What Goes Around

Chicken Scratch

My first instinct was to call Kayla.

My second instinct was to cry.

My third? A loud, primal screeching noise that would make the whole neighborhood deaf. I'm pretty sure that I would get grounded for that, though. I went with my first instinct.

The phone rang into my ear two times... three times... four. Four times, and I heard the artificial voice of the automated voice message system.

That wasn't like Kayla. She was practically glued to her smartphone.

I clicked on her speed dial link again.

This time, someone answered.

It sure as hell wasn't Kayla.

A husky voice on the other end asked me who I was, and unless Kayla became an adult man in the course of a week, this was NOT Kayla.

"I-I'm Natalie. I'm Kayla's friend. Kayla Sinterbaum."

Damn it, Natalie. Why would you say her full name? What if it's a kidnapper or a rapist or some creep who-

"I'm Officer Mulheim. I'm afraid there's a problem with your friend."

My gym teacher would be proud of me. I bolted to my best friend's house, breathing heavily. I rapped my fist on the dark wooden door, and a man in an officer uniform opened the door.

"I'm afraid you can't be here at this moment, miss."

"No, it's okay, I called. I'm Nata-"

I heard a voice from inside the house.

"Let her in."

I walked in and saw Kayla's mother sitting on the ragged stained couch Kayla and I had sat on and watched movies together so many weekends before. She was holding a crumpled tissue and her eyes were swollen and flowing over with tears that had practically formed a pool in her lap.

I may not be a genius or perfect at noticing things, but there was obviously something terribly wrong. I decided to get the worst thing out of the way.

"Is Kayla dead?"

The officer shook his head, and looked over at Mrs. Sinterbaum, as if asking for permission to let me know. She nodded and sniffled into the soggy tissue.

He handed me a piece of paper, and I recognized her handwriting. Reading the letter, it occurred to me that that could possibly be the last time I would ever see the awful chicken scratch handwriting of Kayla Sinterbaum.