TMI (2014 Collector's Dream Winner)

TMI - Chapter 41

Meg never slept last night. She was in the middle of her second period class — trig — not that she’d heard a word. She sat with her chin propped in her hand, forcing her eyes not to close. With half a laugh, she wondered why it was so hard. Chase’s words were still stuck on an infinite play loop in her mind. I’m never having kids! Swear to God.

She’d run from him. She’d just admitted she was in love with him not a minute before. She’d been ready to revise her entire Plan for him because maybe, just maybe, her father was wrong, and it was possible to love someone and be loved in return and not ruin her entire future in the process. I’m never having kids! Swear to God.

Her gut twisted again but she was used to it now — almost. The pain spoke to her in her dad’s voice. I told you to focus on your plan! It attacked every time she thought about Chase — the slump of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the never-neat mop of brown hair hanging over furious unearthly eyes.

He’d had a plan that had been all shot to hell. She shook her head and winced. What the hell good did it to do make plans? All that time, all that work and for what, another revision — another course correction? For a spotlight on the disappointments? For a giant red X over the failures? Maybe Bailey had the right idea all along. The pain returned for another go at her whenever she thought of her former best friend — the bounce in her step, the always-ready giggle.

She heard the whispers and saw the fingers pointing at her and slouched lower in her desk, wishing for invisibility. The teacher was discussing sine, cosine, and tangents, but her mind circled right back to Chase. She’d been right there — right on the edge of tearing up the plan. No revisions this time, no course corrections but a totally new plan — one with Chase right smack in its middle. She’d finally believed him when he told her she could have it all.

Swear to God.

“Megan Farrell?”

Swear to God.

A hand tapped her shoulder and she jerked. “Megan Farrell, you’re wanted at the vice-principal’s office.”

Her heart stopped, restarted with a jolt, and then tried to pound out of her chest. She swallowed hard, grabbed her stuff and followed the security guard. She couldn’t remember walking down the halls, two flights of steps, and the main corridor to the office. Suddenly, she was sitting in a hard metal chair at a small round table in the corner of Mr. Poynter’s office. He stood by the window, holding a steaming paper cup of coffee. A cup of water was pressed into her hand and Meg looked up, saw one of the guidance counselors sitting next to her.

Funny — she hadn’t noticed her.

She looked into the cup of water, saw her reflection shimmer and ripple. Even the distortion did nothing to hide the pain in her eyes.

They sat for minutes or hours — who knew? Who even cared? Her hand throbbed. Had she cleaned the wound today? She couldn’t remember. What day was it? She couldn’t remember that either.

Swear to God.

She cradled her head in her hands and then pulled them away. They shook.

The door opened and a woman walked in, a battered laptop open in her hands. She glared at her with hard dark eyes over a thin mouth. Her hair was coiled up in an elastic — a ball point pen stuck in the bun. She put the laptop on the table and dragged out a chair. Meg shivered at the screech.

Swear to God.

When the woman sat, her jacket opened and Meg saw a badge on her belt. “Miss Farrell, I’m Detective Barilla, special victims section. Do you know why I’m here?”