We spend the remainder of Econ huddled away in the library. No one seems too disturbed that I've invaded their class. I sit cross-legged on the speckled floor in the fiction section. I am numb from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toenails. When the teacher's back is turned, I discreetly slide my phone out of my pocket and exchange panicked, rapid-fire texts with Daniel:
>>Me: She says she forgot to eat.
>>Daniel: Whatever. She always makes excuses for this kind of crap.
>>Me: I'm scared. She looks like a zombie.
>>Daniel: Did u try to get ahold of her mom?
>>Me: Yeah, no answer.
>>Daniel: Let me know if u hear anything.
>>Me: Sure.
Lizzie's section of the world remains silent and untouched until late into the night. She calls me. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Shiloh," she says. Her voice is clearer, her words perfectly formed.
"Wait, what? You don't have to be sorry about anything! It wasn't your fault!"
She sighs. "Everything's my fault. Anyway... can you come over so we can finish that Spanish assignment?"
"Good God, Lizzie," I moan. Pandora jumps into my lap, but I push her away. "How about taking some time off? Haven't you been through enough today?" I really don't want to go. I'm exhausted and anxious about this oh-so-important crisis meeting my mother has yet to hear about, but I don't mention this.
"I need to get my grades up," she argues. "Please, Shiloh. I can't afford to fail any more assignments."
I glance at my mother, who's sitting in the living room, working away on her laptop. The bright blue of the screen captures her determined frown. She'll be up late tonight.
"I'll ask my mom if I can borrow the SUV," I tell Lizzie.
***
My mind races in tempo with the hum of the engine. Memories of Lizzie's empty eyes and protruding bones invade every corner of my frantic brain. I push the thoughts from my mind and focus on surviving the journey without scarring my mother's car with even the tiniest scratch. Bare bushes border the road like tangles of barbed wire. I grit my teeth when the vehicle's tires slide over elusive patches of black ice. The headlights comb through the darkness, pinning flat outlines of trees against the starless sky beyond. I keep an eye out for deer and other critters, guiding the SUV around a sharp curve that plunges farther into the stark winter wilderness.
Lizzie's development perches on the peak of a snowy hill. The vehicle climbs up to the radiant houses, winding around the incline as if ascending a spiral staircase. My overflowing Spanish binder shifts out of the passenger seat and vomits papers into the footwell. I scream a string of the vilest curse words
"MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT COCKSUCKING ASS-LICKING CUNT WHORES!
I can think of, grateful for the privacy of an SUV following dark empty roads through nighttime suburbia.
Mr. Elridge answers the door. Lizzie is curled like a cat on the couch in the large den, a raggedy pink afghan draped over her body. Her miniature poodle, Sprinkles, looks up from an accent pillow and greets me with a gentle woof. "Thanks for coming, Shiloh," Lizzie says. "Did you bring the Spanish stuff?"
I dump the textbook and overstuffed binder onto the coffee table, next to an untouched bottle of Gatorade. "Lizzie, are you drinking enough fluids?" I hate to be That Person, but sometimes friendship requires someone to be a pain in the ass.
Lizzie rolls her eyes and scoffs, struggling to lift herself into a sitting position. "Who do you think you are? My mom? They pumped me with so much crap at the hospital with that stupid I.V., I feel like I slosh every time I walk around."
"I'm sure it's not that bad." I nudge Sprinkles to the side and plop down into the warm nest Lizzie has made for herself.
I hear footsteps crossing the tile floor in the kitchen behind us. "Lizzie, what are you doing?" It's her mother.
I turn around, feeling guilty and uninvited. I uncross my legs and straighten my spine against the back of the couch. "Hi, Mrs. Elridge," I say. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm just here to help Lizzie study for her Spanish exam."
Mrs. Elridge yanks open the door to the pantry and fervently digs through boxes and cans. Her face is red and splotchy from frustration. "Lizzie's going to eat something - right, honey?" She withdraws a can of chicken noodle soup and slams it on the marble countertop.
Lizzie's muscles turn to stone. She stares straight ahead with eyes that look like they were painted on her face. "FAT chance," she snaps. Sensing impending conflict, Sprinkles hops to the floor with his fluffy tail tucked between his legs and makes off for his crate. I wish I could hide with him.
"Lizzie," Mrs. Elridge sighs exasperatedly, "you are going to eat. I don't care what it is, but you need to eat."
"Yeah," I try, struggling to speak with my dry tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, "you're not going to be able to study too well if you don't feed your brain first."
Fire dances behind Lizzie's eyes. She clenches her jaw and seethes through her teeth: "I'm not going to eat, and you're not going to make me."
Lizzie's dad tromps down the stairs in his heavy boots. "LIZZIE! Stop it with this dieting bullshit!" He barges into the room, his broad, angry face darkened in shadow.
Oh crap. I need to come up with some sort of excuse to get out of here, because this family is fixing to start World War III. I deal with enough parental nuclear meltdowns in my own home, which sucks, but the thought of getting snared up in the intimate conflict of another family's fight twists my gut into knots.
"I have to study!" Lizzie argues, attempting to stand. The afghan coils around her legs. She bends down to untangle herself, and stumbles. I grab her by the shoulders to help her keep her balance, but she wrenches herself from my grasp and turns to face her parents. The glare from the recessed lighting accents the sharp planes of her face, transforming her into a terrifying Lizzie skeleton. "You tell me I need to study more, so I'm studying! I'm doing what you tell me to do, so what on earth is your freaking problem!?"
My bones turn into Jell-O. I need to leave. Now. Right now. But I stand next to Lizzie in case she falls and slams into the coffee table. Her bones look sharp enough to slice through the polished wood.
Mr. Elridge opens and closes his mouth several times, sputtering, shocked that his daughter, his beloved little girl, is yelling at him with such a burning ferocity. "Y-You do NOT talk to me like that - you understand?" he gasps.
Lizzie flicks him off, her jutting bones making her gestures so much more horrifying. I feel like I'm going to throw up.
"Sweetheart,you can skip the studying for a bit - until you get well," her mother interrupts, wringing her hands. "You're still getting fantastic grades, aren't you?"
Now Lizzie is the one who's rendered speechless. She locks her eyes on the kitchen sink. It takes several tense seconds before she finds her words. "I need to study," she repeats smoothly. "I got a thirty-three percent on my last exam. I have to get at least a ninety on this one if I'm going to pass the class." She lowers herself back onto the couch. I see her pulse fluttering in her neck.
I back up, edging around an end table, gingerly picking my way around Lizzie's quivering father. His body gives off a furious heat; sweat glitters on his temples. What to do... what to do.... I stumble into a plastic ficus tree on my way to the front door. I shouldn't leave Lizzie. She's my best friend. But this is too much. I disgust myself. My hand reaches for the handle.
"How could you get a thirty-three percent? You almost have to work to get a grade that bad!" her dad bellows.
Mrs. Elridge: "Have you been keeping up with your homework, sweetie?" The tone of her voice is high-pitched mosquito whine. She always takes the "kill with kindness" approach. I'd much rather be screamed at.
Dadroar: "Of course she isn't! Christ, what are you doing after school? Are you on drugs?"
Lizzie says something unintelligible, her tone vicious. I can't hear her words through the blood throbbing in my ears.
"You wouldn't have memory problems if you'd just eat like a normal person!" Mr. Elridge's voice is like a bear trap.
The foyer echoes with the sound of Lizzie crying. Each sob chisels its way into my heart, slowly cracking it open. I want to run into the living room and drag her away from the battlefield, but spit is raining in bullets and every retort blazes with rage.
Lizzie yells loudly enough for me to hear. "Stop bringing up the fucking food!"
Mrs. Elridge: "Lizzie!"
Mr. Elridge: "Don't you talk back to me! You're not going to get into college with your bad grades and bad attitude! You're on a fine line, missy!"
"I'm so sick of you two trying to control every little bit of my life! It's none of your business what I eat and what my grades are! Maybe I should move out so you don't have to worry about me anymore!" She flies past me so quickly on the way to her bedroom, she's unaware of me standing there, my fingers still resting on the door handle.
My legs suddenly decide to work. I run after her, taking the stairs two at a time, terrified of her parents' shadows lashing at my ankles. I wish I could fast forward myself to my mom's car, to the safety of a quick escape through gnarled trees and flashes of birds' wings.
Shaking, I become a piece of furniture in Lizzie's princess bedroom, all pink and innocent with a canopy bed and a line of plastic horses parading atop her white antique dresser. This preschool room is not built to contain the intensity of a teenager's rage. I back into a corner of stuffed animals. They cling to me with fuzzy paws.
"I HATE YOU AND I HATE MY LIFE!" Lizzie howls, slamming her door so hard that the whole house shudders, temporarily startled from its foundation.
I wonder if the neighbors can hear Lizzie as she stomps her way around her bedroom, tearing her posters from the walls in fat ribbons. She picks up a snow globe from the corner of her desk and hesitates, longingly gazing at the fairytale kingdom within. Then, she heaves it as hard as she can without breaking her teeny-tiny bird bones. The snow globe smashes into the opposite wall, spraying splinters of broken glass and glittering water as the magical world inside explodes. Pieces of the ceramic castle fall to the floor.
My heart is racing. Lizzie wades through puddles of colorful size 0 clothes, sinks onto her knees, and doubles over. She reaches up to grab handfuls of her hair, and the loose sleeves of her cashmere sweater slide to her elbows.
The bedroom door bangs open. Mrs. Elridge, pale-faced and trembling, meets my stare, her eyes welling with tears. "I think it's time for you to go home," she whispers hoarsely.
I cross the room, then pause at Lizzie's side. She rocks back and forth, gasping and sniffling. "I love you," I murmur. Then I race down the stairs, taking long strides. I crunch across the smooth carpet of snow laid on their lawn, hold up my mother's car keys, and unlock the doors with five feet to go. I drive all the way to the mouth of the housing development before I remember to turn on the headlights. And it isn't until I'm skidding into my driveway that I remember I left all of my Spanish class stuff on the Elridge's living room coffee table.
I'm not going back.