Chasing Days

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

☼

Monday

My clock clicks to three a.m. on the dot, and I blink my eyes at the ceiling. It's futile to ask myself why I'm suddenly awake. I consider grabbing my skateboard and taking a night ride, that usually does the trick, but voices, hissing in the near dark, draw me to the window.

Mr. and Mrs. Westing stand, framed, in front of their kitchen sink, just beneath Teddy's bedroom.

I lean in closer.

"We are not calling the police or bringing him to the hospital. Do you know what kind of media attention that will draw?" Mr. Westing asks.

"But he could have—" Mrs. Westing counters, her shrill voice somehow several octaves higher than usual.

"We've managed to keep him out of the picture this long."

"What if he needs help?"

"We're this close, Rhoda." Mr. Westing's first two fingers pinch the air.

There are more words exchanged like danger, media field day, and patience, but the venom in Mr. Westing's voice makes me wince and I don't hear the rest.

Muffled sobs sneak out of Teddy's dark bedroom window. I lean against the wall, sweat pricking my forehead, my palms moist. The poster I made for him suddenly feels stupid, but now, more than ever, I want him to hear my voice in the encouraging message. I want to text him or run over there and find out what's going on. I want to help him. But the atmosphere is thick, like a storm blew in while I was asleep and I'm not brave enough to rush out into it.

My mind spins circles around trying to figure out what happened and what to do until I doze off.

In the dim light of the morning, I fail at rubbing off the fuzz of sleep, but shuck myself to sitting, peering out my bedroom window like I've done every morning since Teddy moved in next door and we became friends. His closed shades draw a strange barrier between us as the conversation I heard in the night floods back to me. I leave the poster board wedged there, hoping he'll see it.

Gray clouds hover low in the sky. They're dreamy and foggy, spreading across the landscape like a still-warm sheet, reflecting my mood. I pull on shorts. Unable to find my Team Teddy T-shirt, I tug on a gray V-neck.

I drift to the bathroom, yawning at my reflection. I drag a comb through my long blondish hair, twist it into a messy bun on the top of my head, and brush my teeth.

Downstairs, my mom left me a note on the refrigerator. Left early for the brewing expo. Smoothie in fridge. Not sure when we'll be home. XO

The Mason jar on the shelf contains the usual green concoction. I run my essay to the printer and fold the blanket from last night, not sure if I should be embarrassed or let the embers continue to smolder down south. I close my eyes and shiver. Yup, there's smoldering for sure. I exhale, tempted for a second go, but then glance at the clock. When the word horny comes to mind, I stick out my tongue, repulsed at the term, one my parents would use or randy. Yuck.

I return for the smoothie, trot out to Teddy's car, and avoid leaning on the dirty hood. The Mason jar is half-empty by the time he slams the etched-glass door behind him. Other than his scowling at the ground, the sky, and the yellow house, there's no indication of a situation necessitating the police or a trip to the ER.

I examine Teddy as he clicks open the car door and gets into the hand-me-down Toyota. The Grapesicle. It's a dirty shade of white since he hasn't brought it to the car wash after his parents replaced it with a new Audi for Mrs. Westing last year. Teddy considered painting it purple. My parents would have helped. Salt and sand from winter dusts the smattering of bumper stickers for equality, gay rights, and "whirled peas" on the back. The one that says I hate bumper stickers is new so it's still shiny.