Better Off

Turned To Screams

          It could’ve been worse, much worse actually. But it could’ve gone by better and I know exactly how it could’ve been.  I’ve daydreaming about alternative scenarios for most of the ride back.

          “Where do you guys want to go for dinner tonight?” Amos asks, talking over the radio, “After we’ve picked up Grant, of course,” he adds with a glance in my direction.

          “I don’t think I can go,” Paul replies, looking up from his phone, “I don’t feel too good. It must’ve been the hotdog I had for lunch earlier.”

          “Aw, come on, Paul!” Liz teases him, “It’s not like we’re planning to go somewhere cheap.”

          “No, it could be something serious. We better move this to another night,” Amos says after sharing a look with Paul.

          And I suddenly understand: No one is feeling sick; I don’t think Paul even ate a hotdog for lunch. It’s Grant. He couldn’t come. Or maybe they didn’t even bother telling him.

          “It’s fine guys,” I say slowly, “We can just order Chinese food tonight and Mom can cook something healthy for Paul.”

          I catch Cait staring at me. “What?” I say, “Have you developed an allergy to Chinese food all of a sudden?”

          “No, of course not!” she protests, laughing, “You don’t look too good yourself,” her tone becomes serious, “Are you okay?”

          “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” I feel my face turn red as I tell the lie, “I just think I got sunburned. Again.”

          Cait and Liz observe my tomato coloured face and laugh. “Well, look who should’ve put on sunscreen!” Liz giggles and the mood in the backseat instantly lightens.

~*~*~*~*~

          We arrive at the darkened bus and my suspicions are confirmed. Grant isn’t back yet and God knows when he will be. Mom isn’t there either, but that doesn’t worry me. She might’ve gone for a late night stroll or went out to eat.

          I don’t hear Amos calling me as I get out of the car and walk to the bus. I do hear, but I don’t listen. I’m not even hungry anymore. I make my way to the bathroom and lock the door. I don’t turn on the lights though. I don’t need anyone seeing me crying. I sit on the floor and don’t even try to stop the tears. Abigail’s advice echoes in my mind, “then tell him. Tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him.”

          Wherever I turn, I hear her voice and see his face in the near darkness of the bathroom. Soon, the voice is more than just a whisper. Its sound fills my ears, though I know I’m sitting in complete silence. “Tell him. Tell him; tell him, TELL HIM, TELL HIM, TEEELLLL HIIMM!”

          “Open the door, I’m about to puke!” A hear a voice, most likely belonging to Paul, say in real life, but I am not listening to it.

          My head is about to burst. “I CAN’T!” I scream silently, in response to the voice in my head.

          “Oh god,” I hear another male voice say.

          “Not on the antique rug,” a female voice adds

          I even forget what rug they’re talking about for the moment. None of it matters. “TELL HIM. TELL HIM,” my thoughts are interrupted again and I feel like there’s nothing I can really do about it.

“I will,” I whisper quietly as I slowly unlock the door. My hands shake uncontrollably.