TMI (2014 Collector's Dream Winner)

TMI - Ch 1

Bailey would notice.

She always did and Megan didn’t want to talk about it. It was old news.

She tugged on jeans and a T-shirt, detangled her hair and coiled it in another elastic. Downstairs, she foraged for dinner but found only a brown banana and the heels of a loaf of bread. Mom still hadn’t been grocery shopping. She slammed the refrigerator door, hoping there was enough money in her wallet to spring for a fast food meal, and grabbed her cell to tap out a message to her best friend.

Outta food again. Going to Main St. Wanna go?

Bailey would say sure. They never discussed it, but Bailey knew there wasn’t always enough money for groceries and so, often came over with leftovers that she’d put on the top shelf in Meg’s empty refrigerator without a word. That was one of the things Meg loved about Bailey — she knew when it was time to talk and when it wasn’t.

Meg grabbed her keys and the art show flyer she wanted to show Bailey. Outside in the cold March air, she drew her hood up over her wet hair and rubbed her knees together to keep warm.

After about five minutes, her cell buzzed.

Not hungry. CU tom. XOXO

Megan’s forehead puckered. Bailey always walked with her to Main Street, or sometimes drove since Bailey was the proud owner of a driver’s license — even when she wasn’t hungry. Said it was a great excuse to escape her mother. Meg thought for a minute and typed back.

What’s wrong?

There was no reply, which was even stranger than the first message. Bailey always had to have the last word. It was a thing with her. Meg started the half-mile walk north, trying not to obsess. She had her learner’s permit, but had never been behind the wheel of car.

Pauline Farrell didn’t have the time or money for lessons. Meg had started a driver’s license fund, setting aside change from her part-time job for lessons, or maybe the driver’s education class her school offered. She’d need a license to find jobs and she’d need jobs to be independent. But first, she needed money to earn the license.

At a table in the corner, she sighed and picked at her meal. French fries and chicken nuggets kind of sucked when you didn’t have anyone to share them with. She unfolded the flyer that had shown up in today’s mail and studied it again. Bailey hated museums and Meg knew convincing her to go to Manhattan’s Museum of Modern Art wasn’t going to be easy. She’d go. Of course, she’d go. But first, Meg would have to agree to a day of shopping — one of Bailey’s favorite sports — maybe do some extra character sketches for the video game Bailey was trying to develop. But Bailey’s radio silence had her considering even higher stakes.

Make-overs.

She ate her last fry and shuddered. For Bailey, she’d do it.

She checked her phone. Still no reply from Bailey. Maybe she had another fight with her mom. Meg emptied her tray and started the long walk home. Or maybe it was Simon, Bailey’s latest boyfriend. Meg rolled her eyes. What a jerk.

By the time Meg got home and still hadn’t heard from Bailey, panic had set in. She logged onto her computer, fired off a quick email, but it, too, was ignored. The next morning, at the bus stop, Meg took one look at Bailey’s flat curls, bare naked face, and spark-less demeanor and her panic jolted straight to red-line levels. Bailey Grant did not leave the house without her makeup coordinated to her outfit and her hair perfectly coiffed.