My chest is tight, and I suck in a lungful of diesel fumes. God, I’m out of shape. My calves cramp and my thighs ache as I plod one heavy boot in front of the other. Why didn’t I wear running shoes? Sweat pools under my breasts, and I feel my hair sticking to my forehead. I run on. I can’t stop. I can’t slow down.
Katie.
My mind never gets further than that. I feel it flex, like a fist trying to hold sand. My best friend.
A group of guys coming out of a strip club eye me. “Hey, cutie!” one of them yells. “Wanna ride?” He pumps his pelvis back and forth, and his buddies laugh.
I run on.
I pass the 7-Eleven, the Dollar Tree, a Wendy’s. I must have run about three miles. Only three miles! I’m not going to make it, I think. I’m not.
A war breaks out in my mind between the You-Need-to-Rests and the If-You-Stop-Now-You’ll-Never-Make-Its.
I have to keep going. Katie, Katie, Katie. I can’t stop. Can’t stop.
Another mile. Two.
Pain stabs into my side. I stumble, then run another five steps. Run on. Finally, the You-Need-to-Rests win.
Just a minute, I tell myself. Just a minute, then I’ll get up. I’ll get up and run the rest of the way.
Katie, Katie, Katie.
There’s a small patch of landscaping at the edge of a gas station. I sit down on a pile of freezing mulch and pull my Snuggie close around me. I rest there a moment, then lie back. There are no stars above me. Just glare from the gas station sign and darkness beyond. I’m tired. Bone tired.
I start to wonder if I’m going to make it. I’m not sure I can get back up.
Beep! Beep!
I hear a car roll up, and fear shoots through me because I figure it must be that group of drunken strip-club guys. But I’m out of strength. I can’t even sit up. Let me die comes into my mind, and it’s terrifying, because I’ve never had a thought like that before.
“Cuckoo!” someone shouts, and before I can process what’s happening, strong arms scoop beneath me and I smell Flatso’s familiar, flowery scent and hear her voice beside my ear.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” she whispers over and over as she carries me to Zitsy’s car.
Zitsy cranks up the heat in the car as Flatso gently fastens me into my seat belt. “We’re going to see her, Kooks,” she says. “We’re all going. We’ll take you. Don’t worry.” Her voice is both soothing and firm, the exact kind of voice you want to hear after running five miles through a scary part of town at midnight. It occurs to me that if Flatso were a guy instead of a girl, she’d likely be on the football team, and she would probably be one of the most popular guys in school.
But, instead, she’s a girl. The world doesn’t see her strength—they only see her weight. And instead of being popular, she’s one of my very best friends.
My best friends.
My best friend.
Katie, Katie, Katie.
And that’s the thought that wraps itself around me as Zitsy pulls out of the gas station and drives off down the black ribbon of road toward the hospital.
Chapter 53
I GUESS I’M NOT SO FINE
I reel a moment from the rush of relief I feel when I walk into the hospital. The bright lights, the warm air. I trip toward the desk and say Brainzilla’s name. “Katie,” I pant, “Katherine Sloane. We’re looking for her.”
The nurse shakes her head. “I’m sorry—visiting hours are from eight AM to ten PM,” she says.
“We can’t see her?” Zitsy wails. He looks devastated by this news.
“Can you at least tell us if she’s okay?” I ask.
The nurse’s warm brown eyes are sympathetic. “Are you a member of the immediate family?”
“Yes.” This doesn’t even feel like a lie.
“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to see some identification.”
I hesitate. “I’m not immediate family.”
The nurse sighs. “Look, I know it’s really hard to have to wait. But it’s important for our patients to get their rest. And I’m afraid the law forbids me from giving out any information about our patients.”
“We’re really worried,” I say, pressing my palms against the counter. “Please?” God, is she okay? What did she do? What did she do to herself? Will she live?
Will she be—the same?
All I want is for one answer—one answer to one question. Anything.
“We’re desperate,” Zitsy says. “We’re begging.”
“I really wish I could,” she says, and she sounds like she means it. But she doesn’t give us any information. I realize that she must see people like us all the time. Wow. I would break down in five seconds. I would tell all.
“Shit!” Flatso hisses at her phone. She’s texting with the speed of a concert pianist. “Aunt Joan can’t even tell us how Katie is because of HIPAA regs.”
“Can’t she give us a hint?” I ask. “What did she do? God—what if Katie’s dying?” I sound hysterical, and I know it, but I can’t stop the thoughts: What if she blew off part of her face with a gun? What if she took a bottle of pills and gave herself brain damage? What if she jumped—
“I feel sick,” Zitsy says.
“She could lose her job,” Flatso says apologetically.
Screw her job! I want to scream, to grab Aunt Joan and force the information out of her. Screw her job! Screw this hospital! Instead, I slide down the nurses’ station and lie on the green-and-navy patterned carpet. It’s got an intricate, mazelike design, and makes me dizzy when I look at it too closely. I shut my eyes.
I’m not doing too well.
Zitsy sits beside me and picks up my hand. “It’s okay,” he says. “She’ll be okay.”
I take a breath. Then another. It’s all I can manage. I try to pretend that I’m Eggy—someone who never cries. It would be great to have her here right now, but Zitsy and Flatso couldn’t get hold of her.
Without her, I’m just too exhausted to fight the tears anymore.
Chapter 54
IMMOVABLE OBJECT
Mom, I just want to—Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.” Zitsy rolls his eyes and shakes his head at me. “Mom. Mom. Can I just say one thing? Mom. Mom.” He holds the phone away from his ear, and I can hear his mother’s tinny voice freaking out from across the room. “I’d better get home,” Zitsy says. “I don’t want my mom to hemorrhage something.”
“Let’s go, Kooks,” Flatso says.
“I’m not leaving.”
“Come on, Kooks,” Zitsy says. “Sitting here isn’t going to help anything.” He looks around the slightly seedy waiting area. Orange foam is coming out of one of the chairs. Most of the magazines are torn and smeary looking. An old and slightly busted television blares in the corner.
“You guys have moms who will freak out if you don’t come home. I don’t.”
I didn’t mean for that to come out at all, but once the words are out of my mouth, I realize that they sound kind of pathetic. It’s like, Cue the violin music, people! Ugh.
Flatso chews her lower lip, like she’s stopping herself from saying something. She and Zitsy look at each other for a long time, apparently having some kind of ESP chat.
After about two minutes of meaningful glances, Flatso says, “Okay, Kooks. We’ll be back first thing.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Zitsy asks.