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Chapter One: Nineteen is the Goal

**Lyric POV**

**Flashback**

I remember the red and blue lights of the cop cars flashing like strobe lights, the constant wail of sirens piercing the air, and the golden-haired paramedic gently pulling a cloth over my shoulder. He carefully immobilized my leg while another paramedic held a tiny flashlight, peering into my eyes.

"She looks healthy, aside from a few scratches here and there. The fracture will heal in a month or so. She will be fine," he announced, but I paid no attention to his words; my eyes were glued to the ambulance.

I stared at the stretcher, horrified as an arm rolled off it and hit the ground. One of the paramedics quickly followed, picking it up and placing it back on the stretcher as if it were a loose gumball. I cringed at the sight of my favorite candy ring adorning her index finger. I had given her that ring.

"What is your name, sweetie? Who is the lady on the stretcher?" he asked. I gave him no response-not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't. My lips suddenly forgot how to move. Tears streamed down my face as my shoulders began to shake. The paramedic cursed under his breath and stared at me intently, his eyes filled with pity. "I think she's in shock," he murmured.

---

"Aunt Lyric, Hanna is hugging the bathroom to herself and doesn't want to come out! I have to pee!" Lana, the youngest of the triplets, exclaimed, dancing in place as if trying to hold it in. Her blonde ponytail bounced with each movement. They were all identical: same hair, same eye color, even the same voice, but I could spot their differences with just a glance.

It was just another chaotic morning at the Spencer house. I had a crying eight-month-old, Derrick, on my hip-he was the youngest of the family-while a six-year-old begged to use the bathroom, and the second triplet, Catherine, played with her train set in her underwear in the living room. Meanwhile, our aspiring pop queen was rocking out to Madison Beer in the bathroom.

Great. Just great.

I turned off the stove, leaving the eggs barely cooked, and rushed to the bathroom to coax Hanna out. The one silver lining of having triplets was not having to deal with triplets and an infant. Derrick's cries grew louder with each step I took, and I didn't blame him. The poor kid was hungry. His mother had weaned him at six months, which left me to deal with it.

My aunt, Stephanie, loved giving birth but despised everything that followed. I often thought the idea of being paid during her maternity leave excited her more than the children themselves.

I pounded on the bathroom door-three hard knocks-hoping Hanna could hear me above the blaring music. I pictured her inside, probably slathering my lip gloss over her lips while lip-syncing to the catchy tune.

I despised introducing her to music at such a young age.

I hit the door again, wishing I could suddenly yell at this six-year-old to end my suffering by opening the door. It was fifteen minutes past five in the morning; I needed to prepare the triplets for school and Derrick for daycare so I could catch the bus early and arrive at school on time. Today was my first day of sophomore year. I was excited, despite last year being a disaster.

I hit the door again.

Unfortunately, there was still no response.

Lana tugged at my sweatpants, stained with vomit, pee, and remnants of a food fight, as she continued to dance around the room. There was only one bathroom in this three-room apartment, and it was horrifying.

What happened in that bathroom sometimes scared me. I worried the kids might get infections due to their father's constant infidelities. That was why I washed the bathroom twice a day.

She pulled on my pants again. "Aunt Lyric, please tell her to open the door! I want to pee!" she emphasized, her face scrunched in desperation.

I reached out to ruffle her hair when Catherine, the bane of my existence and the rudest of the triplets, piped up, "Don't waste your time on Aunt Lyric. Don't you know she's mute? Dad says she's defective and probably doesn't understand what we're saying." She pointed at her head and performed the weirdest sign language I had ever seen-just a figure eight and some random symbol. It was ridiculous.

As much as I wanted to remember that she was just a six-year-old fed nonsense by her alcoholic father, I couldn't help the pang in my stomach or the sting of tears behind my eyes.

Being called mute was my sore spot.