One Last Thing ✅

six things

The next morning, I sit on my front steps, waiting for Jared to show up. It's only seven-thirty, but it's already in the mid-seventies, and I'm starting to sweat beneath my hoodie. That's just too bad, though, because my left forearm is wrapped tightly with bandages covering last night's act of desperation.

I'm wondering if Jared's going to show when a cherry red Camaro, the one he saved a year's worth of paychecks from the local grocery store for, turns the corner. He doesn't pull into the driveway, just stops in front of my house, as always. I stand up and grab my backpack and trudge toward his car, not knowing what to expect after our argument.

He doesn't look at me when I put my bag in the backseat. Nor does he say anything when I open the passenger door and slide in next to him.

"Hey," I say blandly. "Thanks for stopping."

Jared shrugs. "Why wouldn't I?"

I pull at my sleeve, making sure my forearm is covered. "I don't know."

He reaches out and twists the volume knob on his stereo to the right. A death metal song blasts into the car. I fasten my seatbelt and fold my arms over my chest, looking out the window as he silently drives us to school.

Jared pulls into the parking lot minutes later and parks next to Abbott's truck. I twist around to retrieve my backpack from his backseat. He waits for me to climb out before locking the doors, and we walk inside together. Unlike the comfortable silences I share with Riley, this one is fraught with tension. It's like both of us are afraid to say the wrong thing, so we don't say anything at all.

I let out a breath of relief when I see that Riley is standing at my locker. She is too busy rearranging her folders to notice the strained mood. I halt and drop my backpack to the floor, and Jared keeps on walking, barely looking my way.

"Later," he says.

"Yeah," I reply, looking at the floor.

Riley turns to face me and finally catches the expression on my face. "Hey, what's going on?" She reaches out to touch my arm, not realizing she's pressing on the same spot I carved up last night. 

I am careful not to wince.

"Nothing. We're just... having some issues."

"About what?" Riley leans forward. "Is it a sex thing?"

Riley thinks everything is a sex thing—mainly because she's never done it and doesn't realize how totally not a thing it is.

I roll my eyes. "No. Not everything is about sex."

Riley straightens up. "Well, then, what?"

My eyes flicker involuntarily down to my arm and then back up again.

"Oh, Jesus, Lil. Again?"

I shake my head. "It's nothing. Not a big deal." I crouch down and unzip my bag so I don't have to look her in the eye. After retrieving my English folder and pencil case, I zip the bag up and stuff it into to my locker. Riley is still staring at me when I turn to face her, arms crossed, a stern look on her face.

"You should talk to Mrs. Feldmann about it," Riley says gently. Mrs. Feldmann is the school counselor. Frankly, I'd rather die than trot myself into the counselor's office and show her my mangled arm. I know Riley means well, but I have to physically bite my lip to keep from telling her to mind her own damn business.

The five-minute bell rings.

"See you at lunch?" Riley asks, pulling a textbook out of our locker.

"Okay."

I press my folder against my chest, turn, and wince my way down the hallway. The sound of everyone talking and laughing grates on my nerves. It seems like everyone in the world is happy. I have to wonder if the emotion is genuine or if, deep down, everyone feels as messed up as I do.

At least sometimes.

Probably not.

My arm throbs.