And five minutes later:Guess not!
She must’ve accidentally texted the group, instead of whatever side chat they’ve been talking in without me. It’s ten a.m. and there are no more messages, so I assume they went back to it.
I finally roll out of bed and crack the door open, listening for movement in the house. I hear low sounds downstairs andwonder if Kayla is still here. Moving slowly down the hall, I head to her room, making sure not to step where it creaks.
Kayla’s door is open, but her room is empty. I wanted to thank her for having my back. She really did try to help, and I feel bad that I was too frustrated and emotional to tell her that.
“Jasmine, breakfast,” my mom calls up to me. Her voice is a lot less aggressive now, but I don’t trust it. I return to my room and close the door as quietly as I can.
She doesn’t call again, and I take that as my cue to get back into bed. I don’t want to deal with this day at all.
“Jasmine, you need to wake up and eat something.”
I open my eyes and see my mom standing over me with a plate.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, turning over.
“Fine, then don’t eat.” The plate scrapes the desk when she puts it down.
I try not to move so she thinks I’ve fallen back asleep.
“You can’t keep yourself locked in here,” she insists.
Her comment grates on me—I’ve been literally locked in worse places. She lingers for another moment before finally leaving.
I smell rotisserie chicken and take a peek at what she brought. My stomach growls at the sight of a chicken sandwich and chips.
What time is it?I grab my phone to check. It’s two p.m. I can’t believe I’ve been sleeping this long.
I get up and stretch. I know I should shower, but the sandwich comes first. I decide not to check IG while I eat—I don’t want to see everyone having fun without me, and I especiallydon’t want to see Amari. Instead, I open my notebook to the back pages, where I’ve been logging some memories from the center I knew might fade over time.
When you’re pretending a life doesn’t exist, it’s hard to hold on to your memories. There isn’t anyone I can share these memories with, and part of me thinks it’s good to jot them down just in case Ms. Taylor is right and I do write something one day—maybe even a memoir.
I bite into the sandwich. It’s as good as it smells and I want to smile, but the first paragraph of my notes reminds me there’s no reason to.
There isn’t a happy ending here.
As I read my recollections of my first day, of the van ride I could barely register because I was so overwhelmed by fear and sadness, I feel the heaviness of that day wash over me once more. Skimming a few paragraphs, I take a deep breath. Amari’s name is everywhere. I slam the notebook shut with my greasy fingers and consider tearing it all up before pushing it away and retreating to the safety of my bed.
By the end of the day, I’m desperate to get out of my room. Through my window, I see my mom and Kayla leave, so I figure the coast is clear. But when I walk into the kitchen, Travis is sitting at the counter on his laptop.
“You don’t have to run away,” he says as I turn to leave.
I circle back around slowly, embarrassed that he caught me. “I’m not running,” I lie.
“Mmhmm,” he says. “Well, I can get out of here too, if you want.”
“I’m just gonna get a water and go back to my room.”
He nods and motions toward the fridge. “I’m on dinner dutyso you’ve gotta tell me what you want or I’m making potpies,” he threatens.
I almost laugh but catch myself. He knows how much I hate potpies.
“So,” he says. “What are we having?”
I think of what heartbroken people eat in all the movies and follow suit. “Pizza.”
“Pizza it is,” he says with a warm smile. “Let me order before they get back.”
