LIFELINE
ABBEY LEE NASH
A Tiny Fox Press Book
© 2018 Abbey Lee Nash
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by U.S.A. copyright law. For information address: Tiny Fox Press, North Port, FL.
This is a work of fiction: Names, places, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Alfred Quitevis
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: TBD
ISBN: 978-1-946501-07-3
Tiny Fox Press and the book fox logo are all registered trademarks of Tiny Fox Press LLC
Tiny Fox Press LLC
North Port, FL
For J
Table of Contents
Before
1:00 AM
2:30 AM
3:00 AM
4:00 AM
5:00 AM
9:00 AM
After
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
Day 9
Day 10
Day 11
Day 13
Day 15
Day 16
Day 17
Day 18
Day 19
Day 22
Day 23
Day 24
Day 27
Day 28
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
Before
Sudden death.
First game of the season, and we’re heading into overtime against our arch rivals, the Wolves. Four minutes left. First goal wins.
Four minutes to prove to Coach Wilson and smug President Schaffer that they made the right choice by finally naming me lacrosse captain this year.
My eyes are blurry with sweat. Something wet drips down my chin. My nose is running.
I yank up my helmet, swipe my nose across my sleeve.
Coach Wilson stands beside the bench, his thick arms crossed over his pot belly. He glances down at me. “You alright, kid?”
“Allergies,” I mutter, lowering my helmet. “I’m fine.”
“Still,” he says, “better drink up.” He tosses me a Gatorade.
I squirt blue liquid through my mouthpiece and look over my shoulder at the bleachers. The crowd’s all riled up. I spot Savannah with her friends, anxiously clutching a Frappuccino. She painted my number on her t-shirt: it’s knotted up in the back, so it shows the tight skin of her stomach above her jeans.
My stepdad, Steven, is down front, working the crowd like he does at the country club, chatting up the other khaki-wearing tightwads that cheer on their high school alma mater. Mom’s on the phone—a work call, probably. Benny’s standing on the bleachers beside her. “Go, Lions!” he shouts, thrusting a sign into the air. The “S” is backward. He waves the thing around, nearly toppling over. Mom grabs his shirt before he face-plants off the bleachers. That kid is such a spaz.
The ref blows the whistle, and Coach thumps my shoulder. “You’re up, Eli.”
“Go, Eli!” Benny shrieks.
I give him a thumbs up, quick and low, then jog across the field to the center circle.
The Wolves’ midfielder eyes me with cocky indifference.
Coach paces the sideline, chomping gum like it’s rawhide. I know what he’s thinking. The outcome of this game will set the tone for the entire season. It’s a hell of a lot easier to stay on top than it is to claw your way up from the bottom.
“Down, set,” the ref announces.
The Wolf spits in the grass by my feet. We get low, and our eyes meet. I am the dirt under his Nike cleats.
I am nothing unless I win.
The whistle calls the face-off, and the midfielder slams into me. I scramble for the ball, but this guy’s bigger and stronger. His shoulder catches me under the chin. I fall back, recover, but it’s too late. He flings the ball to an open attack player, and the Wolves charge our goal.
I follow, another midfielder close behind me. The Wolves take the shot, but our goalie makes the save. The bleachers erupt in cheers as he scans the field. “Alex!” I yell.
Alex whips me the ball, and I snatch it out of the air. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring my vision. Footsteps pound the field behind me. Up ahead, a Wolves’ defender bounces on the balls of his feet, his body tense, ready to come after me. I fake the pass. In the split second that he pauses, I get my chance. I take two more steps, wind up, and shoot.
The goalie lunges, but the ball slips past his reach and streaks into the upper corner of the net.
I don’t even hear the ref’s whistle. My team mobs me, slapping my helmet, my back. The crowd floods the field.
Savannah’s in my arms, her cheeks flushed pink and her blonde hair windblown. She pushes up my helmet, kisses me right there in front of everybody, not even caring that I’m dripping sweat.
Alex squirts a Gatorade fountain into the air, showering everybody with sticky blue drops, and Savannah pulls away from me, giggling. Gatorade spatters her cheek like blue freckles, and I gently swipe them away with my thumb.
“Party at my place tonight,” Alex bellows, clapping me on the shoulder. “This asshole’s the guest of honor!”
Savannah beams up at me, and for a moment, I’m the guy she thinks I am, the one Mom and Steven want me to be.
Mr. Joe Academy. Super-jock. LionsHeart material.
The high’s incredible but short-lived.
Faking it is exhausting.
The house is empty when I get home. Mom has Benny, and Steven took President Schaffer out to lunch at the club to celebrate the win.
My win.
I dump my stuff in the smallest bedroom—the one place in this ridiculous McMansion that feels like mine.
I flip on Comedy Central and flop across my bed. My eyelids are heavy, but my body’s still amped from the game.
There are footsteps on the stairs. Benny flings open my bedroom door and hurls himself onto my bed, his mouth ringed in neon blue. “Wanna watch SpongeBob?”
“What? No, I don’t . . .” I shove off the bed. “Mom!”
Mom’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, her hair pushed back with sunglasses, her hand on her hip. “Just for an hour? I’ve got to get back to the office, and you know I can’t get anything done with . . .”
She tips her head toward Benny, mouths you know who.
Benny tugs on my jeans. “Did you know Mommy has a spinny chair in her office? And candy, too!”
I roll my eyes. “C’mon, Mom,” I try. “I have plans . . .”
She lowers her sunglasses, hikes her work bag up on her shoulder. “One hour, okay? Two, tops.”
Benny’s wandering around my room, sticky fingers touching all my stuff.
“Fine,” I groan.
“Thank you!” Mom chirps. Her heels click away from the stairs. “Dad will be home soon!”
“He’s not my dad,” I shoot back as Mom shuts the front door behind her.
When I turn around, Benny’s at my dresser, grubby hands tugging at the top drawer. I dive, slam the drawer shut.
Benny’s eyes get big, watery at the edges.
“Don’t you need a nap or something?” I ask.
“Babies take naps,” Benny sniffs. “I’m a big bo
y.”
“Okay, then, big boy, you know how to turn the TV on, don’t you?”
Benny nods.
“Go turn on SpongeBob, and I’ll be down in a minute, okay?”
“‘Kay.”
Benny pads down the stairs. When I hear the TV, I open my dresser drawer, pull out the baggie I’d hidden in a pair of rolled up socks, and empty the contents into my hand.
A lone capsule stares up at me accusingly.
Only one left? I’ve been so careful to ration my supply—only on the weekends, most of the time anyway. Last week was a killer, though, with double practices on top of exams. But still . . .
I tuck the baggie back inside the sock, jam it into the back of my drawer.
I can save it.
I can wait.
But my legs don’t want to move. And my fingers twitch with want. I just bagged the first game of the season—don’t I deserve to celebrate?
“E-li!” Benny’s back at the bottom of the stairs. “E-li!”
I peel away from my dresser, lean out my bedroom door. “Didn’t I tell you to start SpongeBob?”
The remote dangles from Benny’s fingers. “Yeah, but . . .”
“But what?” I snap, louder than I mean to.
“I want to watch it with you.” His lower lip trembles.
I sigh, single-handedly defeated by a five-year-old.
“Fine.” I cast one backward glance at my dresser before I head down the stairs.
I can save it.
I can wait.
After one bag of popcorn, two episodes of SpongeBob, and three games of old-school Mario Kart (I won twice, Benny once—a total fluke), Steven finally comes home.
“Daddy!” Benny flings himself at Steven who swings him up into his arms, ruffling his brown hair.
“Sorry I’m late,” Steven says to me. He smells like sunscreen and Arnold Palmer; the tip of his nose is sunburned. “Schaffer never was any good at golf.”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
“Thanks for watching the Ben-ster here. How about I take you guys out to pizza, celebrate your win?”
Benny cheers. “Pizza!”
No doubt, Mom put Steven up to this. No matter how many times I tell her I’m not interested, Mom peddles “father/son bonding time” like street crack.
I shut off the TV. “I’m not hungry.”
Benny’s face falls, but I swear Steven looks relieved. “Maybe next time then?”
“Sure,” I say on my way out of the den. We both know it’s a lie. Neither one of us actually wants to spend any time together.
“Go get your jacket, Ben,” Steven says.
Finally—a few minutes alone. I take the stairs two at a time. This time I lock my bedroom door. I could save it. I could wait.
But I don’t want to.
I yank open my sock drawer with hungry hands.
Steven calls from the bottom of the stairs. “We’re heading out, Eli. You sure you don’t want to come?”
“Yes, I’m sure!” I holler. Jesus Christ, leave already! There’s a pause; the front door opens, then closes. I exhale, roll the last capsule in my palm.
How can something so small make me feel so good?
I grab my phone, send a quick text to my best friend, Chase:
H X 3
I’ll get a few more, and this time I’ll make them last. Weekends only.
I crack the capsule, sprinkle the contents in a line on my dresser.
Totally in control.
It’s after midnight when I wake up. I dig in my pocket for my phone and squint at the screen. There are three texts from Savannah and two from Chase:
10 p.m. Savannah: Party at Alex’s babe. C u soon?
11 p.m. Savannah: Everybody’s here. Where r u?
11 p.m. Chase: Got ur gear. Ur picking me up, right?
11:45 p.m. Chase: Don’t back out of this one, dude. Ur my ride!
12:00 a.m. Savannah: Hellooo?!?!
I groan and force myself to sit up. I’m sore, and my stomach churns. Parties aren’t really my scene. Too many people, too much noise. But being captain comes with certain expectations, and if my teammates knew I’d rather spend the night watching SNL reruns, I’d never live it down. Besides, I have to meet up with Chase. I send him a quick text:
On my way
In the bathroom, I squirt in eye drops, run wet hands through my brown hair until it looks halfway normal. I shake it down the way I like it, so that it covers the half-inch scar that severs my left eyebrow. Then I head quietly downstairs.
Steven’s already asleep, but I hear Mom in the living room. Even though it’s midnight on a Saturday, tax season means she’s always working. I lean against the living room door frame. “I’m going out, Mom.”
Her laptop rests on her knees, and stacks of paper are scattered on the couch around her. A pencil is knotted in the dark curls on top of her head, another clutched between her teeth. “A little late, isn’t it?” she mumbles over the pencil.
“C’mon, Mom,” I groan. “Don’t start.”
Mom gives me a long stare. I know she’s trying to decide if it’s worth the inevitable fight, worth waking Steven. I know she’s thinking about another night a few months ago, the night of Winter Formal, the phone call that dragged her out of bed at 4am.
“I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here, Eli, but sometimes you make it so hard. This new crowd you’ve been hanging out with . . . I don’t trust them.”
I fix my gaze on a worn spot of hardwood floor where the varnish is fading. With the tip of my sneaker, I nudge back the wool tassels of the rug to cover it. “It’s just me and Chase tonight, Mom. Video games, pizza, nothing exciting. I’ll be back by two, okay? Promise.”
Mom loves Chase, the first friend I made after she married Steven, and we moved to the “good side” of town. Chase made life bearable, for both of us. But things changed last year when the lax team went state, and Savannah and I started dating. All of a sudden, people at school decided I was somebody—somebody they wanted at parties, somebody they wanted to know. It wasn’t until this year that Chase found his own brand of popularity. It comes in the form of the dime bags that have kept him on LionsHeart’s VIP list all year long.
Mom sighs. “Please be safe.”
“Always.”
The roads are quiet, and it’s not long before I reach Chase’s neighborhood. I pull up to the curb, tap my horn. Chase’s door opens, and he jogs down the driveway to my car.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters, sliding into the passenger seat.
“I fell asleep,” I admit.
“Some king you are,” Chase says. “The high school monarchy is totally wasted on you.”
“Yeah, probably.” I stifle a yawn. “Did you bring favors?”
Chase nods. “I never show up at a party empty-handed. It’s rude.” He pulls a small baggie out of his pocket and hands it to me.
The tan capsules are barely visible in the dark. With my fingers, I count them through the wax. “Three, right?”
Chase pretends to look offended. “That hurts. Really. Have I ever sold you short?”
I lean over Chase to hide the baggie under the floor mat. Then I dig my wallet from my pocket and fork over thirty bucks. Three pills to last me the week.
“Pleasure doing business with you, sir.” Chase folds the money without counting it and stuffs it inside his coat. “That reminds me.” He reaches into his other coat pocket and pulls out a small bottle. “A token of thanks for driving.”
I give Chase a sideways stare as I pull away from the curb. “I always drive.”
“And I’m saying thank you.” He unscrews the cap and passes it over. “Wouldn’t want you to go in unarmed.”
I take the bottle gratefully. The first swig burns going down, and I take another before passing the bottle back. “Thanks.”
Chase takes a few quick nips, then pulls a Marlboro Red fro
m the soft pack in his shirt pocket and lights up. “What are friends for?”
1:00 AM
Alex’s house glows in the dark and throbs with bass. Cars litter the front yard like lawn ornaments. I glance down at my phone. Savannah hasn’t texted since before midnight. She’s definitely pissed.
Chase gives me a sidelong glance as we climb out of the car. “You alright?”
I slam my door shut and nod.
We head toward the house. The front door flies open, and Savannah’s blowing down the steps toward me, her face a twisted mask of “I’m-so-happy-to-see-you” and “You-are-so-dead-to-me.” Even pissed off, she’s hot, her blonde hair all shampoo commercial. Plus, she’s wearing those jeans that I want to pull off with my teeth.
“Eli . . .” she starts, but I rush her, pull her to me, and kiss her hard on the mouth before any other words can come out.
She softens a little in my arms, then pulls away from the kiss and reaches up a hand to push back my wet hair. I toss my head, shaking my hair down again.
Savannah’s ocean eyes hide green rip currents. “What took you so long?”
Chase ambles up the stairs past us. “Just a little harmless pre-partying.”
“Dude!” I spin around like I’m going to punch him, but he’s already swerving into the house.
Savannah’s eyes narrow. “You’re not in trouble, are you? You know we can’t take any more trouble.” She means the kind of trouble we got in after Winter Formal. It was February before her parents would let us see each other again, and that was only because I showed up at her house on Valentine’s Day. I wore my nicest clothes, took grocery store flowers for her mom, and swore on my life to her dad that I would never put his daughter in that situation again.
“Tell me,” Savannah demands.
I hook my arms around her waist and make like I’m going to haul her off into the woods behind Alex’s house. She giggles and punches my chest in that girly-way that’s supposed to hurt but wouldn’t dent a pillow. I tell her the truth—at least part of it. “I fell asleep.”
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