I have never actually been drunk, but the times I’ve tried alcohol it’s been completely gross. “Was there any food? Or just booze?”
“Yeah, but all the food was orange. Like there were cheese puffs and also cheese crackers and I seriously don’t know what Colin—that was Bryony’s boyfriend at the time—was thinking when he did the shopping.”
“The refreshments may be wholesome,” I point out, “but you spent today in a car chase.”
“Yeah. Let’s see if there’s anything about the crash on the news sites, since no one on CatNet knows anything.”
We find a single news article on a Marshfield news site; it says that an unidentified man crashed his car into a tree and was taken to the hospital. Down in the comments, there’s a rant in all caps from somebody who apparently saw the accident. They give a somewhat incoherent description of what happened, but they don’t mention me—just that the guy was on the street, that he fired a gun at the car as it drove at him, and that the car hit him, he wasn’t ever in the car.
My father isn’t dead. I’m not sure how I feel about that. The article said “serious condition,” but not what that means—like, is he definitely not dying or possibly still dying? Is he going to be laid up for months, or is he going to be out and after me again in forty-eight hours? At least he’s in the hospital in Marshfield and not the one in New Coburg.
The only name in the article is the guy the car is registered to. It’s clear they know he’s not the guy in the hospital, but there are two additional comments from people saying, “BRIAN ISN’T IN THE HOSPITAL, HE’S FINE,” just in case anyone’s confused.
No mention of me, Rachel, or Rachel’s car. So there’s that.
We get back on CatNet with the update. Everyone is relieved to hear that my father is in the hospital while also agreeing that jail would be better. “You can check out of a hospital,” Hermione points out.
“You can bail out of jail,” Orlando/Bryony says.
Still no CheshireCat.
It’s getting colder and darker. I send my mother a text, in case she’s getting them, letting her know I’m okay and that I’m hiding out with a friend. Then Rachel and I make ourselves as comfortable as possible.
Bryony called me Rachel’s girlfriend. Does Rachel want me as her girlfriend? I’m not sure what I think about that idea. I’ve never had very many crushes on boys or girls, but partly I think that’s because my mom makes me move so often that the heartbreak never seemed worth it. Also, I really like having Rachel as a friend, and I don’t want to screw that up.
As I’m pondering this, she puts her arm over me and snuggles up against me. I feel a surge of bewildered nervousness—I haven’t decided if I want a girlfriend or not, and now I have to decide, right this instant?—and then I feel the warmth of her against my side and realize that she’s doing this for warmth in this cold, cold house, and that’s great, actually.
I drift off to sleep, listening to the wind in the trees.
I start awake while it’s still dark. Rachel’s face is pressed against my shoulder and her arm is over me, and I’m pretty sure she’s still asleep. One of my legs has gone to sleep, and I’m pretty sure it’s because of the hard floor and my precise angle. I’m too physically uncomfortable to sleep any more, but if I rearrange myself I’ll probably wake Rachel, so I decide to just suck it up for a while.
The sensation of sleeping next to a friend is bringing back a raft of memories of Julie. My mother let me sleep over at Julie’s once, because it was right upstairs, and I remember both of us being tucked into bed on a fold-out couch in the living room. It was a saggy old couch that smelled like the dog they no longer had, and the pillows were encased in slippery plastic under the pillowcases for some reason, and the sun came in through the living room windows at 6:30 a.m. and woke us both up. Julie didn’t wake her mother, just made us both toaster waffles, which we ate with syrup while watching online videos of bats, sitting cross-legged on the disarranged sofa bed.
The memory comes back with such clarity that I immediately try remembering where we went for my eighth birthday, and it’s like stepping from a sunny room into a basement. I’m pretty sure I remember cake. Maybe a cupcake? What was on the cupcake?
Ugh.
Rachel really isn’t that much like Julie. Julie adored bats and had no particular artistic ability, although I remember drawing together at her kitchen table, a box of battered crayons spilled out between us. The thing that’s common between the two of them was that they both felt like I was a person worth knowing.
Worth protecting.
I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about what’s going on beyond the house, but now I’m thinking about my father again. What if he’s out of the hospital? It looked like the car hit him really hard, but he went sprawling over the hood so maybe he just walked away with a few bruises, nothing that would keep him laid up in the hospital for longer?
He should have a criminal record, but he doesn’t. If I tell the police about him threatening me with a gun, who’d even believe me? He would have had the gun when he was picked up, but do I remember any details that would prove that he pointed it at me? It was black or maybe dark gray, and it looked enormous—that’s literally all I remember.
Rachel stirs, even though I haven’t jostled her, and I roll away
