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Chapter Eight

Back home, we had a huge, rolling front lawn with just one tree in it. And this tree was huge. When I was younger I would always climb up and sit in it and doodle pictures in my little pink notebook. One day, when I was thirteen, I climbed up there with my notebook, grabbing and swinging myself onto branches and shimmying up the trunk until I got to my favorite spot almost to the top, because back then I was one of those fearless little shits who always had skinned knees and bruised shins.

Anyway, I had had a growth spurt over the winter and was fifteen pounds heavier than I was the summer before and as I was trying to reach for the branch above me, the branch under me snapped and I fell flat on my fucking back and blacked out right there under the tree trunk.

Of course, my hawk of a mother was carefully observing my tree climbing antics and screamed, sat down her Women's Health magazine and came power-walking (since power-walking was the fitness craze back then) over to where I was unconscious under the tree and nearly began CPR before I woke up to her about suffocating me since her hands were crushing down on my chest.

After I had screamed that you don't give CPR to a living person, I sat back against the tree trunk and prayed to God that he would take me right then and there because I thought my head was about to explode. Turned out I had a concussion and had to lay in bed for a week.

Anyway, when I woke up this morning, I thought for sure that I had fallen out of that stupid tree again. My head throbbed and ached and it didn't help that I hit it against the headboard when I jolted awake because I had no fucking clue where I was until I remembered.

Last night.

It sounds like a horror film. "Last Night: scariest event of the summer." "5/5 critics agree that you will shit your pants."

It wasn't as terrifying as it may seem, but it sure scared the hell out of me that it was my first day in California and I was already at a party where two of my friends were totally inebriated and I was about to pass out in the punch bowl.

I sat up and groaned, looking around the room that I had slept in. It was definitely a boy's room. Posters for all kinds of bands like Green Day and Nirvana were littered across the wall along with pictures of girls on the hoods of Mustangs. There was a pile of clothes in the corner and an electric guitar and a bass were propped up by the dresser. An Xbox and two L chairs were sat in front of a flat screen and snapbacks sat on top of the dresser.

I huddled in the bed, feeling a whole new wave of social anxiety come over me. What the fuck was I supposed to do now? Do I stay in here awkwardly until someone comes to get me? Or do I mosey out into the house for Luke or Michael or someone to find me and think I'm creepy.

I've never been in this situation before, holy Jesus.

I spotted my bag by the door and I scurry out of bed to grab it before jumping back in. I dug out my phone and dial Reagan's number, praying that she's woken up already.

It range twice before a muffled voice answered.

"Hello?" She groaned. I winced as the sound of her voice bounced around in my skull.

"Reggie, holy shit, are you awake?" I asked in a hushed tone.

"No. I'm sleeptalking." I could hear her eye roll through the phone.

"Dude, I'm in a room and I don't know exactly where I am or what I'm supposed to do." I whispered frantically.

"Sounds like the next new blockbuster thriller."

"Reagan. Shut up."

"Okay, sorry. Actually, I'm in the same position as you. Only I know where I am because I'm in the room that we changed in." I heard a rustling on the other end of the phone.