All of Me

fourteen • the body

• • •

The sun isn't coming out today, I don't think. It didn't seem to get the memo that it's still summer, hiding away behind the clouds somewhere in the overcast sky. Heavy and gray, it hangs over us like it's threatening something worse than the rain that's already smashing down so hard and fast that my wipers can hardly keep up.

"It's an omen," Gray says darkly when he lifts his eyes from the book in his hands. Despite his ongoing crisis about our classical literature course, he's still shunning the reading list for the class. Instead, he's reading through his Adam Silvera collection for the hundredth time.

"Don't say that. You know I hate driving in this weather." I'd hit him if my hands weren't clutching the steering wheel as though my life depends on it. My life does depend on it. Especially when the roads are slick with rain.

"Sorry. Want to pull over?" He checks his watch; I catch the flick of his wrist out of the corner of my eye.

I shake my head. As much as I'd love to pull over, to turn around and go home, I don't want to slip into a pattern of skipping class when we're not even two months into freshman year. We're more than halfway there anyway. Only forty minutes or so until we reach South Lakes. There's no point stopping.

"It'll be fine once we get there," I say, but I glance out of the window and I know that's not true. We're driving straight into the storm, the sky ahead of us virtually black. At least we're safer in the car if lightning strikes, but I still don't want to drive in a storm. I'm already on edge with the downpour.

Gray turns back to his book. I focus on the road, my headlights blazing to cut through the stormy morning fog. The radio is on low, the music just loud enough for me to make out what song is playing. One thing I've learnt from spending up to four hours in the car each day is that the radio has a pretty limited repertoire, repeating the same songs over and over.

We're nearly there. One more turning to go before we reach South Lakes. Only a few minutes now. When my phone buzzes in my bag, stowed away at Gray's feet, I don't even so much as glance in its direction. Whenever I'm behind the wheel, my eyes are religiously focused on the road and my concentration is even more stoic when the weather is so grim.

"Can you check that?" I ask, and Gray is on it before I finish the question. He's the ideal copilot: great with directions, surprisingly calm in a crisis, and he's almost always by my side to check my messages for me. It's only ever Mom. There are three people in the world who text me. One is right by my side; another is most likely sleeping in before his midday class.

I have Tad's number too, and a few texts from him, but so far they've all been Mom checking in from his phone when her own is dead and Gray and I are late getting back.

"It's your mom," Gray says. No surprise there.

"What'd she say?"

"Nothing, really," he says. "A link and a crying face."

My heart sinks. I know what that means. I'm sure of it.

"Maggie," I say, and I glance at Gray for just a second. I hope I'm wrong. I would love to be wrong. It would make my day if Mom's being dramatic, if the link is something stupid. Maybe they're closing the diner. Maybe Five Oaks is losing another tree. My grip on the wheel tightens with each moment of Gray's silence until I can't take it anymore. "Gray! What is it?"

He nods, scanning the article before he reads out the title. "Body found in search for missing Queens teen," he says. "Oh my God. Storie..."

I suddenly feel numb.