“I’m your friend and I respect your wishes, but I refuse to let you walk out of my life. In fact, things are going to be very different this year. For starters, you’re coming to my next party, no arguments. I’m not letting you hide away anymore, so don’t even try and think of ways to get out of it!”
I open my mouth to argue, to say what I always say when he invites me to one of his parties, but he places his finger over my lips and stifles my impending argument before I can even begin.
“When we’re at school you are my friend, when we’re at home you are my friend, and when we’re at my party you are my friend. If someone gives you any shit, including Bowie, I’m giving them shit back, so deal with it!”
He then gives me a ‘don’t even start with me’ kind of look, before finally releasing his finger from my mouth.
“Party’s next Friday,” he says just as he pulls me against his shoulder and drops his head on top of mine.
“Next Friday?! You just had one this weekend!” I laugh over the ridiculousness of it.
“Well, my parents are back from Oz the week after that,” he shrugs with a soft ‘Matt’ laugh, “we’re gonna make it fancy dress. If I remember rightly, you always loved a bit of dressing up.”
“So did you!” I look at him with accusatory eyes which make him laugh even harder. “I don’t know Matt; you know it’s not really my scene.”
“Tell me you’re going,” he says, turning authoritarian, complete with a stern expression, “say ‘Yes Matt, I am coming to your party and stopping myself from being a recluse!’ Go on, say it!” I roll my eyes but smile all the while I repeat it back to him.
“But only if I can bring Mercy with me!”
His face morphs into one of horror before breaking into an award-winning smile and whispering, “Of course.”
Chapter 12
Amelia, 17
It’s Tuesday morning and I’ve bloody well overslept, so now I’m running around with mad hair, half-dressed and ready to turn into the Hulk because I can’t find my damn sneakers. Correction, I’ve found one but the other has well and truly fucked off somewhere, so now said speaker is being called all the cursory names under the sun. When I do eventually find it, I pick it up and growl at it with accusatory eyes and a promise to shred it to pieces if it ever tries it on again.
Just as I finally put myself together and out the door, my phone starts to ring, so it too gets a few names thrown its way while I mentally debate whether or not to answer it. When I see it’s a private number, I’m even more tempted to hang up and pretend like it never happened. However, something tells me I need to take it, that whoever it may be is important and needs me. Instead of sliding the red button, I flick the green and hold it up to my ear before cautiously muttering, “Hello?”
“Millie?” a sad, empty voice asks me, “Is it you, Millie?”
Grant?! Is this barely recognizable voice really my brother? I instantly stop my fast pace of walking and try to focus on staying upright just as all the blood drains from my head and into my feet and my legs threaten to give way. It’s been more than a year since I’ve heard his voice, the same one that I used to hear every day before he was ripped from my life, a voice I never thought I’d lose. I’ve been waiting for this moment, this opportunity to speak to him, to hear his comforting tone, and yet it now feels like a thousand needles are piercing through my skin, all at once.
“Millie? Please talk to me,” he whispers, and the sound of his pain causes a few tears to escape down my face.
“Grant?” I barely make the word push out from between my lips, but I know it’s at least enough for him to have heard me.
“It’s me, Millie, are you ok? God, Millie, it’s so good to hear you!” I nod even though he can’t see me, but in doing so, I let out a loud sob which I instantly try to cover with my hand. “Please don’t cry, Millie.”
“I can’t help it, I miss you, Grant,” I whimper. “Mom and Dad are never here, and I need you!”
I always thought that when this moment arrived, I would be brave. I’d be the one comforting him and yet the reality is always so much harder than the image you conjure up for yourself.
“I know, I’m sorry Mills,” he sobs through clenched teeth. He gives me silence, obviously taking a few moments before he finally says to me, “I want to see you. If I send a pass, will you come and see me?”
“Yes, yes, of course, I will,” I blurt out, trying to sound as reassuring as I can. “When?”
“Next Sunday,” he replies with huge relief in his voice. “Mills, how is she? How is Sam?”
His question renders me speechless, though I don’t know why, because of course he still loves her. If all this had never happened, I’m fairly certain they would still be together, no doubt on the road to happily ever after, high school sweethearts with the white picket fence. Of course, he would still want to know about her.
“I don’t know, Grant,” I tell him honestly, “she moved away to college after you were arrested.”
“Can you find out for me? Can you ask Bowie?” he asks, sounding so desperate my heart literally aches for him. “I need to know she’s ok!”
“Bowie and I don’t exactly talk, Grant,” I sigh sadly. “He kind of made my life hell after you were arrested. I don’t think I can ask him without him laughing in my face!”
“Please, Mils, try for me, please!” he begs. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you next Sunday, you promise?”
“Promise,” I whisper, and the line goes dead.
Needless to say, I was late for school.
The week passes slowly, especially during the times when I’m on my own and even South Park can’t pull me out of the depths of my spiraling fears for Grant. He sounded hollow, like a shell of the man I used to know, and it’s scaring me that I might never get back the boy I remember. He’s scarred, fractured, and will no doubt have been privy to a whole host of horrors inside of that prison. Surely, it’s bound to change a person and not in a good way, especially if that person was already the best they could be. Grant wasn’t a young delinquent in need of shock treatment to break him out of a bad spell. He was caring, kind and had dreams of coaching football and having the whole suburban family experience.
But then, I am one of only a few who believe in his innocence. Most only see him for the monster he was accused of being, so I guess prison is the place where they are convinced he truly belongs. As I battled with these conflicting thoughts inside of my head, I decided to call Gabe that evening, my go-to therapist of sorts, and practically parroted the conversation word for word. He tried to shield me from his own worries for his best friend, but I could hear it in the heavy sighs he kept releasing after every couple of words. It only made me more anxious over what he wasn’t telling me.
I told him about Sunday and he offered to come with me, but I politely declined, telling him I wanted to see my brother alone, to which he argued and said he’d at least pick me up afterward. I knew how futile it would be to refuse him again, so I gave in. Besides, it might be good to have some moral support. If I’m honest, I’m a little terrified of how I’m going to find Grant, not to mention the fact I’ve lived a very sheltered life and prison is somewhere I never thought I’d be stepping foot inside of.
After my phone call to Gabe, I make more tea and continue filling in application forms for a few colleges but end up pushing it all away with a defeated sigh. My heart’s not in it after talking about Grant. Even writing my full name and address multiple times seems like too much of a task. Besides, my focus is all on Stanford and I filled that bad boy out a few weeks ago. I’ve even asked a teacher to have a look over my essay after school tomorrow. These other places are just a backup plan.
Matt had asked me about colleges today and it’s not the first time he’s brought the subject up since we renewed our friendship over the summer. I told him of my ultimate dream, but he seemed a little cagey when I questioned him about his college choices, almost like he was sussing me out before
he made his final applications. Not meaning to sound conceited, but I’m a little worried he’s going to try and follow me, and I don’t really want that, for either of us.
Don’t get me wrong, our friendship is definitely back on track and I couldn’t be happier about it, but I still see the way he looks at me, like he’s hoping I’ll suddenly melt into his arms. After a good year, I still don’t see him the way he wants me to and if going to different colleges finally breaks whatever obsession he has over me, then surely, it’s a good thing, for both of us. For now, though, I’ve decided to just ignore it and pretend like I don’t see anything unusual.
The meeting with my tutor goes exceptionally well on Wednesday and I’m now ready to ceremoniously post my application with lots of crossed fingers and positive little mantras as I do so. Mercy had suggested we strip down to our underwear and try to cast some good luck spells around a bonfire but the thought of sleeping on my own afterward gave me the heebie-jeebies. I think I’ll settle for wearing my good luck panties and the aforementioned finger crossing.
I glance at my phone and sigh huffily when I realize it’s later than I thought and Mercy would have bailed on me, while Matt will already be at home, meticulously completing his homework before six, like he does every night when he doesn’t have football practice. The boy is such a Perfect Peter sometimes and never ever leaves an assignment until the last minute. He always takes great satisfaction in acting smug when I realize, with horror, that I have an essay due the following day.
With that in mind, I stop off at my locker to grab my MP3 player so I can listen to some classic tunes on the way home, hopefully making the journey less of a boring exercise. One which would no doubt have me worrying about my brother again. The door swings open with so much crap shoved inside, half of it ends up spilling onto the floor with an almighty thump. I mutter a bunch of obscenities, which is a little concerning given that this is far from the first time I’ve taken to threatening inanimate objects with my wrath.
“Careful, Fridge, you might taint that good girl image,” Bowie tuts as he walks past me in his usual laid-back manner. “Then even the teachers won’t like you!”
I bite my lips together and shake my head in exasperation, but ultimately decide to ignore him, remembering that those adults who told you to ignore bullies weren’t just feeding you bullshit advice to shut you up; it actually works. Pretending like Bowie doesn’t exist does seem to be the best method for dealing with his usual crap, just like all the other shiny, popular people. Plus, I managed to build up a whole load of resilience to people like him and can now take most of his insults with a pinch of salt.
I eventually stand up to push everything back inside, still in an unorganized mess, but one I can work with, at least until I have more of an inclination to sort it out properly. Of course, this will most likely be when I graduate and have to clear it out altogether. In my defense, Bowie is now messing about with his own filing cabinet and I’m kind of hoping to rush away while it’s holding his attention. I may be resilient, but I also believe in self-preservation, so avoiding risky situations is still my ultimate goal in life.
A door bursts open and a very pregnant Mrs Simmons exits her classroom with buckets of random stuff, looking very much like sports equipment. She huffs and puffs as she brings out another two buckets, struggling to manage them all, together with her sizeable baby bump. Even Bowie has looked up to see what’s causing all the commotion and immediately looks just as sheepish as me. We then look at one another, each with an exasperated sigh, one that says we’re going to have to offer to help, otherwise, we’re going to feel horribly guilty for the rest of the day.
“Mrs Simmons? Do you need some help?” I ask with Bowie falling into step behind me.
“Oh, hey you two, I didn’t know any students were still here,” she smiles appreciatively. “I had this genius idea to do a ‘physical’ science lesson with the Sophomores but didn’t think to get a couple of them to help me with this lot. Do you think you guys could take them back to the PE shed for me? Bowie, you know where they go, don’t you?”
“Sure thing, Mrs Simmons,” he answers with enough charm to melt even the strictest of teachers. I practically scoff when he dons his most panty-melting smile and she blushes with a nervous laugh.
“Thanks, Bowie…and Millie, you’re both on my thumbs up list!”
Bowie picks up two of the buckets with little effort, while I try to shuffle the last two about, sending a few balls trailing down the hall like little escaped convicts making a run for it. Bowie chuckles but makes no attempt to help me, not even under the teacher’s eyes. Once I get my shit together, I begin to follow his lead, leaving Mrs Simmons to pace away towards her car. I mentally pat myself on the back for doing such a good deed, even if I do have to follow Mr Swagger out front. He takes his sweet time and I swear he’s purposely swinging his butt as he walks.
“Keeping up, Fridge?” he calls back, to which I tut loudly. “I hope you staring at my ass isn’t hypnotizing you. Course, no one could blame you, I do have a particularly fine derriere.”
“And such an abnormally large head!” I bite back just as we reach the doors to the shed.
Calling it a ‘shed’ doesn’t really do it the justice it deserves. The old, wooden structure was replaced at the end of last year, just after the previous one finally gave up and collapsed in an almighty heap. Its replacement is a modern, tin structure with all the mod cons, including a fully functioning light, so should be called something a little grander than ‘the shed’. I guess old habits die hard, so the name stuck.
Bowie, being the dedicated jock that he is, taps in the code to open the door from memory, before walking in and holding the door out for me. I silently follow him inside, take a good look around the new interior and let the door swing closed behind me. My leader, the king, hears the click of the door and stops dead on his feet with a heavy, frustrated sigh.
“Don’t tell me you let the door close, Fridge!” he huffs before turning around to find that the door, is indeed, very much shut.
“What, why?” I gasp with obvious concern.
“It automatically locks, you idiot! I can’t open it from the inside. For fuck’s sake!” he snarls, yet still goes over to try and persuade it into opening by ruthlessly shoving and kicking at it.
“Why didn’t you tell me that?! You’re the football player, do I look like I spend my spare time around here?!” I growl just as he gives in and proceeds to mentally throw daggers my way.
“Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re only over here when you wanna come and tease Matt! I guess you ignored me the other day when you agreed to go to his party on Friday!” He throws each one of the buckets underneath one of the shelves before chucking himself down against the door, all the while playing about with his phone, trying to find a spare bar of signal. “Shit!”
His curse tells me that signal is at a premium here, which means we’re pretty much screwed, stuck inside a tin box with only each other for company. Marvelous! And just to make the situation go from bad to epically shit the light vanishes within an instant, leaving us in pitch blackness. Not even a crack of sunlight to sneak in through the sides.
This is not ideal at all; it’s stifling in fact. So much so, I feel like the walls are beginning to close in on me. If I’m not being blatantly obvious here, I don’t do small, confined spaces. The very thought of going potholing is enough to have me clawing my eyes out at the same time as going into an all-consuming panic attack.
“W-where are the lights?!” I stutter as my breathing descends into short, sharp gasps of air. A thin layer of perspiration begins to cover my brow and I end up stumbling about trying to steady myself on something which isn’t there.
“They automatically switch off after two minutes of the door closing, genius!” he mumbles as a tiny flash from his phone momentarily lights up his eyes. His tone signaling that he’s obviously still blaming me for the whole fiasco.
My head feels light, dizzy and I
begin to hyperventilate, taking in noisy gulps of air that doesn’t appear to do anything to satisfy my body’s desperate need for oxygen. I feel the tears running freely down my face as the horror of being confined in a pitch-black and unfamiliar space sends me over the edge. In the end, I find myself crouching down to the floor, resting on my hands and knees, desperately trying to calm down but not being able to think rationally enough to achieve this.
“What the fuck is wrong, Fridge?” Bowie barks from his perch on the floor with about as much empathy as a serial killer. “You choking or something?”
“N-n-no…can’t…breathe…” I gasp between words when I hear him stumbling around trying to find me but ends up tripping over my child-like pose on the floor. I groan when his massive weight flattens me against the ground, which thankfully encourages him to instantly pull away but not without managing to yank my wrist as he does so.
“Are you having a panic attack?” he asks with the first sound of concern I think I’ve ever heard him use with me.
The Darkness Within Page 14