I’m grateful that Sequoia offered to drive me home. I’m definitely in no condition to drive my own car right now. In fact, I can’t even seem to find it. I must have forgotten where I parked. Among so many other things that seem to have slipped my mind today.
I recognize Sequoia’s car from her SnipPic posts. It’s the white BMW parked in the back of the lot. She opens the passenger door for me and I drop the bag I’m holding on the floor and collapse inside, resting my head against the cool surface of the window.
Sequoia drives in silence. I half expect her to ask me for directions, because how does she know where I live? But no, she makes all the right turns like she’s navigated them a thousand times, until she pulls up in front of my house.
“I’m worried about you, Crusher,” she says, shifting the car into Park.
But I don’t answer, because I’m too busy gaping at the car parked in the driveway. My car. Woody, the Honda.
How did it get back here?
I parked it in the Windsor Academy parking lot. I remember doing it. It’s how I got to Windsor in the first place. Did Dad come and pick it up for some reason? Did the school call him to tell him about my fall?
“Kennedy,” Sequoia says, reaching over from the passenger seat to pass a hand in front of my face.
I blink and look at her. “Huh?”
“You’re not yourself.”
“You can say that again,” I mumble.
She bites her lip, clearly struggling with something. “Is it just the fall or is there something else bothering you?”
I stare blankly back at her.
She huffs. “Look, I know it’s weird. It’s weird for me, too. She should be here. She should be bouncing around in the backseat, making us listen to that horrible punk music she likes, or coming up with those ridiculous caption challenges. But she’s not. And it’s not our fault. We have to remember that. She made her choices. And they were her choices.”
I blink rapidly, trying to keep up. But it’s a lost cause.
“Promise me you’ll try to get some sleep,” Sequoia goes on. “Take a Dormidrome.”
I let out a resigned sigh. “I don’t even know what that is.”
Then, before she can respond, I grab my bag and drag myself out of the car. When I close the front door behind me, I rest my head against it, waiting for the pounding to subside. It doesn’t. I need to find some aspirin.
I wander into the kitchen and screech to a halt when I see my mom sitting at the table, working on her laptop. I glance at the clock on the microwave. It’s a little after four. What is she doing home?
When she sees me, she jumps up and throws her arms around me. “Kennedy! Are you okay? Your school called.”
I step out of her embrace and point in the general direction of the driveway. “Is that why the Honda is outside?”
She tilts her head, like she doesn’t understand what I’m asking.
“Did you go pick it up?” I rephrase.
Mom studies me, pursing her lips. “Nurse Wilson said you hit your head. How do you feel?”
“You know who Nurse Wilson is?”
Mom’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “Of course I know who Nurse Wilson is. She’s worked at Windsor since before you started.”
I have to lie down. Like now.
Without a word, I shuffle toward the stairs, but pause when I notice the state of the living room. It’s a complete disaster. There are dirty dishes on the coffee table and law books spread out all over the floor. Half of the throw pillows from the couch have been tossed haphazardly around the room.
“What happened in here?” I ask. “Were we robbed or something?”
My mom, who has been watching me vigilantly, walks over and peers at the living room. She doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” I repeat, my voice rising. “It’s a mess!”
She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. “I can clean it if it bothers you.”
“Of course it bothers me!” I shriek. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
Mom closes her eyes for a long drawn-out moment. “I think maybe you should rest. You’re getting awfully worked up.”
Worked up?
Well, that’s the understatement of the century. My entire life has been pulled out from under me and I have no idea why or how! Obviously I’m getting worked up!
I turn around and stare into the kitchen, hoping something will make sense, but it’s just as uncharacteristically chaotic as the living room. Dishes stacked up in the sink, pans left on the burners, piles of unopened mail on the counter. Dad is going to freak when he sees this.
I’m about to ask where he is when I catch sight of the closed basement door, and then suddenly everything clicks into place.
Dad always shuts the basement door when he’s working really hard and doesn’t want to be disturbed. He told me this morning that the art dealer asked for more pieces and he’d be busy for a while. He’s probably been locked in his studio all day trying to pump out more photos. That’s why the place is such a mess.
Mom takes me by the arm. “Come on. I’m sure everything will look better after a few hours of sleep.” She coaxes me up the steps and down the hall, past Frankie’s closed door with the familiar poster that says “Never Trust an Atom. They Make Up Everything,” and to my room where I proceed to collapse onto my mattress—uniform, shoes, and all.
I close my eyes, trying to ignore the panic that’s coating my throat like tar.
Relax. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe everything will look better after a few hours of sleep.