How to Date a Nerd

Chapter 7 - We Ran Out of Apples

This is the memory, this is the curse of having too much time to think about it,

It's killing me, this is the last time. This is my forgiveness, This is endless...       Mayday Parade

Chapter 7 – We Ran Out of Apples

 

“He’ll be fine. All he needs is some rest and a few months for his arm to heal. Other than that, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” A voice reverberated inside my head but I couldn’t really make sense of it.

My whole body was numb, like I’d just been dumped into a bath full of Novocain. Barely able to lift my lids, I plunged again into a deep dreamless sleep.

“The brakes had been rigged. As well as the airbag. We’ll give you leads as soon as we can.” Another strange voice said before the sound of a door being closed roused me.

With much effort, I opened my eyes to scan the room: off-white walls, white tiled flooring, white sheets, a narrow uncomfortable bed that had fun buttons on them. Remembering that I just flew off my car and had an uncalled for accident, I realized was back in the hospital. That was funny but mostly ironic. I thought I remember someone complaining to me about my driving.

You drive like a maniac!

“Sarah!” I shot up from bed, a dull sickening throb in my left arm making me wince before groggily falling back on the pillows.

Of all the time in the world to have a car accident, why now? Someone wanted me dead. My car was rigged. On the bright side, at least, I didn’t have to fabricate really lame alibis to skip the movie shoot. Except if the director won’t mind filming a three hundred year-old blood sucker with a cemented arm in a sling.

“Leon.” It was Arthur who rushed to my side and leaned over to me. “I’ll call the doctor,” he said, a worried look taking away the usual unruffled air about him. His wavy blond hair was tousled, his chin looking bristly. Dark bags encircled his blue eyes. Dad looked horrible. Like a sci-fi horror hero who’d been chased by evil alien lizard humanoids for ten days in a planet where baths and combs are yet to be invented.

“You need to shave, Dad.” It was the first thing that came to mind.

Again, I tried to sit up, forcing myself to ignore the dull pain. My left arm was mummified. There must’ve been a surplus of plaster in Hopkinton since they decided to stuff it all around my arm.

Arthur managed a weak smile that could win the Lamest Fake Smile of the Year award. As was expected of him—trying to carry everything on his back as though everything would always turn out fine.

“I know,” he replied rubbing his stubbly chin. “How’re you?”

“Having a blast,” I said grinning while attempting to lift my casted arm like a built-in cannon. (Blast; get it? Ugh, forget I said that.) “Does it come in blue?”

“Sadly, no.” He chuckled but his face just leaked of worry. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really. How long was I out? How’s Sarah? I want to see her,” I raved on feverishly, staggering as I strained to get out of bed, my thick-rimmed glasses stuck lopsidedly on my face. I pushed it up on the bridge of my nose and heaved myself to my feet.

With a reluctant look, Arthur shook his head, took my good arm and slung it over his shoulder.

“To begin with, you’ve just been asleep for six hours. I called Moira and told her about your accident. She wanted a video of you as a proof for the producers but I already took care of that earlier while you’re asleep. I hope it’s okay.”