by Holly Ryan
u home? coming over. lots to talk about.
I hang on to my phone and begin my walk with it clutched in my hand. I know she’ll answer. When she’s not at school, Mara’s always home; and when she’s home, she always answers me. It’s kind of a pact of ours, a mutual respect for each other’s texts.
My purse is heavier than I remember as I heave it further onto my shoulder. I pick up my steps, and as I do, I think. I wish I’d brought a change of clothes. It’s almost November and the chill in the air has been getting worse and worse these past few weeks. That’s one thing I hate about living here, in Illinois – the weather can be so unforgiving. What I wouldn’t give to slip on a hoodie right now. I’m sure Mara will let me borrow some of clothes, but still. After the drama that Cole just put my through, tonight’s a night I really need the comfort my own sweats. And Netflix. And maybe an entire quart of chocolate ice cream.
I think about things as I walk. Like – dancing. The dance tonight had gone well, so at least I have that going for me. Well, I take that back. It had gone well for those who’d gotten to go onstage … and that wasn’t me. I was behind the scenes, as usual, hiding behind the sideline of the drawn curtains, dressed to perfection for the off chance I’d get to go on. I’m a kind of understudy, I guess you could say. I landed the role earlier this year, after trying out with some of the best dancers in the county. I’d done well, never missing a mark and performing as flawlessly as I could, inciting my mom to dab at her eyes with a tissue as she watched me, so proud of me even though I didn’t get a main part. But I had no chance. You see, my high school has an amazing dance program. One of the best in the country. I just so happened to have been born into this school, as if by some chance or fate, but there are some students whose parents have them transferred across the country just for our program. Which sucks for me, because no matter how good I am, there’s always someone better.
Sometimes I’m glad for my role; I think that I never wanted to replace the dancers, after all. Sometimes I can’t stand the thought of actually dancing in front of all those people. I think I’m not made for that kind of thing. All I really want is to be out there as an extra, someone who can be seen and acknowledged but who can hide safely behind the dancers getting the most attention, the ones who so obviously want it.
Then I tell myself to snap out of it. Of course I’d jump at the chance to dance for my school – dance is my life. Dance gives me flow; it gives me purpose; it brings out a grace in me I never knew I had, and that I couldn’t dare to ask for in my most wild of prayers. When I dance, everything around me fades into darkness; I can breathe. I dance. I love. Like I said, it’s life. I live for it. And the way we get along, I feel as though it lives for me, too.
I’m never sure why they even have me wear this heavy thing if they don’t have me dance. It’s a precaution, I guess. I’m getting tired; I’m no longer worried about keeping it clean, but I have to hold some of it up in order to move across the sidewalk quickly.
And – Cole. I wonder if my mother will suspect it was Cole. God, I hope not. That’s the last thing I need. Another lecture about him, more nights of forbidden seeing during which I have to sneak out my bedroom widow in response to his secretive texts in the middle of the night.
As mad as I am at him, I can’t get him out of my head. Cole and I have had our problems, sure. But we always work them out, in our own way, and end up back together. And isn’t that what really matters, in the end? Tonight’s no different. Tonight he picked me up from the performance, right on time, just like he usually does. I’d kissed him hello and immediately sensed something was wrong. It was a look on his face, a kind of tension in the way he was moving. But I didn’t want to ask because when he gets like that, well … he’s kind of scary. I have no way of knowing if he’s going to blow up the minute I say something, so I usually just choose to stay quiet. I chuckle. I Stayed Quiet: The Avery Dylan Story. If someone were to write a book about me, that should be the title. Staying quiet in times of discomfort is the story of my life.
It’s my story, and my downfall. Because this time, the very fact that I didn’t talk got to him. He said something like, “You’re outgoing enough to flirt with other guys behind stage, but you can’t strike up a good conversation here with me?” and before I knew what was happening, he’d pulled the truck over and said if I wasn’t going to act like his girlfriend I could get out and walk myself home. I was shocked, I’ll admit. And I was pissed off. But it’s nothing new. He’s done plenty of sketchy things in the past.
Right after he said that but before he could pull over and throw me out, my first thought was to ask why he thought I’d been flirting with anyone. Someone must have told him something that wasn’t true, and I wanted to know who it was. But as I was composing my words, I was told the ominous: “Get out,” his deep voice echoing through the cabin, whisking away what little courage I had.
To make things easier on both of us, I listened to him. So that I could maybe get through to him at a later time, when his head was in a cooler place.
Walking now, and recalling the sensation of adrenaline – fear – coursing through me at that time, I’m not so sure that was the real reason.
My phone chimes in my hand. I open my palm. It’s Mara.
door’s open! what’s up with cole this time?
I smile. It’s no surprise that Mara suspected my news would be about Cole. Mara is always one to lend an ear to my venting, and I use her an awful lot when it comes to that boy.
I stop to check my bearings. Only two more blocks to her house. I rub my exposed arms and start dreaming about that hot shower.
I’m standing in the middle of the sidewalk, my thumbs working tirelessly to return Mara’s text. Texting while walking has never been my thing. I’ve seen one too many funny YouTube videos of people falling in public while doing so to risk it; with my clumsy nature, that would never turn out well. And there’s a lot to explain to her about Cole and me, certainly enough to warrant an entire night’s conversation, but she deserves a fair warning in advance. The poor girl should know what she’s getting herself into by inviting me and all my drama into her home after something like this just happened.
I send a brief reply, then continue on my way. Though the streets have remained silent and empty this whole time, I now hear something behind me as I walk. I turn to see an older man, middle-aged and wearing a white T-shirt with crisply pressed blue jeans. He’s keeping his distance, as is the polite thing to do in such a situation, and when I’m bold enough to look at him he gives me a light smile in return.
As I continue walking, faster now, he continues following.
Then, as suddenly as they came on, the footsteps stop. I stop, too, and spin around. Then man is gone. He’s no longer pacing behind me, and neither is he on the sidewalk across the street, running parallel from my position. I listen, but there’s nothing to hear. I don’t hear the sound of the jingling of keys and the opening and closing of a door, house or otherwise. I hear nothing, because unless my eyes are deceiving me, there is nothing. There’s nothing but the quiet of the empty neighborhood, ripe with the obvious lack of that them who could possibly come to save me. And now it’s become so quiet that even the rustling of the leaves has disappeared, just like the man.
I try to shrug the moment off. How strange. I turn back around and resume my walk, picking my phone back up as some form of security, when suddenly my entire world, and everything that I once knew, dreamed of, or hoped for, goes terribly black.
I wake without breath. I want to open my eyes. I try, but my lids won’t budge. They feel heavier than usual. Where am I? I was just sleep – I must be on my bed. But my bed has never before felt so hard, so uncomfortable. And never before in my room has there been such a fast breeze, even with the window hung open, or has there been such bright sunlight flowing through. Slowly, sensation starts to return to my body. It begins with the stinging cold of pavement against my cheek, and the feeling of bits of gravel and dirt
sticking to my skin. The must be hitting me – my skin is warm.
Slowly, I return. That’s not warmth. That’s burning. That’s pain. I move to avoid it, but it doesn’t work – the pain is from an injury, and I can’t get away. It follows me wherever I go.
I open my eyes. I finally realize: I’m on the ground. I’m in a secluded cove of the sidewalk, sheltered from the street by overgrown bushes and a few trees.
I place my palm against the pavement and push myself up. My body immediately gives out and I’m back on the ground. Fail. I look down my body at its pathetic state. I’m a mess. My dress is now torn, and even more filthy. One sleeve hangs off my shoulder, the white, weightless tulle blowing in the breeze, and I can somehow see streaks of red through the black fabric. I feel around my body with what little energy I can muster, using my least painful hand to scope myself out. Here and there among my dress are patches of wetness, but I have no idea what they’re from.
Something must have happened to me. Something physical. Maybe I had a stroke, or I fainted from the exhaustion of all the walking, or all the stress with Cole just became too much for my body to take and I collapsed, just like that. Can that happen? I guess it could happen. But I don’t remember feeling weak …
My mind drifts away.
I open my eyes again. My phone is lying next to me on the pavement. Its glass screen is shattered even more than I am, the cracks forming a constellation of creative horror. I doubt it still works. I pick it up, with that same hand, and press the Home button. It lights up through the shards and missing pieces. I squint; I barely make out the word MARA running across what remains of the screen.
Mara. That’s right. How long has she been trying to reach me?
I can’t think for too long because my forehead throbs. I instinctively touch it, wincing. Then I pull my hand away. My fingertips are red. My forehead, and I presume the rest of my face, judging by how it feels, is covered in blood. I stare at the red, and then, with no effort on my part, my eyes close once again and I continue to forget.
This I Know is now live on Amazon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Holly Ryan is an author of contemporary romance. She holds a degree in Psychology from Roosevelt University in Chicago.