Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Seven

| photo by Tom Herman from Unsplash |

My sister's door is still closed. And there's no sound coming from her room.

The entire house is eerily quiet.

I creep down the hallway, to the putrid purple room. Lindsay was right about the windows. There are two singles, each recessed into its own personal alcove. Plus a double window that takes up most of the adjacent wall. The room is larger than I first thought. It's the intensity of the color that makes it feel small.

That, and the claustrophobic smell. I stretch the collar of my T-shirt over my nose to filter out the flowery fumes and head for the closest alcove. The street is empty. Up and down. There's no sign of Noah. Obviously, because he said it would take him fifteen minutes to get here and it's only been five.

I can't believe I said yes. It's what I was thinking—yes, please, get me out of this freaking house—but I didn't mean to say it out loud.

My anxiety knot expands. I counter the pressure, pushing against my sternum with my free hand as I turn back to the room. The built-in bookcase next to the door is asymmetrical. One side is cut off at an angle, because the ceiling in this room is slanted. Like the roof over my head. The shelves are cluttered with artifacts: novels, mostly—which is no surprise—but I'm shocked to find a small collection of medals draped around the neck of a white ceramic cat. I lift one of the bronze disks and rub my thumb over the embossed image of a swimmer.

It's weird enough to think that I would've joined the swim team at all, but even harder to imagine myself caring enough to win third place in five events. Because swimming isn't really my thing. If I was going to play any sport in high school, shouldn't it have been track?

I started running with Dad when I was ten. At first, I could barely make it around our block one time without collapsing into a panting heap in our front lawn. Dad said I was trying too hard, forcing myself into a pace that wasn't normal for me because I wanted to run beside him. He slowed down for a couple of runs while he taught me to respect my natural gate—and then once I was hooked, we'd always start out together but I learned to love running alone.

The swimming medal clanks back into place. Time has passed. People have changed. Maybe me most of all. Because really, there's nothing here, aside from a few classic books, that I even recognize. Everything else is new—and disturbingly coordinated. I reach for a purple picture frame that must've fallen over, photo-side down.

It's me and Samantha Zhao, smiling. Happy, the way we are in the IM conversations.

I make a quick scan of the room. There's a desk but no... 

Wait. Is that a laptop? I put the framed photo back on the shelf, face down, the way I found it, and cross the room—shaking my head, because I have a definite memory of asking for my own computer, and of Mom saying I'd get one when I start college.

Apparently she changed her mind. I lift the cover and find the power button. It starts up much faster than the ones we used in middle school. But the screen is locked—of course.

The password that unlocks my phone doesn't work. Neither does M-A-G-S. I try a few combinations of those numbers and letters. No luck. I'll have to ask Mom.

The room feels small again. I head back to the window—to the second alcove this time, and I find this squatty three-legged stool that makes me smile. It's painted brown, but the edges are worn so you can see through to the pale wood underneath. It's old and clunky—so unlike anything else in the room—and I love it.

I sit and it feels sturdy. And it's the perfect height, because I can still see out the window. But it's not exactly comfortable because the unforgiving wood is pressing my phone against my butt. I have to stand to get it out of my pocket, but then I'm too anxious to sit back down. I type the code into my lock screen. Maybe someone on the Internet knows a way to break in to...

God, I'm such an idiot. My freaking phone is a computer.

I open the Internet browser, type in Yahoo email and I get a link to the sign-in page. The site happily accepts the email address from the app. And when I touch the words, I forgot my password, the site gives me a security question that makes me smile: What is the name of your best friend from childhood?

It would have to be Kara, right?

Yes! I can't believe it. One word and I'm back in.

The website prompts me to create a new password. I pick a combination of letters and numbers—and use them again when it's time to reset the IM app. The entire process only takes a few minutes. If I had tried, I probably could've done it five days ago, and I'd be finished reading by now. I'd already know everything I need to know.

I turn back to the window and check the street again. Up and down. There's still no sign of Noah. I plop onto the little stool, open Samantha's thread and scroll to the place where I left off.