Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Thirteen

| photo by Joshua Rawson Harris from Unsplash |

Mom calls up the stairs. My name first, then Lindsay's. "Come down for dinner!"

I cross my legs and sit up straight. My neck and shoulders are stiff—with tension, I'm sure. And my head is starting to hurt. I hate these freaking IM conversations.

There's a quick high-pitched metallic squeal—unmistakably a door hinge—and then Lindsay appears in my open doorway. Her thick hair is still damp and her eyes are noticeably red. Like way beyond what they were when we parted ways outside. "Are you coming?" she asks.

I'm tempted to ask her to cover for me—the way I did for her. She could tell Mom I'm still asleep.

"Mom made your favorite," Lindsay says. "North Carolina style barbecue. She started the ribs in the crockpot early this morning."

Yes, that's exactly what I've been smelling all day. Under normal circumstances, I'd be thrilled with this information but right now, I just want to stay here and keep reading. I untangle my legs so I can scoot off the bed, because there's no way I can get away with that. Especially not after I spent all that time with Noah this morning.

Lindsay turns away from me with what seems like an excessive amount of energy. She waits at the top of the stairs, scrutinizing me the way she did this morning when I walked into the purple room for the first time. "I didn't say anything about you to Mom and Dad," I tell her.

"I wouldn't be standing here if you had."

She gallops down the stairs, leaving me alone to deal with my phobia. And with all these warring emotions.

I sort of wish I hadn't spent time with Noah today, because it makes it hard not to resent Lindsay for working so hard to keep us apart. But like she said, she was only twelve when she told Noah about that kiss. She didn't understand what it was like to feel that way about a boy.

What I don't understand is why she won't just talk to me about all of it so we can apologize to each other and move on. Is she being overly dramatic or is there more to the story?

When I finally get to the bottom step, I hear Mom say something about Lindsay's red eyes. I hang back in the dark foyer, just shy of the doorway, while my sister grinds her fists—very convincingly—into her eyes sockets. "I can't help it, Mom," she whines, soft and pitiful. "They itch like crazy."

"It's hey fever."

Mom delivers the diagnosis with a casual confidence that comes from experience. She opens the small narrow cabinet next to the fridge and pulls out a white medicine bottle. Lindsay presents her open palm, ready to accept the offering—speaking of experience. She's obviously practiced at hiding her drug habit. Which means she's been doing it for a while.

I shake my head, because it doesn't make sense. She just turned fourteen a few days before my accident. Where the heck does a thirteen-year-old go to get weed? And how many times have I witnessed this routine and said nothing?

"Can you set the table for me?" Mom asks.

Lindsay pops the tiny pink pill into her mouth and chases it with a gulp of water. Then she goes right to work, doing the job that always used to be mine. But it's not like I could be useful in this kitchen. I have no idea where anything is.

Mom scoops a platter off the counter and rushes out the back door, onto a raised wooden deck I didn't notice earlier. She lifts the bulky grill lid, releasing a waft of smoke. Since when does Dad let anyone touch his grill? My favorite ribs are his specialty.