Whistleblower ✓

27 | fanatical

When I opened my eyes the next morning, my first cognizant thought was that I really needed to shut off the bell tower alarm on my phone before it woke up Hanna.

This triggered an avalanche of memories. Hanna slumped over Andre's toilet, black hair all askew and eyes heavy-lidded. Bodie St. James carrying her home, the muscles in his arms flexing elegantly under her weight in that black henley shirt. Me kicking him out of the apartment so I could have a moment alone to cry about—

My car.

I pulled my duvet up over my face, burrowing deep in the Tide-pod-scented darkness beneath the covers. I wanted to scream, but there was no time for emotional breakdowns in modern capitalist society.

I had work in an hour.

My Garland Country Club uniform was in a clump on the floor of the closet. I slipped into the white polyester polo shirt and unflattering khaki shorts in the bathroom. After I'd brushed my teeth and braided my hair, I fired off a text to PJ asking if she'd be able to swing by and give me a ride to work.

My car has a flat tire, I lied, then added a sad emoji to keep it casual.

Her reply appeared a few seconds later.

Sure thing girl!!! Be there in fifteen

She'd punctuated this with a shooting star and a thumbs up.

With that sorted, I pulled on my sneakers and padded out into the kitchen, tugging the bedroom door shut behind me. I was shoving granola bars into both front pockets of my jean jacket when the door flew open. Hanna appeared, like a tiny hungover goblin from her cave, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the kitchen light.

"Good morning," I whispered.

She flinched.

"How bad was I?" she demanded, her voice a gravelly croak.

Half her hair was still tied up in a pre-wrap ponytail. The other half was matted to the side of her neck in one enormous thicket.

"Andre was the only one who noticed you got sick," I said.

I didn't know if that was true, but I figured I'd rather lie and save her the embarrassment than let her spend all morning panicked and picturing the entire Garland football team listening to her hurl.

"Did he carry me home?" she asked. "I remember somebody carrying me."

"Um. Actually, Bodie did."

"Bodie St. James?"

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

"PJ's here, gotta go, talk later—" I dashed out the door, "—stay hydrated!"

❖ ❖ ❖

On Sundays, the Garland Country Club was dominated by the retirement crowd, which meant PJ had to cruise very cautiously through the parking lot, and stop for a solid three minutes while a very elderly man tried to navigate his Audi into a spot big enough to park a doublewide trailer in.

PJ ended up sliding into an employee space right next to Rebecca's car—a pretty Lexus (sleek and black, like a river rock) with a Garland University decal on the rear window.

Just the sight of it made me slump in my seat.

"I hope you're on wait staff today," PJ said, using her rear-view mirror to check her lipstick and fluff her copper red hair. "I had the worst blind date on Friday. You would not believe the kind of guys I attract on Tinder."

Hearing the trials and tribulations of PJ's dating app activity sounded like the best kind of distraction to keep me from wallowing in sorrow about my car.