few entries—local newspapers, all reporting pretty much the same thing. Local teenagers driving on Route 28 . . . slick conditions . . . speed thought to be a factor . . . I scanned each article briefly before moving on to the next. Nothing. Nothing. Then, at the end of a transcript from the TV news, the words jumped out at me: There was one fatality: Davis Edwards, 18.
The sentence hit me square in the chest. My breath went out of my lungs as if I’d been punched. Oliver turned to look at me, and I gave him a sick smile I’m sure didn’t convince him for one minute. He turned around again, and my eyes flew back to the article. What? What? What? my mind was screaming. Davis’s name was linked. With my fingers shaking so badly I struck the wrong key several times, I finally clicked on it.
An obituary popped up.
Davis Edwards, age 18, died Monday, May 20, in a car accident near Stanton, Connecticut. Davis was the only son of Sherry and Matthew Edwards of New Yamston, Connecticut. He was a student at West Seaton High School, where he played varsity lacrosse. Davis will be remembered for his wit, love of fun, and creativity by his many friends and family. A memorial service will be held on May 24 at Hall-Jordan Funeral Home, 820 Mulberry Ave., Stanton.
Davis was dead. Davis was dead?! The seconds ticked past as I squeezed my eyes shut, grinding my fists into the sockets. Was I crazy? I was. I was crazy. My breath mewled in and out of my throat. I was sweating, shaking, perspiration trickling down the sides of my face and pooling under my bra cups. But the moisture was all on my skin, because my mouth was as dry as crepe paper. My fingers groped for the infinity charm around my neck, found it, squeezed. The room was airless. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? How could Oliver work without the windows open? The obituary glowed on the screen in front of me like some kind of evil temptation. It dared me to look at it again.
“Hey.” It came out as a croak.
Oliver turned around, a pencil in his hand. I had no doubt my face looked completely bizarre, because he immediately rose from his stool, his eyes wide with surprise. “Zoe, are you okay?”
Little black spots were gathering in front of my eyes. Oh, it was so flipping hot. I was going to be sick right on Oliver’s rug—I knew it. The black spots were getting bigger. I bent over and rested my head on my knees. “I—I’m actually a little sick. But, um, can I print something out?”
Oliver knelt on the rug beside me, his arm across my back. “Forget the printer. You need a doctor.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Here, I’ll call the clinic—it’s right around the corner.”
“No!” I straightened up. My stomach threatened to rise up in my throat again, and I fought it down. “Sorry. I’m not really sick. Just, um, surprised. I found out I failed one of my exams.” I listened as if from a great distance to the ordinary-sounding words tumbling from my mouth. “Maybe something cold to drink? Like a Coke?”
“Oh, sure, absolutely.” Oliver looked glad to be able to do something. He scrambled to his feet.
As soon as he was out the door, I hit print on the computer. The obituary hummed out of the sleek silver printer on the side of Oliver’s drafting table. Then, fast, I erased my search history and closed out the window, being sure to log out of my e-mail. I shut the laptop just as Oliver came back in bearing a glass of Coke with ice.
I jumped up and snatched the paper from the printer, stuffing it into my bag. “Actually, my mom just called—” Whoops, he knows you don’t have a cell phone. I plowed ahead anyway. “—and she needs me at home. My, uh, dad just cut himself in the kitchen. So I have to go. Sorry!” I was down the hall before he could say anything. After a brief, tense struggle with the locks, I wrenched the front door open and pounded down the hall to the stairs, the obituary burning in my bag as if it were
The sentence hit me square in the chest. My breath went out of my lungs as if I’d been punched. Oliver turned to look at me, and I gave him a sick smile I’m sure didn’t convince him for one minute. He turned around again, and my eyes flew back to the article. What? What? What? my mind was screaming. Davis’s name was linked. With my fingers shaking so badly I struck the wrong key several times, I finally clicked on it.
An obituary popped up.
Davis Edwards, age 18, died Monday, May 20, in a car accident near Stanton, Connecticut. Davis was the only son of Sherry and Matthew Edwards of New Yamston, Connecticut. He was a student at West Seaton High School, where he played varsity lacrosse. Davis will be remembered for his wit, love of fun, and creativity by his many friends and family. A memorial service will be held on May 24 at Hall-Jordan Funeral Home, 820 Mulberry Ave., Stanton.
Davis was dead. Davis was dead?! The seconds ticked past as I squeezed my eyes shut, grinding my fists into the sockets. Was I crazy? I was. I was crazy. My breath mewled in and out of my throat. I was sweating, shaking, perspiration trickling down the sides of my face and pooling under my bra cups. But the moisture was all on my skin, because my mouth was as dry as crepe paper. My fingers groped for the infinity charm around my neck, found it, squeezed. The room was airless. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? How could Oliver work without the windows open? The obituary glowed on the screen in front of me like some kind of evil temptation. It dared me to look at it again.
“Hey.” It came out as a croak.
Oliver turned around, a pencil in his hand. I had no doubt my face looked completely bizarre, because he immediately rose from his stool, his eyes wide with surprise. “Zoe, are you okay?”
Little black spots were gathering in front of my eyes. Oh, it was so flipping hot. I was going to be sick right on Oliver’s rug—I knew it. The black spots were getting bigger. I bent over and rested my head on my knees. “I—I’m actually a little sick. But, um, can I print something out?”
Oliver knelt on the rug beside me, his arm across my back. “Forget the printer. You need a doctor.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Here, I’ll call the clinic—it’s right around the corner.”
“No!” I straightened up. My stomach threatened to rise up in my throat again, and I fought it down. “Sorry. I’m not really sick. Just, um, surprised. I found out I failed one of my exams.” I listened as if from a great distance to the ordinary-sounding words tumbling from my mouth. “Maybe something cold to drink? Like a Coke?”
“Oh, sure, absolutely.” Oliver looked glad to be able to do something. He scrambled to his feet.
As soon as he was out the door, I hit print on the computer. The obituary hummed out of the sleek silver printer on the side of Oliver’s drafting table. Then, fast, I erased my search history and closed out the window, being sure to log out of my e-mail. I shut the laptop just as Oliver came back in bearing a glass of Coke with ice.
I jumped up and snatched the paper from the printer, stuffing it into my bag. “Actually, my mom just called—” Whoops, he knows you don’t have a cell phone. I plowed ahead anyway. “—and she needs me at home. My, uh, dad just cut himself in the kitchen. So I have to go. Sorry!” I was down the hall before he could say anything. After a brief, tense struggle with the locks, I wrenched the front door open and pounded down the hall to the stairs, the obituary burning in my bag as if it were
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