PMS is up there with ghosts in turning you into someone you don't want to be. I'm stretched out on the living room couch, down and dirty in shorts and a sleep shirt. If I were home on the weekend during the school year, the scene might go:

Eomma: "Suzy, for goodness sake get dressed."

Me: "I'm studying for a stupid test. Why do I have to get dressed?" I'd slam the door of my room and go back to studying, Social Media, and ice cream.

Only not here.

Irene's had her fill. She plants herself in front me, hands on her hips. "Idea for you."

I look up warily.

"Why don't you spend a few hours a day volunteering at the hospital?"

Or not.

I'm not great with kids, and a job without pay? Why can't I get veg. Only I don't talk to Irene the way I sometimes talk to Eomma - or sometimes, don't talk to her at all.

I don't want to be thrown out, so I don't talk back, but I let out a breath, so she gets it. "What could I do there?" I ask, finally.

"Lots of things," she says brightly, getting on my nerves. "They need people to read to the kids, bring books to the patients, run errands. I'm sure they'd love to have you."

"Probably have to the required age. I'm probably too old or young."

"They use volunteers all sort of ages."

° ° ° ° °

It's not something I can explain to Irene, but the truth is, bed at the top of the list of places I want to be right now. And if I do go out, I want to sit by myself at the water after everyone is gone - especially him. I refuse to come off like a pathetic individual.

Irene is usually cool about things, only she isn't now. She's drawn a line in the sand and she stares at me, waiting.

"I guess I could go."

"I'm driving by this afternoon, I'll drop you." It's all settled in her head, but she must read the look on my face because she comes back and sit on the edge of the couch.

"Suzy, helping other people has a way of making you feel better. Believe it or not, it lets you forget about yourself and your own problems and see things in perspective. You're not the first girl whose parents are breaking up and you won't be the last. Life goes on, and you have to live your life. Nothing is good or bad, it's how you left yourself see it and react to it. Really, it's in your hands."

Did I have a choice?

She starts to walk out and then glances back at me.

"I'm going."

How I see things and react to them is in my hands? How could I feel good about my life when I didn't have one? No summer plans, no parents, no friends around and no real place to live anymore. What did that leave me? A dog friend and a fantasy? I go upstairs, stub my toe on the foot of the bed, and start to cry. I stand in the shower so she can't hear me.