to go?”
“I’ve been here before,” he says, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the scar on his face.
There’s a nurses’ station and a line of curtained cubicles—some pulled shut, some open. I think I see the lady with the cut finger, who is sitting on the edge of a hospital bed with her arm in a sling.
People in white coats and pastel-colored uniforms are bustling around. No one bothers to ask us why we are here.
“Angie!” Dylan calls out.
I swear we are going to end up in jail and I’m going to have to explain the whole thing to my mother.
“Angelique!” Dylan calls out again.
A cubicle curtain nearby pulls back. Angelique pokes her head out.
Dylan and I hurry over and shut the curtain behind us.
“Hi,” says Angelique, like we’re at a party.
Dylan just mumbles and sits on the one plastic seat near the bed. Angelique sits back on the bed and I’m left standing.
“El, I’m sorry about tonight. I really messed up.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “They had your dad’s number.”
“I guess he had to know.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s going to lose it.”
“Has this happened before?” I ask.
Angelique nods. “Once or twice,” she says. “It happens when I don’t eat properly—when I don’t take care of myself.”
“Do you want me to call Eric?” I ask, ignoring Dylan’s snort from the chair.
Angelique shakes her head. “It’s a big night for him. This game’s really important.”
“It’s just a stupid basketball game,” I say. “He’d want to be here, I know it.”
I’m angry but I’m not sure who with. Angelique?
Eric?
“There’s a party afterward—” Angelique is cut off as the curtain twitches back to reveal a tall man in a leather jacket. His dark hair is threaded with gray and his skin looks suntanned. For some reason, it’s his hands that I notice the most. His hands are slim and his fingers are long but blunt at the ends, with clean, pale fingernails. They’re pulling at his jacket collar like it’s digging into his neck.
“Angelique,” he says gruffly. He doesn’t look cross. In fact, he looks like he might cry.
“Hi, Dad,” says Angelique.
Before Dylan and I disappear back to the waiting room, she introduces us. Actually, she introduces me, because Mr. Mendez and Dylan already seem to know each other. Mr. Mendez nods Dylan’s way.
“Dad, this is my good friend El.”
Good friend? I hardly know the girl, and we’re good friends?
She gives me a hug. I don’t miss the awkward pat that Dylan gives her. The sight of it causes my heart to jolt a little.
“Call me?” she asks, and I promise to as we leave the emergency room.
Dylan and I hail a taxi. He slouches in the corner of the backseat and pulls out his phone. I look out the window, pretending not to listen.
“Hey,” he says. “Yeah, good. Listen, Angie’s in the emergency room. No, fine now. Probably a while. Maybe you should—”
He grunts a few times then says, “Whatever.”
His phone light fades and we’re left in the darkness of the cab.
We figure out we have just enough money for the trip to my place. When we get there we pay the driver and both get out.
“I’m off,” he says, zipping up his jacket.
“Was that Eric?” I have to ask.
“They won,” says Dylan shortly. “He’s a little busy. Nothing he could do to help her. Thought he’d catch up tomorrow.”
“I guess he’s right,” I say. I hate the way Dylan’s lips twist. “I mean, there really is nothing he could do . . .”
Dylan just stares.
I try again. “She didn’t want him to know anyway.”
“Here’s a tip—Eric doesn’t need you to make excuses for him. Don’t you get it? He’s never going to be interested. You’re too noisy. You have too much to say, too much attitude. And, just in case you’ve forgotten again, he already has a girlfriend. Your good friend Angelique.” He shoves both hands into his pockets and strolls off down the road. “Good night, Ariel
“I’ve been here before,” he says, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the scar on his face.
There’s a nurses’ station and a line of curtained cubicles—some pulled shut, some open. I think I see the lady with the cut finger, who is sitting on the edge of a hospital bed with her arm in a sling.
People in white coats and pastel-colored uniforms are bustling around. No one bothers to ask us why we are here.
“Angie!” Dylan calls out.
I swear we are going to end up in jail and I’m going to have to explain the whole thing to my mother.
“Angelique!” Dylan calls out again.
A cubicle curtain nearby pulls back. Angelique pokes her head out.
Dylan and I hurry over and shut the curtain behind us.
“Hi,” says Angelique, like we’re at a party.
Dylan just mumbles and sits on the one plastic seat near the bed. Angelique sits back on the bed and I’m left standing.
“El, I’m sorry about tonight. I really messed up.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “They had your dad’s number.”
“I guess he had to know.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s going to lose it.”
“Has this happened before?” I ask.
Angelique nods. “Once or twice,” she says. “It happens when I don’t eat properly—when I don’t take care of myself.”
“Do you want me to call Eric?” I ask, ignoring Dylan’s snort from the chair.
Angelique shakes her head. “It’s a big night for him. This game’s really important.”
“It’s just a stupid basketball game,” I say. “He’d want to be here, I know it.”
I’m angry but I’m not sure who with. Angelique?
Eric?
“There’s a party afterward—” Angelique is cut off as the curtain twitches back to reveal a tall man in a leather jacket. His dark hair is threaded with gray and his skin looks suntanned. For some reason, it’s his hands that I notice the most. His hands are slim and his fingers are long but blunt at the ends, with clean, pale fingernails. They’re pulling at his jacket collar like it’s digging into his neck.
“Angelique,” he says gruffly. He doesn’t look cross. In fact, he looks like he might cry.
“Hi, Dad,” says Angelique.
Before Dylan and I disappear back to the waiting room, she introduces us. Actually, she introduces me, because Mr. Mendez and Dylan already seem to know each other. Mr. Mendez nods Dylan’s way.
“Dad, this is my good friend El.”
Good friend? I hardly know the girl, and we’re good friends?
She gives me a hug. I don’t miss the awkward pat that Dylan gives her. The sight of it causes my heart to jolt a little.
“Call me?” she asks, and I promise to as we leave the emergency room.
Dylan and I hail a taxi. He slouches in the corner of the backseat and pulls out his phone. I look out the window, pretending not to listen.
“Hey,” he says. “Yeah, good. Listen, Angie’s in the emergency room. No, fine now. Probably a while. Maybe you should—”
He grunts a few times then says, “Whatever.”
His phone light fades and we’re left in the darkness of the cab.
We figure out we have just enough money for the trip to my place. When we get there we pay the driver and both get out.
“I’m off,” he says, zipping up his jacket.
“Was that Eric?” I have to ask.
“They won,” says Dylan shortly. “He’s a little busy. Nothing he could do to help her. Thought he’d catch up tomorrow.”
“I guess he’s right,” I say. I hate the way Dylan’s lips twist. “I mean, there really is nothing he could do . . .”
Dylan just stares.
I try again. “She didn’t want him to know anyway.”
“Here’s a tip—Eric doesn’t need you to make excuses for him. Don’t you get it? He’s never going to be interested. You’re too noisy. You have too much to say, too much attitude. And, just in case you’ve forgotten again, he already has a girlfriend. Your good friend Angelique.” He shoves both hands into his pockets and strolls off down the road. “Good night, Ariel
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