"Oh, but you should!" She is beyond enthusiastic for someone who's barely said two sentences to me since I started here. "We're all going. You know - our group of friends. Think about it - it's not too late," she sings before kissing Sam on his cheek and sauntering off.
I keep quiet as I turn into the library and take my seat at our usual table, Sam following on my heels. I know all too well what Chelsea is up to, and it's deeply off-putting. She thinks I'm a threat, though I couldn't appear less threatening, and she's trying to keep her enemies close.
I don't want her as an enemy. I don't wantanyenemies. I don't want to play this game at all - I just want to make it through the end of high school, and never fucking look back. I've gone as far as to practically push Sam away any time Chelsea's around, but this whole tutoring thing makes it difficult. And, of course, so does our friendship. Still, I find myself unwilling to give it up just to appease a mean-girl.
For some reason, every time Sam and I end up chatting in the lot, or at a party, Chelsea seems to take note. It's like she has a real-life Google alert for Sam talking to girls, just friends or not. Sam seems mostly oblivious about it, but at the same time he does seem to have a vague idea what's going on. I suspect he's aware of Chelsea's crush, but severely underestimates it. I do think he's noticed that Chelsea's glare has me abruptly ending our conversations, but if he has, he hasn't said anything.
Perhaps he just thinks I'm crazy. He wouldn't be wrong.
"She's right, you know," Sam murmurs as we both pull out our books.
I frown at him in confusion.
"Miami," he clarifies. "It's going to be fun. You should think about coming."
"I, uh- don't think so."
"You only get to be a senior once. Carl and Tina are going," he says, as if I didn't already know this- as if they haven't already tried to convince me to join them a thousand times. "I'll be there," he adds more quietly, shrugging almost sheepishly.
He's offering me his support. Comfort. He's saying he'd look out for me - like he did when Dave drunkenly propositioned me at Andrew's party a few weeks ago. Like he's done several times since when he's perceived me to be uncomfortable, usually correctly. I soften a little.
"I'll think about it, okay? But if you don't get me ready for Friday's test, I'm gonna have way bigger problems than spring break," I warn.
Sam rolls his eyes. "Do you even doubt me?" he asks cockily.
The truth is I don't. But I don't tell him that.
We work longer than usual since Friday's test really is a doozy. I stretch my arms behind my back, yawning shamelessly as Sam looks over my work. The windows behind him are black with nightfall and I'm exhausted.
I haven't been sleeping well since I stopped taking my sleeping meds. The nightmares still come almost nightly, and though it's an improvement from having them every time I fall asleep, it's still enough to keep my energy level way lower than it should be. The thing is, the pills don't prevent the nightmares. If anything, they make them more vivid, and because I'm drugged, I can't wake up. At least when I haven't taken anything I can wake up, albeit screaming or crying. Usually both.
I'm also still on the same bottle of anti-anxiety meds, which is a small victory. I still have twelve pills left in the prescription, and I'm still hopeful I can make it my last one ever.
I glance around the library, finding it exceptionally empty. We usually aren't here this late. The few students who were here earlier seem to have already left. Sam is looking over the last problem I did and I'm wondering if we should call it a night when I slip a glance over my shoulder to find the librarian's desk deserted, her computer powered down.
"Where's Ms. Pitser?"
Sam barely looks up from the paper. "Hmm? What time is it?"
"Almost seven."
"I think she leaves at six," he murmurs nonchalantly.
My pulse slams on the gas so hard its wheels spin in place before it manically takes off .
There's no one else here.
Holy shit!I fly frommy chair and Sam looks up with raised eyebrows like he doesn't know what's wrong.
Is he fucking kidding me?
I want to close my eyes and count, but I'm terrified to let him out of my sight. I take a few cautious steps back as I break out in a cold sweat, visible beads forming on my nose and brow.
"Rory? You okay?" he asks.
"You- you said the library's open 'til seven," I barely choke out.
Sam stands slowly. "It is," he says gently, cautiously.
