One Small Thing(21)

I drop my stuff onto the bench, not caring that one of my notebooks falls into Rachel’s space. She’s not here after all. If she was, she’d yell at me.

Stop being so sloppy! she’d say. This is my stall and that one is yours. And then she’d shove my stuff on the floor.

Once, when we were driving to Grandma’s house, she didn’t want to share the seat with me and forced me to sit on the floor. God, Rachel could be mean sometimes. Doesn’t anyone remember that? If you ask my parents, Rachel spoke the language of unicorns and pooped out rainbows. She was a perfect, wonderful angel.

That isn’t true, though. Rachel was amazing sometimes and bratty at other times. She had her flaws, just like everyone else.

I wander through the house, stopping at the piano. The washi tape that Rachel plastered on the expensive piano is peeling at the corners. I pull one strip off and then stare guiltily at the naked black key. Mom will notice if it’s not there. One time the cleaners moved a small tray from the bedside table in Rachel’s room and left it on her desk. Mom yelled at them on the phone for over an hour. They don’t clean Rachel’s room anymore. Only Mom does.

I replace the tape.

I wonder how my parents know that I’m even home. Mom usually doesn’t get off work until five—she’s an accountant for a real estate agency. Dad could come home at any time if Kirk, his part-time worker, is on the schedule. But it’s Wednesday. Kirk doesn’t work Wednesdays, which means Dad will be at the store until closing.

It’s four o’clock. Mom won’t be back until sixish. Dad, even later. That gives me about two hours to try to track down Chase. His mom’s married to the mayor, so it’ll be easy to find out where they live. If I had my phone, I’d just call him, but—

An idea pops into my head. I make a beeline for Dad’s office and stare at his desk.

My phone is in this desk. It’s the only one in the house that has drawers that lock. If I was going to confiscate a phone, this is where I’d stash it.

I sit in Dad’s chair and jiggle the drawer handle. Locked, of course. I sigh and wake his computer.

The fourth YouTube video gives me fairly explicit instructions on how to pop the drawer open.

Amazing what you can do with office supplies. I stare with satisfaction at the open drawer. Plucking my phone out, I cradle it in my hands like a precious baby.

Chase’s number is there in my notes app. My heart pounds as I open up a new message box and shoot off a quick text.

Meet me at midnight. My house. There’s a swing in the backyard—I’ll wait there for you.

I send him the address and then drum my fingers against the desk as I wait. And wait. And wait. Thirty minutes pass. He hasn’t even read the damn thing.

Antsy, I clean out the browser history on Dad’s computer and slam the drawer shut. The phone, I take with me. I’ll put it back before Mom and Dad get home, but there’s no rush right now.

I go into the hall bathroom, the one room upstairs that I can sit in that does have a door. I put the toilet seat down and wait for Chase to respond. After a few more intolerable minutes, I text him again.

I’m calling you in five minutes if you don’t respond.

The response bubble immediately appears.

At work. Sorry, no meeting.

Oh no. He’s not blowing me off.

I stare at the screen in frustration. I have to talk to him. I don’t care that he doesn’t want to—I need this. What we did at the party... He’s the only other person who knows about it, the only person I can talk to about it. I don’t care what I have to do to get him to talk to me. I’ll do anything.

So even though it makes me sick to my stomach, I force myself to type two words.

I’m late.

???

My period. I should’ve gotten it yesterday.

There’s a prolonged moment of silence.

C u at midnite.

I feel a bit guilty about lying to him, but not as guilty as I feel about losing my virginity to Charles Donnelly.

I delete our text exchange, run down to Dad’s office, and stick the phone back in its hiding place. I can’t figure out how to relock the drawer, so I leave it, hoping my dad thinks that he left it open.

Mom comes home at five-thirty, bringing with her burritos for dinner. Dad arrives shortly after, like they planned it. We sit down to eat. Mom asks questions. I refuse to answer. Dad makes unhappy grunting sounds. As soon as dinner is over, I escape outside to the swing until night falls and Mom calls for me to come inside.

I get undressed in the bathroom because my bedroom has zero privacy. Once I’m in bed, I pull on leggings under the covers, along with a Darling sweatshirt. Then I curl over on my side with a copy of The Great Gatsby, which we’re reading for AP Lit.

The hours drag on. Time moves more slowly than a snail crossing a river rock. Gatsby keeps staring at the end of the dock at the green light, waiting for his green light. I’d like my own go sign. I keep reading until, finally, it’s five to midnight.

I slide out of bed and creep down the hall toward the stairs. The lights are all off. Dad’s snoring can be heard from the kitchen. The lock on the back door makes an overly loud sound as I flip it to the open position. I freeze for a moment. Hearing nothing, I pull open the door and sprint outside.

When I reach the swing, my heart’s pounding a thousand miles a minute, but there’s no one there. The swing hangs empty. The night’s so still. I don’t even hear crickets or cicadas. I twirl in a circle and see nothing.