I smiled wide and tugged at the flat, sloping lapels of my orange fuzzy robe.
“Humans wear bathrobes.”
She flashed me a sour look and left my room. I was bopping, and I felt light, almost bouncy as I danced around my room. I could have leaped on my bed and sang into my hairbrush with that energy, but then I’d have to kick my own ass. Hey, third curse word.
I raced down the hallway, and the only thing stopping me was my violent collision with Dad’s chest.
“Hey, Dad.”
My dad wasn’t a little guy, and the sharp set of his lantern jaw would’ve normally made me curl up if I wasn’t jiving off the odd bubble of energy.
“Lucy,” Dad said. “What’s going on?”
I frowned, “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me,” he said, and I stood up straighter. “You’ve slept the whole day away. You’re acting strangely. Your friends spent all night out looking for you, and so have I. Have you called anyone? Have you thanked anyone? Do you even care?”
“What?”
“Are you hearing okay, Lucy? And let’s not forget that I know you helped Morgan sneak out, and that I know you conned Daphne into sneaking into your room and hiding out. What were you thinking, Lucy?”
“What was I thinking?” I repeated.
No hug, no kiss, no ‘everything is okay, baby?’ I drew myself up.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “Did my near-death experience inconvenience you?”
He drew up even taller, and his shoulders squared off. Here we go, dummy. Enjoy.
“Lucy,” he said. “This isn’t about what…happened. This is about—”
“What did happen, Dad?” I said. Shut up, stupid. Shut up. “Please tell me. Tell me what happened, and how I should feel.”
“Lucy!”
“No, I’d love to hear it,” I said. My traitor’s tongue was having a fine night. “What are you worried about, Dad? Don’t believe me? Think Daddy’s Little Girl was out for kicks? Yeah, maybe I asked a group of guys to whip out a gun and—”
“LUCY!” He shouted. His voice actually made me stumble.
“Shut your mouth and go to your room. Now.”
Something like electricity crackled along my fingers, and bright spots of white wheeled behind my eyes. Anger pressed down on my chest, but my genuine fear of my enraged father buttoned my lips up. Finally.
“Can I have dinner?”
The words snapped like dry branches. His nostrils flared, and he sucked in air in such big gulps I could only imagine he was storing oxygen for the winter.
“I’ll have your mother bring it up,” he said. “You can stay there for the rest of the night, please.”
“Can I call—?”
“You can be quiet. Go to your room.”
I made a growling-squeak sound in my throat, turned, and went in my room. The slamming of the door in his face completed the painfully cliché moment. My hand tightened into a fist, and I hammer-punched the top of my desk. My monitor and the little metal tin of pencils bounced and jangled. Not good enough.
I grabbed my desk chair and flipped it across the room. It smashed the wall with a healthy thunk. Better.
I slumped down on the ground next to my bed and tucked my knees up against my chest. My arms slid under my knees, and I sat there for a long time. I thought about Zack and Morgan, Daphne and Wanda, Benny and everyone all out scouring the Set for me. I thought of my dad, terrified, filled with unusable protective fury. Of my Mom, doing her best to hold him together.
I thought of the barrel of a little silver revolver. I thought about the gunpowder taste. The powerless violation of being shot to death in an alley for no reason. For being left alone, bloody, and confused. Thrown away like trash.
I cried until I feel asleep, curled against the side of my bed, squeezing my knees into my chest and rocking like a child.
I found myself huddled on a cold grey beach. I wished I could feel some ache of surprise, but I had expected it. I tucked my face between my knees, listening to the surf, tasting the salt-spray, convincing myself that I was dreaming. I sat there for hours, my cheeks still wet with tears, tugging my bright orange bathrobe against my body. I let my mind wander. I willed the time to pass, willed the sense of foreboding terror out of my mind. After a time, light welled onto the sand between my knees, where my eyes were turned. Dawn. When I looked up at the faded sherbet-orange sun, peeking out from the charcoal sea, I woke up.
My bed was immaculate—I’d spent the night tucked into a ball next to the bed.
You spent the night on a beach.
“No, I didn’t.”
Cramped into a ball, I should have felt sore. I should have been tired, twisted up into that pretzel of flesh. Instead, I felt refreshed, comfortably cool. The manic energy of the night before had dimmed somewhat, but I still felt like at least one cup of coffee burned through my veins.
I showered and make-upped. Got dressed in something simple—a scoop-neck black shirt sporting a band I barely remember and a pair of jeans. My white-and-baby-blue sneakers. A black belt with studs and little rhinestones lined up boy-girl down the leather. I twisted my long black hair up into a high pony-tail and gave myself another once-over in my bathroom mirror.
Pretty, but I could lose weight. I pinched the skin just above my hips—nothing noticeable, and if I even called myself fat I knew much heavier girls had a right to beat me with a pipe. Still. Mom called it baby-fat, but that didn’t make it better. I turned sideways. Blegh. I turned back.
Big butt, some tummy. Good boobs for fifteen, but not spectacular. Blegh. I needed to stop hanging out with Morgan. Not that that was going to happen, ever.
I ran a hand across my stomach and felt a stab of pain. I yanked up the edge of my shirt and slid my fingers across my pale skin. No pain. No scar. No hole. The hysteria receded as quickly as it had come.
I tugged my shirt back in place and ran downstairs. Dad wasn’t around, and Mom tried more than a few times to hear about our fight. Deflecting her questions wasn’t easy, but I was stubborn, and after a while she dropped it. I wasn’t hungry, despite my lack of dinner, but I wolfed down three eggs, two pieces of toast, and four pieces of bacon before calling it quits. When I was finished, I felt only a warmth in my belly that should have been gut-stretching pain. It didn’t take much brainpower to ignore the feeling—it was the least of the strange things I had experienced thus far.
“You’re dressed up for Sunday breakfast,” Mom said as she scooped up our plates.
“Not really.”
“Ha. Most Sundays you never leave that filthy bathrobe.”
“It’s not filthy,” I said, scooping the utensils off the table. “You’re filthy.”
“Good one. Going somewhere?”
“Depends. Mind if I borrow your old bike?”
“No,” Mom said. The sound of plates moving stopped. “Why?”
“I just want to go for a ride,” I said. “Want me to pick up anything at the store?”
Mom turned and leaned against the counter. Her face spoke volumes.
“Mom, I’m fine,” I said. “I just need some air.”
“How’s your head?”
It took me a second to catch up with her. The phony head wound, the one I’d told the cop about. “It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll take it easy, I promise.”
Mom nodded.
“Fine. I’m taking you up on your offer though.”
“What?”
She smiled. “I want the newest Cosmo, if it’s there. And a box of Shake ’N Bake.”
I nodded and put my hand out, palm up, with the sweetest smile ever conjured curving my lips. The classic teenager money-palm. She snorted and shook her head. I didn’t think it was going to be that easy.