Page 12 of What You Left Me

• • •

A man enters the waiting area. He’s got a dad energy about him—the oversize polo tucked into shorts is the big giveaway—but he’s not sad enough to be Martin’s dad. Judging by the little I know of Martin, I imagine his dad would have to be like Jim Carrey when he did all those serious movies that my oldest sister Caroline loves so much. Downplaying his obvious quirks to honor the severity of the situation.

“Wow. There are a lot of you. I’m Spencer’s dad.” Don’t know who Spencer is, but I hear a few hushed gasps. “Here’s what we know. Spencer broke his nose on the airbag. He fractured a few ribs and has a concussion that they’re monitoring, but he’s conscious.” No one reacts to this news. “Martin,” he says, clearing his throat. “Martin’s been in surgery since he arrived. We don’t know much. His parents ask that you guys keep praying.” His facial tension untwists into solemnity, and lets out a giant exhale.

We clap. Not sure why, doesn’t seem very appropriate, but the room lights up with thunderous applause. “Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly!” everyone chants.

The all-too familiar rumble of miscalculation disrupts my breathing. What am I doing here? I’ve included myself in this crowd because Martin and I sat next to each other at graduation. I don’t know him beyond some banter and a few hours of sweating together on the football field. If he hadn’t spoken to me, I would’ve read about this on my phone tonight and thought,Aw, that’s sad, perused his pictures, pretended to know who he was to anyone that asked, and left it at that.

But he did speak to me.

I can barely describe what he looks like. It was too hard for me to look. Tall and wide-grinned is all I’ve got, with a voice you’d hear above the clatter of any crowded room. But I know how he made me feel. Like it might be worth it to try.

He made me a part of this.

Andthisis much better than solving my own problems.

• • •

I’m not there anymore. I know that. Wherever I went with Spitty isn’t where I am now. What I lived there isn’t quite the same as the wayIremember it happening. And I do remember now. I think?

It’s hard to know what is what.

To me, there was a crushing, grinding loudness, then a sudden stop, bringing in its place a ringing hiss everywhere. In my ears. In my chest. My legs. My eyes were open, but in slits, like a wide-screen movie on a thirteen-inch TV or something. Spits was above me. Soaked in blood. He was grabbing me and saying every swear word ever invented. Even some he made up. He was trying to hold something together, and he was shaking badly, like the time the police caught us toilet papering Turrey’s house, except this time he was full-on sobbing. More than end ofRookie of the Year–level crying. His face looked gnarly. Literally. There was blood pouring out of his nose.

Dripping on me.

On my body.

The body I can’t seem to find, because I can’t see anything but gray, and I don’t know if it’s even seeing at all, because I don’t think you can see thoughts. They exist on the inside of a blink.

Like me, right now.

• • •

It’s approaching midnight. The crowd has downsized, but you’d never know it by the amount of yellow robes scattered about. Cameron is asleep on Aminah’s shoulder with her legs propped on my lap. I’m holding a magazine, using her ankles as an armrest, but really eavesdropping on text-message girl. Her name is Brooke Delgado, and she has identified herself as Martin’s girlfriend, which jabs at my heart more than I care to admit. Guess I was right not to give him my number.

Being right is not always satisfying.

Brooke’s on the phone with her mom, mixing Spanish and English to relay everything Spencer’s dad said earlier. I’ve been hoping she might have an inside scoop, but it doesn’t seem so.

I go to get a Kit Kat from the vending machine, and I overhear that she isn’t Martin’s girlfriend after all, which bandages up my heart jab far more than it should.

“Stage five clinger,” says some kid they call Turrey.

Definitely not meant for my ears. But as a master in the art of multitasking, I can pretend to do up to three different things while listening to someone’s conversation. For maximum effect, I bang on the side of the machine to buy myself more time.

“That shit was over months ago. She knows it,” Turrey says. “She just wants attention.” He catches me looking at him. I dart back to my seat.

“How long do you want to stay?” Aminah asks. She looks like she’s over this whole thing, but is willing to provide support for a little longer if need be.

“You guys can go. I think I’m going to stay a little longer.”

She shoots me a look. “And how are you planning on getting home?”

“I don’t know,” I half joke. “But I want a chance to see him.”

“Petra Margaret McGowan, be real! This is so weird.” She looksveryover this whole thing now. “What would you tell his parents? Oh yeah, we go way back to five hours ago.”