We spend the remainder of Econ huddled away in the library. No one seems too disturbed that I've invaded their class. I sit cross-legged on the speckled floor in the fiction section. I am numb from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toenails. When the teacher's back is turned, I discreetly slide my phone out of my pocket and exchange panicked, rapid-fire texts with Daniel:
>>Me: She says she forgot to eat.
>>Daniel: Whatever. She always makes excuses for this kind of crap.
>>Me: I'm scared. She looks like a zombie.
>>Daniel: Did u try to get ahold of her mom?
>>Me: Yeah, no answer.
>>Daniel: Let me know if u hear anything.
>>Me: Sure.
Lizzie's section of the world remains silent and untouched until late into the night. She calls me. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Shiloh," she says. Her voice is clearer, her words perfectly formed.
"Wait, what? You don't have to be sorry about anything! It wasn't your fault!"
She sighs. "Everything's my fault. Anyway... can you come over so we can finish that Spanish assignment?"
"Good God, Lizzie," I moan. Pandora jumps into my lap, but I push her away. "How about taking some time off? Haven't you been through enough today?" I really don't want to go. I'm exhausted and anxious about this oh-so-important crisis meeting my mother has yet to hear about, but I don't mention this.
"I need to get my grades up," she argues. "Please, Shiloh. I can't afford to fail any more assignments."
I glance at my mother, who's sitting in the living room, working away on her laptop. The bright blue of the screen captures her determined frown. She'll be up late tonight.
"I'll ask my mom if I can borrow the SUV," I tell Lizzie.
***
My mind races in tempo with the hum of the engine. Memories of Lizzie's empty eyes and protruding bones invade every corner of my frantic brain. I push the thoughts from my mind and focus on surviving the journey without scarring my mother's car with even the tiniest scratch. Bare bushes border the road like tangles of barbed wire. I grit my teeth when the vehicle's tires slide over elusive patches of black ice. The headlights comb through the darkness, pinning flat outlines of trees against the starless sky beyond. I keep an eye out for deer and other critters, guiding the SUV around a sharp curve that plunges farther into the stark winter wilderness.
Lizzie's development perches on the peak of a snowy hill. The vehicle climbs up to the radiant houses, winding around the incline as if ascending a spiral staircase. My overflowing Spanish binder shifts out of the passenger seat and vomits papers into the footwell. I scream a string of the vilest curse words
"MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT COCKSUCKING ASS-LICKING CUNT WHORES!
I can think of, grateful for the privacy of an SUV following dark empty roads through nighttime suburbia.
Mr. Elridge answers the door. Lizzie is curled like a cat on the couch in the large den, a raggedy pink afghan draped over her body. Her miniature poodle, Sprinkles, looks up from an accent pillow and greets me with a gentle woof. "Thanks for coming, Shiloh," Lizzie says. "Did you bring the Spanish stuff?"
I dump the textbook and overstuffed binder onto the coffee table, next to an untouched bottle of Gatorade. "Lizzie, are you drinking enough fluids?" I hate to be That Person, but sometimes friendship requires someone to be a pain in the ass.
YOU ARE READING
Freedom of Sketch
Teen Fiction-Completed- After seventeen-year-old artist Shiloh Mackenzie is accused of assaulting her classmate and setting her school on fire, her dark and graphic portfolio catches the principal's attention. Suspended pending a psychiatric evaluation, Shiloh...
