“Besides,” she interrupts again, picking up her sandwich for another bite. “You were underage. With a fake ID. Misdemeanor to drink underage. Felony to possess falsified identification. If the school pursues this—and the police get involved—you’d be on the hook for those things. You could wind up expelled. Is that really what you want? All over some night of regretful sex?”
I stare at her, now at a loss for words. The righteous anger that had swooped in only a couple seconds ago ebbs away, replaced by the usual daunting hopelessness. The sense of dread because there’s no escaping this; there’s no fixing what’s happened.
I’m going to be made to suffer no matter what.
“Never mind,” I croak, throat sore. I stand up and hitch my bookbag over my shoulder. “I have to go.”
“Wait, that doesn’t mean you can’t receive help yourself. I was speaking strictly in terms of filing any official reports. I can still recommend a support group!” she calls after me. “For troubled students, it’s a group where you can?—”
But I’m already out the door, striding fast down the hall.
I burst through the front door, my legs barely carrying me after the long day I’ve had. I ditched my last class and was so desperate I took an Uber from Wheaton to Pulsboro.
An expense I can’t afford right now, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I come home expecting solitude but find the smells of weed and motor oil.
Moses is home, sprawled across our worn couch with his phone in one hand and a joint in the other.
“Damn, Sol, you look like shit,” he teases. “What happened, some guy break your heart?”
He’s being a typical older brother, giving me a hard time, but he still misses that now isn’t the time. I’m not up to shit talk. I’m not up for anything at all.
I don’t answer as I rush to my room and slam the door. He doesn’t follow, probably figuring I’m being dramatic as usual. It really is some dumb guy problem I’m upset about.
But I can’t even blame him. He has his own life to be concerned about without bogging himself down with my issues.
I fall onto my bed fully clothed, shoes still on, and let unconsciousness drag me under within seconds.
When I wake up, the room is dark and my throat is dry from lack of use. The numbers on my phone read 9:47 p.m.
The house is silent. Moses is gone again, probably to some party or club meeting.
I drag myself to the kitchen where a styrofoam container sits on the counter with a note in Moses’s sloppy handwriting.
Headed to Houston for an event. Be back tomorrow.
Got you wings from that place you like. Cheer up, sis.
The wings are cold and congealed, the sauce turned thick and unappetizing. I force myself to eat one, chewing and swallowing.
Tomorrow’s my final audition for Magnolia. I should be practicing, running through my Southern accent, perfecting my emotional beats.
But the lines swim in my head, meaningless words from someone else’s story when my own has become a nightmare.
The knock at the door is sharp and aggressive, coming out of nowhere. Three hard raps that make me freeze mid-chew.
Through the peephole, I see the last person on earth I want to deal with right now.
Kel stands under the porch light in a black hoodie, hands shoved in his pockets. My body goes cold then hot and then cold again.
“Go away,” I mumble.
“Open the door, Lana,” he urges. “I have something to tell you. About that night. About why everyone at school’s been staring at you. Iknowyou’ve noticed.”
I almost choke on the air I inhale, going still where I am in front of the door.
So it hasn’t been my imagination. Peoplehavebeen staring. They’ve been casting judgy looks and grinning as if amused and muttering behind my back.
