One Last Thing ✅

twenty-seven things

By the time I leave Mrs. Feldmann's office, it's passing time.

I duck into the bathroom until the halls are quiet. Then I sneak out and take the long way to my locker. A few feet away, I stop, struck motionless by what I see before me. A single word, scribbled in red ink, stands out distinctly against the yellow paint.

KILLER

My stomach lurches. I spin on my heels and rush back the bathroom, lean over the toilet, violently convulsing, but nothing comes out except yellow bile. When I am finished, I lean against the wall, feeling the cool steel against my cheek.

Everything is spinning.

Everything is wrong.

The way the fluorescent lights flicker, the slight buzzing in my ears, the feeling that I am unraveling in some small but essential way. I try to hold on to the reassuring words that Mrs. Feldmann said to me, that things will get easier, that they won't always be this way, but it's so hard to hold onto when I feel like I'm spiraling downward, circling the drain like the vomit I just flushed away.

Minutes pass.

I don't know how many.

All I know is that it seems like eternity before I'm able to peel myself away from the metal wall and stand straight. I unlock the door and push it open, shuffle out like a zombie. Stare in the mirror, unseeing. A terrible taste in my mouth. I go to the sink, twist the knob, let the water run. Splash my face. Rinse out my mouth. Stare at the running water. Twist the knob again. Shut it off.

I exhale heavily, feeling my insides empty, hollow.

Take in a deep breath, let it out again.

It is only in this way that I am able to collect myself enough to go back out into the hallway. I glance at the clock and calculate the hours left in the school day, and all I can think about is how much I want a nap. Maybe I can go to the nurse's office and explain how tired I am. I wonder if she'll let me lie down. I walk toward her office, preparing my speech when someone steps right in front of me.

"Lil."

It's Abbott.

"Hey," he says.

I duck my head, put my hand over my mouth so he won't be able to smell my puke breath. "Hey."

"I was at House of Rock last night. Picked up your guitar. It's in my truck. You wanna grab it after school? I could give you a ride."

I don't know what it is about his words, but they're so matter-of-fact, so normal, like the whole world isn't ending, that they make me break apart. I dissolve into tears and cover my face with my hands, turn away from him.

"Lil?" Abbott asks.

My shoulders shake. I hold up a hand to let him know I'm okay, but then I feel him wrap his arms around me. He gathers me in, presses me against his chest. Beneath his flannel shirt, I can feel his heart thumping. It's enough to calm me, to anchor me.

"Hey," he says. "Wanna go somewhere?"

I pull back, sniffling.

"Yes, please."

He kind of laughs. "You don't need to say please. Come on."

I let him take my hand, then, and he leads me out the back doors to the far side of the student parking lot, where his truck is parked under a large oak tree. It occurs to me, as we climb in, that this is the kind of thing I wouldn't expect Abbott to do. I mean, his father is the principal and everything. How would it look if Mr. O'Hara's son gets caught skipping school?

"Are you sure you want to leave?" I ask. "Won't you get in trouble?"

Abbott winks at me. "The little known benefit to being the principal's son is that everyone looks the other way if you do anything wrong. No one wants to tell the boss his kid is screwing around."

I consider this. "Lucky."

His face turns dark. "It's not that great. So where do you want to go?"

I solemnly consider the question.

There is a place I want to go, but at the same time I'm terrified by the possibility. It beckons me, though, like the knife I keep under my mattress. I know it can only cause me destruction, but I feel drawn to it somehow, like it will provide some temporary relief.

"I want to go to her house."

At first, I can tell Abbott doesn't really know what I'm talking about, but then I see him make the connection. "No. I don't like that idea at all."

"Abbott, I have to see it."

He shakes his head vehemently. "It will only make you feel worse."

And so it seems we're at a stalemate.

He's the one with the car; I'm the one on a mission.

I stare through the windshield, and as I watch, a leaf falls slowly to its final resting place on the hood of Abbott's truck.

It is still green.

"Abbott," I say. "Please."

He sighs.

And starts the engine.