inside me that I can’t let out. And it will never be okay again.
I pull away from him. “Maybe I should go back to bed.” I don’t wait for him to reply. I go into my bedroom, close the window, and climb into bed, burying my face in my blanket so I don’t have to smell the paint.
Outside Dad is dragging the patio furniture to the far side of the lawn, away from my bedroom window. I feel guilty. For being mad at him about my phone. For getting sick over something stupid like paint fumes. For getting a weird message and making him worry.
For ignoring Rachel’s calls and not answering her text.
Maybe it’s better if Dad sees it. Maybe when he sees it he’ll realize what a horrible person I am. He’ll know that everything he taught me about doing the right thing meant nothing. He’ll know that I’m the kind of girl who’s more interested in a boy than in helping my best friend. He’ll know that it’s my fault that Rachel is dead.
I lie in bed, waiting for him to find the text, but he doesn’t come. Eventually I fall into a semiconsciousness that might be considered a dream. I’m half-aware of what’s going on around me. Dad starts the lawnmower, and the smell of cut grass cancels out the leftover paint smell. My mind fills with shadows and memories.
Rachel and I are in fourth grade again. We’re building our own world out of sticks and leaves in the old brick fireplace at the end of the playground. She finds a broken glass bottle buried in the leaves. She holds up the biggest piece, and her voice gets serious. “We have to swear a blood oath. We have to mix our blood together and swear that we’ll befriends forever, that we’ll always stay together and protect each other.”
I was afraid then too. I didn’t want to cut my finger. I didn’t want to bleed. But I loved Rachel, and I would do anything for her.
It was a little cut, a few drops of blood, but I thought I was going to pass out. We pressed our fingers together and let our blood run into each other. When our blood was sufficiently mingled we left our fingerprints on the contract, signed in blood.
Then we got caught by the playground duty. I remember that Rachel got in more trouble than I did.
The memory slips away as the door to my room opens; it’s Dad. “I hate to leave you, but I’m out of gas for the lawnmower. Will you be okay alone?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I sit up. “I’m feeling better.”
“I won’t be too long.”
I lie in bed, listening. As soon as I hear Dad’s truck pull out of the driveway, I get up. I have to find my phone and erase Rachel’s text before Dad sees it.
I scan the kitchen, but it isn’t on the table or on top of the fridge. I go into Dad’s office. The room is tiny but organized. On the wall behind his desk there’s a tall black filing cabinet and a bookcase that’s a mix of law books and how-to parenting and religious books. The only thing on Dad’s desk is a picture of me, a plant, and my phone. I take a deep breath, pick up my phone, and scroll back through the incoming calls, Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray , it says over and over again. How manytimes did she try to call me after I turned off my phone? I count them as I hit erase. She tried to call twenty-five times while I was riding around town with Skyler, twenty-five times, and then one text.
I go to my messages. Besides the one from E, I have one from Taylor:
SKYLER or EVAN??? I want dets!
And one from Skyler:
What r u doing 2night?
I consider deleting those texts too. I’m not ready to answer questions from Dad about Skyler yet, especially not anything to do with how we got together. But maybe it would look suspicious if too many were gone. I decide to stick with the one I came to erase. My heart aches as I scroll back to Rachel’s text, maybe her last words:
We’re in trouble. Meet me at my house NOW. Don’t tell your dad. Don’t call the police. Don’t tell anyone what you saw.
What was she doing when she sent that text? Was
I pull away from him. “Maybe I should go back to bed.” I don’t wait for him to reply. I go into my bedroom, close the window, and climb into bed, burying my face in my blanket so I don’t have to smell the paint.
Outside Dad is dragging the patio furniture to the far side of the lawn, away from my bedroom window. I feel guilty. For being mad at him about my phone. For getting sick over something stupid like paint fumes. For getting a weird message and making him worry.
For ignoring Rachel’s calls and not answering her text.
Maybe it’s better if Dad sees it. Maybe when he sees it he’ll realize what a horrible person I am. He’ll know that everything he taught me about doing the right thing meant nothing. He’ll know that I’m the kind of girl who’s more interested in a boy than in helping my best friend. He’ll know that it’s my fault that Rachel is dead.
I lie in bed, waiting for him to find the text, but he doesn’t come. Eventually I fall into a semiconsciousness that might be considered a dream. I’m half-aware of what’s going on around me. Dad starts the lawnmower, and the smell of cut grass cancels out the leftover paint smell. My mind fills with shadows and memories.
Rachel and I are in fourth grade again. We’re building our own world out of sticks and leaves in the old brick fireplace at the end of the playground. She finds a broken glass bottle buried in the leaves. She holds up the biggest piece, and her voice gets serious. “We have to swear a blood oath. We have to mix our blood together and swear that we’ll befriends forever, that we’ll always stay together and protect each other.”
I was afraid then too. I didn’t want to cut my finger. I didn’t want to bleed. But I loved Rachel, and I would do anything for her.
It was a little cut, a few drops of blood, but I thought I was going to pass out. We pressed our fingers together and let our blood run into each other. When our blood was sufficiently mingled we left our fingerprints on the contract, signed in blood.
Then we got caught by the playground duty. I remember that Rachel got in more trouble than I did.
The memory slips away as the door to my room opens; it’s Dad. “I hate to leave you, but I’m out of gas for the lawnmower. Will you be okay alone?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I sit up. “I’m feeling better.”
“I won’t be too long.”
I lie in bed, listening. As soon as I hear Dad’s truck pull out of the driveway, I get up. I have to find my phone and erase Rachel’s text before Dad sees it.
I scan the kitchen, but it isn’t on the table or on top of the fridge. I go into Dad’s office. The room is tiny but organized. On the wall behind his desk there’s a tall black filing cabinet and a bookcase that’s a mix of law books and how-to parenting and religious books. The only thing on Dad’s desk is a picture of me, a plant, and my phone. I take a deep breath, pick up my phone, and scroll back through the incoming calls, Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray , it says over and over again. How manytimes did she try to call me after I turned off my phone? I count them as I hit erase. She tried to call twenty-five times while I was riding around town with Skyler, twenty-five times, and then one text.
I go to my messages. Besides the one from E, I have one from Taylor:
SKYLER or EVAN??? I want dets!
And one from Skyler:
What r u doing 2night?
I consider deleting those texts too. I’m not ready to answer questions from Dad about Skyler yet, especially not anything to do with how we got together. But maybe it would look suspicious if too many were gone. I decide to stick with the one I came to erase. My heart aches as I scroll back to Rachel’s text, maybe her last words:
We’re in trouble. Meet me at my house NOW. Don’t tell your dad. Don’t call the police. Don’t tell anyone what you saw.
What was she doing when she sent that text? Was
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