Concerning Chance ✔

TWENTY-TWO

As Jaiden the gay nurse promised, I was discharged from the hospital the next morning. Chance is still in a coma, but I wasn't allowed to see her as I left for some reason.

My parents picked me up, drove me home then headed out to work — though not before checking for the thousandth time that I was okay.

Yes, I understand what the doctor said. Yes, I know not to wander around, go skateboarding or climb any trees. Yes, I know Mum's and Dad's phone numbers.

Yes, I know I mustn't think too hard.

Well, that last part didn't make the cut audibly, but it's clear as day. My concussion, albeit mild, could take up to 10 days to heal, a week minimum if I rest up. It's great in the sense that my parents aren't sending me to school for the rest of the week.

This way, I can hopefully avoid the vast majority of speculation and gossip about what happened to me on the night of the bonfire.

So I'm set up in the garden at home, soaking up late September rays while huddled in a blanket in a recliner sunbathing chair. It's called convalescing and it's supposedly good for the soul.

Part of my recovery includes as little screen time as possible, so my phone's out of the question — it's dialling numbers on the landline, reading, or playing with the Count, who, at first, is thrilled to have someone at home with him all day. But there's not much to keep me entertained for long.

I try to read I am Malala, but it makes me think of Chance too much — something I never would've thought possible a few months ago. She's the one who recommended this book to me.

It soon becomes apparent that I can't throw the Count's ball for him for very long before I tire. My head gets fuzzy and aches so bad that even my dog knows now's not a great time to play fetch. Besides, fetch gets boring pretty damned quick in an average-sized garden.

The Count plonks his ass down unceremoniously and sets to shredding a small branch to bits, perfectly content. Unfortunately, I'm not as easy to please; my mind cannot be put to rest as easily as a dog's mind can.

I watch the patchwork sky. There are layers to the handful of clouds above me, and yet the sun burns through them all, making the grass golden and my face warm. Wispy clouds race across the horizon while darker, threatening rain clouds build on my far left. I hope they stay over there.

I'm enjoying this little moment of Indian summer. It's the last week of September, but it feels like it could be the end of August all over again.

In the strip of blue above me, I start spotting planes. Our garden is almost directly underneath a flight path from the airport, so the distant rumble of engines is never too far off.

I watch as a large plane soars up into the sky and ascends towards cruising altitude. It's hard not to imagine all the people on the plane; all travelling to go somewhere — new or otherwise. Some for business, some for pleasure.

My heart yearns at the mere concept of being so free just to leave. To drop all responsibilities and run away for a tropical getaway. The possibility of a casual yet intensely passionate holiday fling is one I've never achieved but have always wanted.

But considering all the shit I'm dealing with, it's highly unlikely I'll be jetting off for a week in the sun any time soon. Besides, my skin wouldn't exactly thank me for it; at the height of summer, I'm pretty sure I could get a world record for the most heat rash coverage on a single body.

"Hey, Rory," a voice calls over to me, forcing me to leave my reverie.

I open my eyes, which I didn't even realise I'd shut, and look over to the fence separating mine and Lexa's house. She's leaning over the fence, grinning as her black hair falls over her shoulder. She's straightened it, so it's even longer than usual.