The Intercessor

Chapter 9

     I barely hear the ambulance door slam over the roar of blood in my ears. I'm still kneeling on the grass, a chemical buzz flooding my system with each pound of my heart. A hand is gripping my arm, I hear muffled words; suddenly I am standing, swaying. The hand, the voice is Oliver's, and I know that my wild eyes frighten him.

     Shrugging his arm off, I blankly take in our surroundings. The girls are huddled, some crying; Jordan went with Drake to the hospital. Some of the boys stare at the ground, others are asking a questions of a stunned Coach Dubinski. I feel the prod of passing glances, catch bewildered eyes. These people are scared, and I meet questioning gaze after gaze--confused as they.

How could I know, before he did?

     I'm numb enough that the thoughts haven't started racing; I am still free from the spiral. It would be nice to keep it that way. My voice rasps as I whisper to the silent air, "I'm going home." Met with no resistance, I turn to leave. But before I can do so, a pair of green eyes latch to mine. In them is a startling fear, sharpened by a blaze of accusation. Alice Terrir isn't crying like the other girls. She sneers, eyes narrowed, and in a toss of hair promises terror to come.

**********

     I drag myself the endless two blocks home like a statue of lead. Eyes drift closed of their own volition, and I stumble up the front steps. Leaning my body weight into the door to force it open, I stagger like a drunkard through my living room to the kitchen. With great effort, I manage to turn on the faucet and splash cold water in my face. I'm trembling, utterly spent, and I've no idea why. Drake's the one who went into and back out of cardiac arrest today, not me.

     My eyes focus onto a slip of paper, stark against the dark grey of the marble countertop. It's a note, from my dad. After reading it through at least four times, I gather that something urgent has come up at work and that he won't be home for at least a few days. Lacking even the energy to roll my eyes, I toss the note down. Right now, all I need is to sleep. I can call my mom in the morning. 

     The thought makes me pause. We haven't missed a call in months, not even when she lost her phone down a storm drain--she called me from a pay booth in New York. I sigh, knowing that I owe at least two minutes of my time to her. Resigned, I take out my cell to dial.

     She picks up the phone after one ring, like always. 

"Dezena, baby girl!  Is your day fabulous yet or still getting there?"

     A smile pokes at my numb lips despite the exhaustion, because I love my mom and because her enthusiasm for life never dims. But I hesitate to answer her; something in my gut, most likely illogical, is nudging me to keep the events of today to myself. Maybe I just don't want to force someone as bubbly as Jessa Martin-Conelly to deal with such serious news.

     I'm lying to myself. I'm freaked out of my mind. But emotions are extremely procrastinatable.

     I force myself to smile, thinking that it might change the voice she hears over the phone. "Oh, fabulous." And I can't help myself, my mom will flip out--"So, mom...there's this boy..."

     My words are cut off by excited squealing. What have I done? "Oooh, Dez! What's his name? How old is he? Is he nice? Is he cute? Are you dating?" She gasps, surprised at her own words. "Even though you're too young to be dating, of course, but still--" She breaks off, and I can practically feel her hanging on my words. Fatigue is tugging at my eyelids, so I keep my answers brief.

     "Um. Oliver, seventeen or eighteen, yes, yes, and no." I switch my phone to the other hand and close my eyes, massaging my temples. "Sorry, mom, but I'm beat. I'll for sure keep you updated on said boy." I shake my head at her previous, very teenager-y reaction. "Bye and kisses."

     "You'd better believe I'll stay updated!" she laughs. "Love you, Dez."