say. “I’ll crack a window.”
Doesn’t she know I can easily slide down the lattice by our back
porch if I wanted out?
All craziness aside, that dead boy might be
Logan. I mean, what if he ran into the wrong crowd last night after
he saw me and they did this to him? My stomach rolls over. This is
not good. I can’t leave the house, I can’t go searching for him,
and I don’t know what the name of the dead guy is.
Worst. Summer. Ever.
I open the window wide enough to stick my
head out. I can’t breathe anymore, it seems like. Sandwiched
between parents who hate each other and the fact that Logan might
be dead, my throat feels like it is closing. Like, it physically
wants to suffocate itself. How does that work?
I glimpse at the lake. Bright reflections of
the sun glisten on the water, tourists steadily float downstream in
fishing boats, and our neighbors two doors down eat breakfast at a
small table on the lake’s edge. It’s way too early for me to be up
during summer vacation, but this hasn’t exactly been a normal
trip.
“Hey, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” the
all-too-familiar voice calls from below. I just glare at him, at Logan . “Okay, fine,” he says. “I’ll come up.”
I’m too stunned to say anything. He’s alive?
He’s . . . alive. He’s here, climbing up the lattice like he’s
Prince Charming, rescuing a damsel in distress. Am I a damsel
in distress? It’s quite possible these days since my stress level
is way out there. He throws his backpack on the patio’s miniature
roof as he finishes the climb to me. I step back to let him in.
Slightly out of breath, he says, “What?
You’re not happy to see me?” He grins, but that fades when he sees
my face. “What’s wrong?”
“It wasn’t you,” I say, and then slam into
him, full force. This might be totally inappropriate, but who
cares? I’m just happy he’s here.
His arms falter before finally circling
around my waist, his chin resting atop my head. “No,” he says, “it
wasn’t me. But I knew the guy.”
I pull back to look up at him. “I’m sorry to
hear that. Were you close?”
He shrugs. “You could say that.”
Rushing over to my bedroom door, I lock it.
There’s a sudden thrill coursing through my body, reminding me this
is completely outlawed. If my mom catches Logan up here, he’ll be
dead.
“Hey, keep quiet,” I say as Logan collapses
onto my bed. “If my mom hears any added noise up here, she’ll be
suspicious.”
Logan wiggles his fingers in the air and
says, “Ooooh. I’m so scared.”
Hands on hips, I retort, “What’s with you
this morning?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, resting on his
elbows.
“You’re too . . . happy.” I frown; that
doesn’t seem right. He just lost his friend in a murder and he’s up
early and he climbed up to my window to see me. This guy has
yet to be glad to see me. Even during our brief meetings he finds
ways to avoid looking at me, or he cuts the meeting short. I narrow
my eyes. “What’s really with you? I mean, did you shoot up,
or whatever it’s called, this morning?”
He pushes off his elbows and sits at the
edge of my bed. “You think I can’t just be happy for once?”
“No, I’m not say—”
“That because I’m a depressed, homeless,
drug-addicted guy, there’s no possible way for me to ever have
feelings again? That I’m forever stuck in this shitty limbo of
needles, permanent roaming, and scavenging for food? Is that what
you think?”
I shake my head and hiss, “Keep it
down.”
He bolts off my bed and crosses the room. I
let out a tiny squeal as he pushes me against the wall and covers
my mouth with his hand. “Quiet,” he whispers, pressing his body
against mine. There’s nothing separating the two of us but clothes,
and I feel the heat radiating from his skin. “I have news for you,
Chloe: I won’t always be a horrible guy. One day I’ll go back to
being me, but until then, I am stuck in my own personal
Doesn’t she know I can easily slide down the lattice by our back
porch if I wanted out?
All craziness aside, that dead boy might be
Logan. I mean, what if he ran into the wrong crowd last night after
he saw me and they did this to him? My stomach rolls over. This is
not good. I can’t leave the house, I can’t go searching for him,
and I don’t know what the name of the dead guy is.
Worst. Summer. Ever.
I open the window wide enough to stick my
head out. I can’t breathe anymore, it seems like. Sandwiched
between parents who hate each other and the fact that Logan might
be dead, my throat feels like it is closing. Like, it physically
wants to suffocate itself. How does that work?
I glimpse at the lake. Bright reflections of
the sun glisten on the water, tourists steadily float downstream in
fishing boats, and our neighbors two doors down eat breakfast at a
small table on the lake’s edge. It’s way too early for me to be up
during summer vacation, but this hasn’t exactly been a normal
trip.
“Hey, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” the
all-too-familiar voice calls from below. I just glare at him, at Logan . “Okay, fine,” he says. “I’ll come up.”
I’m too stunned to say anything. He’s alive?
He’s . . . alive. He’s here, climbing up the lattice like he’s
Prince Charming, rescuing a damsel in distress. Am I a damsel
in distress? It’s quite possible these days since my stress level
is way out there. He throws his backpack on the patio’s miniature
roof as he finishes the climb to me. I step back to let him in.
Slightly out of breath, he says, “What?
You’re not happy to see me?” He grins, but that fades when he sees
my face. “What’s wrong?”
“It wasn’t you,” I say, and then slam into
him, full force. This might be totally inappropriate, but who
cares? I’m just happy he’s here.
His arms falter before finally circling
around my waist, his chin resting atop my head. “No,” he says, “it
wasn’t me. But I knew the guy.”
I pull back to look up at him. “I’m sorry to
hear that. Were you close?”
He shrugs. “You could say that.”
Rushing over to my bedroom door, I lock it.
There’s a sudden thrill coursing through my body, reminding me this
is completely outlawed. If my mom catches Logan up here, he’ll be
dead.
“Hey, keep quiet,” I say as Logan collapses
onto my bed. “If my mom hears any added noise up here, she’ll be
suspicious.”
Logan wiggles his fingers in the air and
says, “Ooooh. I’m so scared.”
Hands on hips, I retort, “What’s with you
this morning?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, resting on his
elbows.
“You’re too . . . happy.” I frown; that
doesn’t seem right. He just lost his friend in a murder and he’s up
early and he climbed up to my window to see me. This guy has
yet to be glad to see me. Even during our brief meetings he finds
ways to avoid looking at me, or he cuts the meeting short. I narrow
my eyes. “What’s really with you? I mean, did you shoot up,
or whatever it’s called, this morning?”
He pushes off his elbows and sits at the
edge of my bed. “You think I can’t just be happy for once?”
“No, I’m not say—”
“That because I’m a depressed, homeless,
drug-addicted guy, there’s no possible way for me to ever have
feelings again? That I’m forever stuck in this shitty limbo of
needles, permanent roaming, and scavenging for food? Is that what
you think?”
I shake my head and hiss, “Keep it
down.”
He bolts off my bed and crosses the room. I
let out a tiny squeal as he pushes me against the wall and covers
my mouth with his hand. “Quiet,” he whispers, pressing his body
against mine. There’s nothing separating the two of us but clothes,
and I feel the heat radiating from his skin. “I have news for you,
Chloe: I won’t always be a horrible guy. One day I’ll go back to
being me, but until then, I am stuck in my own personal
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