss. This would lead them to the side of the school afterward. Sometimes, they went further than kisses.

           After school was when he would supply Lola with weed.

           You see, Lola was also a partyer. It was the real reason why she was popular. She drank, she smoked, and she did drugs like some high schoolers wanted to try. While she never tried going far with her experiments, they sent her on a high she always seemed to enjoy. This was how she met her boyfriend with his charming smile and twinkling eyes. He supplied her what she wanted. What she needed to get by in her life. It was much better than home. Anything was better than home.

           After school, Lola would arrive home to her apartment still in disarray, her mother passed out drunk on the couch. There was no father. He had left the moment Lola’s mother told him she was pregnant. Bottles usually surrounded Lola’s mother. It was Lola who had to pick up the pieces, trying to get her mother on her feet. She lost count of how many times her mother was laid off from a job. Lola would cook dinner. She would help her mother to bed. Every night, before she went to sleep. Lola’s mother said the same words to her.

           “Oh Lola! Dear Lola!”

           Lola craved the attention. At seventeen, she sank lower than most people around, always wearing a small smile, ready to kiss her mother’s forehead. She would tuck her mother into bed and leave her to ride out the hangover. Then she would retire to her own room and study for the next day. Her mother never noticed. She never cared to notice. She thought she was fine. Yes, Lola was going places. That was how she always put it. Was it true though?

           Lola never got far into her studies before her friends would call her out to enjoy the nighttime air. Sometimes, they would go to parties, which would last long into the night. Other times, they would stow away to the apartment rooftop. Cloudy or starry skies, rain or silence, it never mattered to them. They would sit on the apartment rooftop, drinking their sorrows away, telling jokes, and having a good time if one could call living in the projects a good time. Lola was always absentminded, dreaming of something bigger than herself. She never fit in with the people around her. Lola’s face was fake, blocking the sorrow and hurt of a little girl who desperately needed a structure. Her mother never noticed. Her friends never noticed. Her teachers never noticed. Only she noticed. Only she cared. She wanted to leave. She was going to leave. And she would leave even if it cost her to walk to the edge and-

           Lola refused to allow her mind to go there.

           The next day was the same old routine. Friends woke Lola, they went to school, they had their rap battles, her boyfriend gave her weed, and she went home to find her mother passed out again. A young girl who had potential, yet no one saw her hurting soul. No one gazed at the person inside the shell of the body who wanted to break free. The person who was tired and weary, afraid to face her real problems like she faced everything else in her life. She was a walking zombie. A shadow of her former self. Where was her father? At seventeen, she should have never had to deal with any of what she dealt with in her life. This day, Lola released a shaky breath and went to wake her mother.

           Her skin was pale.

           Her eyes were closed.

           Her mouth was open.

           There was a phone call. Nurses rushing inside. Police questioning Lola. Friends coming by to find out what had happened. Tears were shed. One officer made the cross motion over his chest. Only Lola remained still. She could not cry. Her tears had dried up. She was more stone than flesh. There would be plans for a funeral. Plans for her to live somewhere else. Plans that were made by well-meaning people. People who expressed their apologies to Lola.

           “We’re so sorry.”

           “We had no idea.”

           “Do you need anything?”

           Lola never answered. She was the most popular girl of the streets, right? She had learned how to be street smart. Self-reliant. Never needing anyone else to take care of her and show her the way. She would find herself. She would figure things out. Like every other day, she would get through this situation. She would plaster a smile, and everything would be fine. In a way, her years of heartache and searching had come to an end. She could look for that bigger thing to sustain her. Every fear was gone, never to see the light of day again.

           In reality, they had only just begun.