There’s a loud bang as the weapon hits the floor, then another and another. Bang. Bang.
I jerk awake, heart pounding, muscles twitching. My curtains are drawn, a sliver of early September sunlight leaking through the narrow crack where they meet. Someone’s outside, banging on the door. Jackson. The second his name surfaces, I realize how unlikely the possibility is. He might be part of my nightmares—the one I lived yesterday and the ones I relived throughout the night—but he isn’t part of my world.
With a groan, I roll to my side, get a look at the clock, and lurch to a sitting position. I missed my run. I missed the bell. Hell, I missed half my classes. Then I remember it’s Saturday. No run, no bell, no classes, no school. That’s both a relief—because I don’t really want to face stares, whispers, or a bunch of questions about what went down yesterday—and a disappointment—because school means Luka, and Luka’s my one hope for answers.
The person outside applies fist to door once more. Give them the prize for persistence.
I roll out of bed and head for the window, pull it open, and stick my head out. “Hey!”
Carly steps out from under the overhang that covers the front porch. I’m not surprised to see her; anyone else would probably have used the bell. But Carly started knocking at my door when she was so little that she couldn’t reach the bell, and she kept knocking even as she grew.
“Hey, yourself.” Her hair has a new bright pink streak on the right side. She’s carrying a cardboard tray with two coffees, and she holds it to the side as she squints up at me. “I have told at least twenty people my eyewitness account of your heroics. Mostly because you aren’t answering your phone, so you can’t tell them yourself.” She tips her head to the side. “For someone who slept in, you look like crap.”
“Thanks. I feel like crap.” I might have slept in, but I don’t feel rested. No surprise. Despite being exhausted, I had trouble falling asleep last night, and once I did, I had trouble staying asleep. Too many dreams, none of them sweet.
“I’ve been calling and calling,” Carly says. “Why didn’t you answer? Never mind. Come down and let me in.”
“Coming. By the way, nice hair,” I mumble. Carly disappears back under the porch roof. I’m about to draw back from the window when the fine hairs at my nape prickle and rise. I freeze, scanning the empty street, feeling like someone’s out there, watching me. But no one is. The only person in sight is the neighbor three doors down. She has her back to me and she’s hunched over her garden, digging. I pull the window shut as I duck back inside.
I snatch my phone. Someone turned it off. There’s a note on my nightstand that suggests that someone was Dad. I feel a moment’s panic because he made that decision for me rather than letting me choose to sleep in. A couple of deep breaths, and the panic eases. Silly. I know it’s silly to try and control every little thing, but silly or not, it’s been my instinct ever since . . . Mom.
I pick up Dad’s note.
GONE FISHING. THE SALMON’LL BE BITING. THOUGHT YOU COULD USE SOME EXTRA REST. CALL ME IF YOU NEED ME.
DAD
He’ll text anyone and everyone else, but he leaves me handwritten notes with smiley faces at the bottom. I ought to find it annoying. Sometimes I do. But after yesterday, I appreciate the fact that even though my world’s upside down, some things don’t change. And I’m glad he’s gone fishing. He asked me if I really was okay with it so many times last night, I felt like he’d set the question on Replay. I guess he finally believed me when I told him I was fine. In the past few months, he’s been ignoring even his favorite hobbies like fly tying and fishing and bowling. Maybe this is a sign of change for the better. A girl can hope.
I turn my phone back on to find about a billion texts from people I know and people I barely know, all wanting to find out about how I saved Janice’s sister. I turn my phone off again and drag on a pair of plaid flannels and a ratty sweatshirt, then head down to let Carly in.
She kicks off her shoes, follows me to the kitchen, and sets the coffees on the counter, right beside the neat line of empty beer bottles. They’re perfectly aligned, labels pointing forward. She stares at them, saying nothing. I stare at them, trying to remember if they were there when I went up to bed last night. They weren’t. Which means Dad polished them off, all seven of them, after I went up.
He quit smoking as soon as Mom got her diagnosis. He started drinking the day we buried her. Or maybe he drank before that, and I just never noticed. Funny how so much about the way I saw my parents shriveled away right along with my mom.
Carly opens the fridge and peers inside, then runs her index finger along the tops of the bottles on the door. “Seventeen,” she says after a quick count. The number makes the tension in my shoulders ease. All bottles present and accounted for; Dad didn’t take any beer with him. I touch the rim of each empty bottle on the counter in turn. Dry. So it’s unlikely he drank them this morning. Dad pretends he doesn’t have a problem because he steers clear of hard liquor. And he swears that he’ll never drink and drive. I want to believe him, and it looks as if today I can.
Leaning one hip against the counter, Carly watches me as I put the empties in the cardboard box under the sink then wipe the counter even though it isn’t dirty. She’s waiting to see if I want to talk about it. I don’t.
But I do wish I could talk about what happened yesterday; I want to, so badly that the words feel like they’re clogging my throat. I usually tell Carly pretty much everything, and what I don’t tell her, she figures out for herself. Keeping something this big from her feels wrong, but Luka’s warning haunts me, and I don’t dare say a thing. Besides, how could she possibly believe me even if I did tell her? I can barely believe it, and I lived it.
I jerk awake, heart pounding, muscles twitching. My curtains are drawn, a sliver of early September sunlight leaking through the narrow crack where they meet. Someone’s outside, banging on the door. Jackson. The second his name surfaces, I realize how unlikely the possibility is. He might be part of my nightmares—the one I lived yesterday and the ones I relived throughout the night—but he isn’t part of my world.
With a groan, I roll to my side, get a look at the clock, and lurch to a sitting position. I missed my run. I missed the bell. Hell, I missed half my classes. Then I remember it’s Saturday. No run, no bell, no classes, no school. That’s both a relief—because I don’t really want to face stares, whispers, or a bunch of questions about what went down yesterday—and a disappointment—because school means Luka, and Luka’s my one hope for answers.
The person outside applies fist to door once more. Give them the prize for persistence.
I roll out of bed and head for the window, pull it open, and stick my head out. “Hey!”
Carly steps out from under the overhang that covers the front porch. I’m not surprised to see her; anyone else would probably have used the bell. But Carly started knocking at my door when she was so little that she couldn’t reach the bell, and she kept knocking even as she grew.
“Hey, yourself.” Her hair has a new bright pink streak on the right side. She’s carrying a cardboard tray with two coffees, and she holds it to the side as she squints up at me. “I have told at least twenty people my eyewitness account of your heroics. Mostly because you aren’t answering your phone, so you can’t tell them yourself.” She tips her head to the side. “For someone who slept in, you look like crap.”
“Thanks. I feel like crap.” I might have slept in, but I don’t feel rested. No surprise. Despite being exhausted, I had trouble falling asleep last night, and once I did, I had trouble staying asleep. Too many dreams, none of them sweet.
“I’ve been calling and calling,” Carly says. “Why didn’t you answer? Never mind. Come down and let me in.”
“Coming. By the way, nice hair,” I mumble. Carly disappears back under the porch roof. I’m about to draw back from the window when the fine hairs at my nape prickle and rise. I freeze, scanning the empty street, feeling like someone’s out there, watching me. But no one is. The only person in sight is the neighbor three doors down. She has her back to me and she’s hunched over her garden, digging. I pull the window shut as I duck back inside.
I snatch my phone. Someone turned it off. There’s a note on my nightstand that suggests that someone was Dad. I feel a moment’s panic because he made that decision for me rather than letting me choose to sleep in. A couple of deep breaths, and the panic eases. Silly. I know it’s silly to try and control every little thing, but silly or not, it’s been my instinct ever since . . . Mom.
I pick up Dad’s note.
GONE FISHING. THE SALMON’LL BE BITING. THOUGHT YOU COULD USE SOME EXTRA REST. CALL ME IF YOU NEED ME.
DAD
He’ll text anyone and everyone else, but he leaves me handwritten notes with smiley faces at the bottom. I ought to find it annoying. Sometimes I do. But after yesterday, I appreciate the fact that even though my world’s upside down, some things don’t change. And I’m glad he’s gone fishing. He asked me if I really was okay with it so many times last night, I felt like he’d set the question on Replay. I guess he finally believed me when I told him I was fine. In the past few months, he’s been ignoring even his favorite hobbies like fly tying and fishing and bowling. Maybe this is a sign of change for the better. A girl can hope.
I turn my phone back on to find about a billion texts from people I know and people I barely know, all wanting to find out about how I saved Janice’s sister. I turn my phone off again and drag on a pair of plaid flannels and a ratty sweatshirt, then head down to let Carly in.
She kicks off her shoes, follows me to the kitchen, and sets the coffees on the counter, right beside the neat line of empty beer bottles. They’re perfectly aligned, labels pointing forward. She stares at them, saying nothing. I stare at them, trying to remember if they were there when I went up to bed last night. They weren’t. Which means Dad polished them off, all seven of them, after I went up.
He quit smoking as soon as Mom got her diagnosis. He started drinking the day we buried her. Or maybe he drank before that, and I just never noticed. Funny how so much about the way I saw my parents shriveled away right along with my mom.
Carly opens the fridge and peers inside, then runs her index finger along the tops of the bottles on the door. “Seventeen,” she says after a quick count. The number makes the tension in my shoulders ease. All bottles present and accounted for; Dad didn’t take any beer with him. I touch the rim of each empty bottle on the counter in turn. Dry. So it’s unlikely he drank them this morning. Dad pretends he doesn’t have a problem because he steers clear of hard liquor. And he swears that he’ll never drink and drive. I want to believe him, and it looks as if today I can.
Leaning one hip against the counter, Carly watches me as I put the empties in the cardboard box under the sink then wipe the counter even though it isn’t dirty. She’s waiting to see if I want to talk about it. I don’t.
But I do wish I could talk about what happened yesterday; I want to, so badly that the words feel like they’re clogging my throat. I usually tell Carly pretty much everything, and what I don’t tell her, she figures out for herself. Keeping something this big from her feels wrong, but Luka’s warning haunts me, and I don’t dare say a thing. Besides, how could she possibly believe me even if I did tell her? I can barely believe it, and I lived it.
