Forget You by Jennifer Echols

complaining that Doug was tardy, and me telling Coach yesterday, and Doug dissing me at the game last night, and me turning down Doug for a date this morning, the likes of which you did not see around here every day, I did not need a tardy joke erupting every time I made an appearance, like those pop-up prompts suggesting keyboard shortcuts whenever I sent an email. Zoey's here = tardy joke. The tardy joke would remind Doug ten times a day that he was mad at me. Of course, I didn't expect him to be on the van now, but he'd show up at school in a few days to a chorus of tardy jokes. I shivered at the very thought of those cold green eyes burning a hole through me.
    I shrugged it off and rolled the van door shut behind me. I just wanted to blend in, sink into a seat on the van, and play my electronic sudoku for the forty-minute drive to Panama City. I scanned the van for an empty place. Usually there was just enough room for all of us. I got along with everyone, so being the last one on the bus wouldn't be a problem unless I was stuck next to Stephanie Wetzel--whom I had no real reason to dislike, I reminded myself. She lived across the street from Brandon. It made perfect sense for her to give him rides.
    Seventeen of us plus Coach in the driver's seat filled the van. A Zoey-shaped space should have remained on the second or third bench. Today the first three rows were packed--more than packed, with girls sitting on top of boys and giggling about it. The backseat was empty. There must be something wrong with the seat to drive people away. Something dark and dirty. I peeked over the third row to find out what the problem was.
    Doug.
    He stretched across the entire seat, asleep. His leg in the splint was propped up on his backpack. His crutches lay on the floor beside him.
    To allow him to have the whole seat, the team must have figured it had taken a lot for him to drag himself to school for the trip when he couldn't compete. Or they were shocked senseless by this show of team spirit from him.
    Or they were afraid for him. Lila shrieked as Mike tickled her. Doug didn't flinch at the noise. His face was smooth, slack, his eyes hidden beneath heavy lids and long black lashes.
    Had anyone checked his vital signs?
    Doug was not dead. Doug had not overdosed. If he were that bad off, he wouldn't retain the muscle tone to clutch the prescription pill bottle in one hand. This was what I told myself so my teammates couldn't see that my heart strained in my chest and I was back in my mother's bedroom, trying to fix everything. I slipped off my backpack, crouched near Doug in the aisle, and tilted my head to read the label on the bottle.
    "Touch my Percocet and you're dead."
    I started at the rumble of his voice. His bright eyes pinned me to the floor.
    And then I found my legs and escaped back up the aisle, hurrying before Coach started the van. The argument with Doug this morning was too fresh. I didn't want to continue the same argument all the way to Panama City, trapped in the backseat with him.
    I stepped around Gabriel sprawled across an armrest and reached Coach in the driver's seat. Coach examined a map of the area even though he'd grown up here and had probably driven to Panama City one billion times. Ian had snagged the seat next to Coach, but he had earbuds in so he couldn't hear me. I bent to whisper in Coach's ear, "Doug shouldn't be here."
    "He should be here. He should not be broken . Next time, hit the deer." Coach gazed up at me and used one finger to brush my bangs away from my forehead. Apparently I hadn't done as good a job with my makeup as I'd thought. Or he could see things Brandon couldn't. "You shouldn't be here either."
    "Yes, I should." I needed to find out where I had been last night. Anyway, even on a healthy day my biggest contributions to the team were cheerleading and keeping records, and I could do that with a concussion. Probably.
    He shrugged. "We need to get going. Roll Fox out the door into the street