Letters to Nowhere #1 (Completed!)

Letters to Nowhere: Part 83

"God, I love tumbling!" Blair said after practice while we were in the locker room.

            I started to respond to her, but my phone rang and Jordan's name came up on the screen. I had eventually gotten brave and tried to call him right before practice, but he hadn't answered, and I'd been distracted and worried ever since.

            "Hey," I said right away. "Are you okay?"

            "Karen, it's Tony," Tony said, his voice muffled like he was trying not to let anyone listen in. "We got a problem..."

            My eyes darted around the locker room, resting on Stevie, who seemed to be paying close attention. "What happened? Where's Jordan?" I whispered.

            "Everything okay?" Blair mouthed after tossing her bag over her shoulder.

            I nodded and waved her away, knowing her mom was probably waiting, and I didn't want her involved in this family feud.

            "He's okay," Tony said. "We're at the hospital. In the emergency room. He's a little drunk. Kind of high, too. And bloody."

            "Tony!"                                                                       

            "Do NOT tell his dad, Karen," Tony said. "Swear to me."

            "I swear."

            "Can you grab some clean clothes from his house and that big wad of cash in the green shoebox in the bottom of his closet and then come to the Barnes emergency room?"

            "Okay, yeah, I can do that." I shut the phone, tossed it into my bag, and scrambled to get my shoes and coat on.

            "What happened to Jordan?" Stevie whispered, though we appeared to be alone.

            "Apparently he's drunk, high, and bleeding in the emergency room without money." I shook my head, hardly able to believe this story myself. "He had a really big fight with Bentley earlier today."

            Stevie's eyes were huge. "Not about you guys, right?"

            "No." I looked at her, trying to decide what to tell her. "Just family stuff."

            "I'll go with you, okay?"

            I felt like hugging her, I was so relieved to not have to do this alone. "Thank you."

I drove, so Bentley wouldn't worry if he saw my car still in the parking lot. It took us a full forty-five minutes to get Jordan's clothes and money and get to the hospital. Tony was standing near the doors, pacing back and forth. He sighed with relief when he saw us. "Just don't say anything about the weed. I don't think anyone has guessed."

            I shook off his words and followed behind him. "What is bleeding, Tony? You can't just say he's bleeding and then—"

            "His head. He cut his head."

            "On what?" Stevie asked.

            "My neighbor's metal swing set," Tony said, as if this was normal. Maybe it was, given the sledding incident.

            Jordan was sitting sideways on a hospital bed, his feet dangling off the edge. His white shirt was half untucked and had a mix of dirt and blood splattered all over it. His khaki pants were pretty roughed up, too. A whole strip of dried blood ran down the side of his face.

            I slowed down when I saw him, not sure if he was mad at me or not. Then as soon as he looked up and saw the three of us, I blurted out those exact words. "Are you mad at me?"

            "Why would I be mad at you?" His words slurred together a little.

            "Oh God, he is drunk," I mumbled.

            Tony rocked back on his heels. "Yep."

            Stevie lifted her purse and smacked Tony with it. "I thought you were his friend! What the hell were you doing while he was drinking—"

            Tony clapped a hand over Stevie's mouth. "Keep your voice down. He didn't drive and I stayed sober. He's allowed to let off steam every once in a while."

            I ignored them and moved closer to Jordan and stood on tiptoes to examine his head. He had a giant gash several inches above his ear.

            The doctor shuffled into the room then, and I scooted to Jordan's other side.

            "Okay, Mr. Jordan Bentley..." The doctor whistled under his breath. "I'm going to give you two choices, given your blood alcohol level and the fact that you're only seventeen. We can call a parent or we can call the police."           

            I took his hand and squeezed it. "Jordan...?"

            He stared at the wall in front of us, then finally said with a heavy sigh, "Call my dad."

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