Lighthouse Lullaby | ✓

Part 14 | Monday, 28th September

I'm trying to balance four books in one hand and rub my tired eyes with the other. I head towards the biology class as fast as my aching legs will carry me. I had spent so much time thinking about what could've happened on Saturday that my morning routine took twice as long. As a result, I'm late to class.

People keep staring at me and murmuring to themselves as I pass them in the hallway.

(What's wrong? Is my shirt inside-out again?)

I stop short when I notice the back of Evy Thomas' curly-haired head, a few paces ahead of me. I find myself staring at her until she disappears into the biology classroom. It's only after I've taken my seat that I realize why I went all Psycho Stares-A-Lot on Evy.

She wasn't at Greasy's party. Granted, I can't recall most of Saturday. But I get the distinct impression that she wasn't there. Which is odd because Evy Thomas isn't one to miss those parties.

I'm tempted to ask her about it. If I do, I would have the answer to at least one question about Saturday night.

Speaking of Saturday . . . I turn in my seat to look at Dylan Frost, sitting three rows behind me. He's looking straight ahead at the chalkboard. When he notices me staring, he shrinks into himself and hides his face behind his hands in what he probably thinks is a casual gesture. (It's not.)

As I turn to face the front, I catch Jessica Manning (one of Greasy Bitch's minions) staring at me. She narrows her eyes and mouths something that's either "Gracie's going to kill you" or "Space eats hill glue".

Having missed the Monday morning raid, I can only assume that Greasy is going to get me — for God knows what — during lunch.

This day just couldn't get any worse.

"Surprise test," Mrs. Gates calls from her table, studying the classroom from under her glasses.

Well, shit.

As the question papers are handed out, I keep chanting to myself, "Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell."

I scan the yellow sheet of paper in my hands. Forty multiple choice questions about the human body. DNA, enzymes, organs and systems. And not one question about the mitochondria.

I have three options:

A. Crumple and throw test paper, scream and run out of class

B. Fill in answers as 'BCAD' and 'ADBC' alternatively

C. Pray to host of gods to magically remember everything from previous week's biology homework

I want to do 'A', but I lack the courage to perform such acts of daredevilry. So, I choose 'C' until I have only five minutes to complete the test. In panic mode, I end up doing option 'B' but fail to complete the test.

The bell rings just as everyone turns in their answer sheets. Dylan Frost shoots out of the room before I can gather my books off my desk. What's up with him?

I make a split-second decision to catch Evy Thomas before she leaves.

"Hey," I say, grabbing her arm.

"Hey, Amber," she mutters, sounding exhausted and glum.

She looks worse than she did last week. Disheveled hair, bags under bloodshot eyes, a loose black outfit that screams 'I-feel-like-death'.

"Um, are you okay? I didn't see you at the party on Saturday . . ."

"I didn't go. But I heard you had a blast," she says, smiling weakly.

"Oh, yeah," I scoff, trying to hide my cluelessness. "It's no big deal."

I know I've said the wrong thing when Evy tips her head to one side and raises her eyebrows. (God, what the hell did I do?)

There's a beat of uncomfortable silence before I ask, "Um, so, you weren't at the party?"

An expert at making things less awkward, I am not.

"No, I wasn't," Evy says deliberately, her eyes piercing mine.

She's waiting for me to ask why. She's giving me a chance to show her that I care, that I'm her friend. But the part of me that wants to say the words isn't bigger than the part of me that's scared. I shift around on my feet undecidedly, averting my gaze to the floor.

My silence decides for me.

"Right," Evy nods, wounded. "Well, good luck with Gracie. You're going to need it."

And with that, she's gone.

***

Evy Thomas was right. I needed all the luck I could get to handle what was coming my way at lunch.

Long story short, Greasy and her entourage called me a lot of names, said a bunch of nasty things, made threats, etc. As the fashionable fiends hurled insults at me, I gathered that I had drunkenly called Gracie Fitch by her secret nickname. I think I called her a loser, too.

It's such a shame that I don't remember any of this because it sounds like it was the highlight of my entire existence.

I'm trying my hardest to recall the events of that night as I stare at the sea. But I can't focus on anything other than the fact that Dylan Frost isn't here.

(Honestly, I don't care that he isn't here. This is my lighthouse. I'm better off alone.)

And yet, I keep turning around in the hopes that he'll emerge from the rusted staircase.

(I don't need his music. I have my own.)

Grabbing my phone, I play the first song I find. Without earphones, the sound is too weak. The music floats away with the breeze and dissolves into the churning ocean.

Every time I look around me, I see myself kissing Dylan. My heart thumps unevenly when I stare at the floor. Clenching my fists, I lean my face against the metal railing. I close my eyes, but that only makes the images more vivid.

Wait, what is that sound? Footsteps?

I whip around, eyes wide and breaths shallow. No sign of Dylan Frost.

(I don't need his music. I don't. I don't.)

My fingers fumble over the buttons on my phone as I rush to increase the volume.

But the silence is deafening.