Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Eleven

"You can't let on that you know," Lindsay says. "Mom told me not to say anything that might upset you."

Now that I believe. I'm pretty sure that's the reason behind the brush-off Mom gave me when I asked if we could try to get in touch with Kara. "Honey, it's been three years," she said. "There's a very good chance that Kara no longer feels the connection you're remembering."

"Ally," Lindsay says, her tone desperate or impatient. Or maybe both. "Mom will kill me if she finds out about this—and about the app. Please promise you won't let her figure out that it was me who showed it to you. Okay?"

Oh god, the app. I read something, a short conversation on a Saturday in May. I asked Samantha if I could come live with her because my parents were "at it" again. I thought that meant they were doing something embarrassing. Like when they used to do the synchronized mummy dance from a creepy song that was popular in the 1980s. But now, it seems possible that I wanted to escape because they were fighting.

"Whatever," Lindsay says, angry and disgusted. She tucks the speakers back in her ears one by one. And her face goes blank—the way it was earlier today after Mom walked into the yellow room. Except now, it's me Lindsay's shutting out.

"I have to fix this," I say. More to myself than her.

"What does that mean?"

That's a very good question.

Children react differently to stress than adults—according to Dr. Dabney. So maybe Lindsay is overreacting. This thing she just said about my parents is an exaggeration—it has to be. Mom and Dad love each other. And it makes sense that Lindsay might be overdramatizing things. Everything, because she's stressed out about my accident.

But I'm here now. I'm safe. And after a couple of weeks, she'll see that I'm okay. Mom will stop worrying and Dad will be Dad. Lindsay will be fine as long as I keep her from doing anything harmful.

Right?

"Lindsay," I say, stepping forward to put my hands on her shoulders. "I need to know you understand that smoking weed—out here alone—is not going to solve your problems. You need to promise me it won't happen again."

"Are you serious?" she asks. But then she sighs and says, "Of course you are," like all that venom and sarcasm just sort of...seeped out of her. "I'll do it. If you promise not to tell Mom and Dad."

"Fine," I say, because I don't want to push Lindsay any further away from me. "I'll keep your secret, but this has to stop. I'm here now. So if something is bothering you, we need to talk about it, okay? You have to let me help you."

She uses the tail of her T-shirt to wipe her eyes. And then she nods. I think.

"Was that a yes?" I ask. Smiling, because if I mentally block the sports-bra-covered boob flash she just gave me, she looks a lot like the little girl I remember.

"Yeah," she says, holding up her fist.

We do our secret fist-bump ritual. But this time, after the hand hug, I hold on. "I'm so sorry for the way I treated you after we moved here."

She tugs her hand out of mine and crosses her arms over her chest. "You need to talk to Samantha."

"Why?"

"She's your best friend," Lindsay says. Like it's some kind of sacred, universal truth that will explain everything. 

"She's not, Linds. Not anymore, because I don't remember her. And from what I've learned so far, Samantha is..." She's connected to a version of myself I don't want to remember. But I can't explain that to Lindsay without showing her that pre-accident text message and I just...I'm not ready. "I'm going to finish reading the conversations first."

I give her a moment to object, but she doesn't. She swipes her hand through the air like she wants me to continue. But I don't have anything else to say about Samantha Zhao. "Right now, I just want to focus on this. On you. And I've only been here one day—not even a day."

God. It's been hours, but it feels more like a week.

"Can we just...like...put all of this on hold and go back to the house?" I ask. "I think I need to lie down for awhile."

Lindsay nods. And a single tear trails down her left cheek. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and head us both in the right direction. We walk that way, slow and cumbersome, but unified—until my left butt cheek buzzes and I have to drop my arm to dig out my phone. "This is probably Mom," I say.

"Don't tell her I'm with you."

"Lindsay," I groan. "Do you have any idea how awful that sounds?"

"Just please, don't text her back. Go inside and act like Dodge just dropped you off."

"What are you going to do?"

"Walk around the block and try to come down."

"Come down?"

"From my high," she explains.

"Oh, I know what it means. I just can't believe my fourteen-year-old sister is saying it for real."

And I knew about her drug use before my accident but didn't have a problem with it?

God. I hope that's an exaggeration too.