Trapped in Forever

4 ~ Weren't you Roxanne's Friend?

I was nearly asleep, curled up on my side under my navy duvet, a little heat radiating from my heaters that rattled on either side of the room, as annoying squirrel darted across our roof again, rapidly, like someone slipped something into his nuts, when my phone vibrated on my desk. It turned slightly to the right, pulsating and flashing a blinding white light from the screen up to my ceiling fan, and the end of the phone hit my computer, which hummed almost inaudibly. My eyes flashed open, instantly, like I had never been asleep, and for one moment, I thought it was Roxanne calling all over again, trying to get me to listen to that one message.

I couldn’t explain why I avoided that one missed call. But to me, I felt like the second I listen to that message, she would be truly and forever gone. And for some reason, the thought that her voice was still out, unheard, made it feel like she was still here, somehow. But that would gone if I listened to whatever she had to say that night.

For a second, I just watched as my phone vibrated, buzzing and flashing before I actually hoisted myself up on my elbows and reached over, grasping the cool electronic in my hand and bringing it back to me. I hesitated, just for a second, before I flipped it open, held to my ear, and—taking a deep breath—answered, “Hello?”

“Amanda?” The voice was groggy and hoarse, like someone had been scratching sandpaper on their vocal cords. “Is Mom or Dad there?”

It took me a minute to realize that the scratchy voice belonged to Mikayla. And that it was three a.m. “Um,” I said, glancing at my bedroom door, just now hearing my dad snoring softly. “Their sleeping. Do you want me to wake them up or—”

“No.”

I blinked, a little stunned at just how loud that little word was. “No?”

There was a sigh, a long one that kind of sounded like when you held a seashell to your ear, swearing you could hear the ocean’s waves. “No,” she repeated, a little more quietly this time. “Listen, I’m . . . in a little trouble.”

Frowning, I sat up a little more and reached over to turn on my bedside lamp—click. “What kind of trouble?” As she paused, I started to hear the booming music in the background, plus giggling and then at one point, “Whooooooa!” I took another look at my digital clock again. “Where are you?”

“At some party.” There was a bitter edge to her voice as my stomach twisted a little at the thought of another party. “Can you . . .”

I waited, using her pause to pick at a few loose strings in my duvet and listen to girls in the background woo at someone who, apparently, just stripped off his shirt and let girls “pet” his abs. To be honest, I was surprised that Mikayla was even calling me, let alone asking me for something. She was always someone who took care of herself, silently, and I definitely wasn’t first on the list of people she’d look to if she ever did somehow admit that she needed help.

“. . . can you come get me?” There was another pause. “I’m kind of wasted and he won’t let me drive.”

“Who’s he?”

As I rolled off my duvet, the corner of it grazing my walls, cradling my cell phone between my ear and shoulder while I glanced around for a sweater and a pair of jeans (then, considered where I’d have to go, and grabbed a ponytail), she replied, “Some cop.”

Just as I stuck one leg into a pair of faded jeans, I froze. “Some cop?” I repeated, and then it all made sense. Why she didn’t want me to get Mom or Dad, why she needed me, and why she needed someone in general. “Mikayla, were you arres—?”

“No.” Again, that word seemed really loud. “Can you just come and get me, okay? My head is pounding and I feel kind of sick.”

Even though she couldn’t see me, after a moment, I nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”