When I wake up the next morning, I know that I have slept too much and not enough. I know this because I slept long enough to see his face etched into every corner of my brain. Every heavy breath, every grab of his hands, every
don't think don't think don't think
Instead, I focus on my surroundings. The wooden walls are splintering. There are cobwebs on the ceiling. It smells like an old library.
At the sound of the door creaking open, I sit up too suddenly. The inside of my head swirls and by the time I blink the black spots away, she is already bent over at the waist, untying her shoelaces. Her breaths are laboured don't think don't think don't think as red hair falls over red cheeks.
"You ran?"
Her attention flickers to me at the question. She nods.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes. "I We You barely slept." It must have been almost daylight when we finally arrived back at her clouded window.
She smiles. "I'm not good at sleeping."
"It seems I'm not, either." Anymore.
She walks me the ten feet over the lawn to the street. The wheels on my bike roll quietly alongside me. "You really should think about running track." I say, and her gaze snaps toward the window on the top storey of the yellow house. I guess that's her mother's room.
I haven't seen Shirley in years. Back in the day, she was a pretty good seamstress. I wonder what she does now.
"I mean, you run every day, anyway." I continue, trying to distract myself from her anxious behaviour.
"I don't like the idea of running and never getting anywhere." Her voice is low.
"Oh." That seems to be my entire life, now that I think about it. There is a pause, and I think I'm meant to say goodbye. "What time is it now?"
"Almost eight."
"Shit," I drape my leg over the bike and push off.
When I sneak in the back door, Connor is already in the kitchen, probably on his eighth piece of toast. "Hey! Where have you –"
"Shut up!" I hiss at him, eyes pouncing around the room for the parental figures. I need to be showered and ready for school before Shannon texts me. I glance at the clock above the fridge.
In seven minutes.
"Is that Sam finally up?" I hear mom's voice coo from the living room. I send Connor a meaningful look and hold a finger to my lips.
His hazel eyes bore into mine, trying to understand, before his mouthful of bread swishes to the side. "No," He shouts back, watching as I ascend the stairs. "I, um, I think I broke the toaster again..."
"Again?" She screeches. We both wince.
"Thank you," I mouth to him. He nods.
YOU ARE READING
clementine
Teen FictionLet's get this clear; I am not Clementine Ross. I was not her sister, or her best friend in the world, or even a person that she opened up to completely when she was devastatingly drunk one night. And every time someone solemnly asks (and this happe...
