Made You Up by Francesca Zappia Page B

She clocked you, Boss.”
    â€œNo shit. Can you carry her?”
    â€œI can try.”
    I squirmed away, but Art’s spicy aftershave drowned out the smell of alcohol and pond scum. One big arm snaked around my shoulders, the other behind my knees. He lifted me up. “She’s shaking so bad—I can hardly hold on to her.”
    â€œThis way. I’ll take her home.”
    Warm air moved past my face. I didn’t open my eyes, because he would be there.
    The truck door creaked open. I cracked my eyes open to see Art buckling me into the passenger seat.
    â€œGo back to the party.” Miles climbed in the driver’s side. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”
    No, Art! Don’t leave me alone with him!
    But Art nodded and turned away. Miles started the truck.
    â€œAlex.”
    I stared out the window. Where was he?
    â€œAlex, please look at me.”
    I didn’t.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” His voice rose and cracked. “What are you afraid of? Just look at me!”
    I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I could smell pastries and mint soap, crisp and sharp in the cold air. Miles let out a quick breath, but didn’t relax. His glasses slipped down his nose. A bruise already bloomed across his right cheekbone. His eyes flickered back to the road.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” he asked again. “What did you see? There was no one out there besides you and me and Art.”
    I shook my head.
    I couldn’t tell him.
    He could never know.

Chapter Sixteen
    M y mother opened the door.
    â€œShe just . . .” was all Miles got out before she yanked me from his arms.
    â€œWhat happened?” She pushed me into the house. “What did you do?”
    â€œHe didn’t do anything, Mom.” She pushed me onto the bench in the hall. The room spun, threatened to disappear. I realized she’d been talking to me, not Miles.
    â€œWe were at the bonfire, and she said . . . she started talking to someone else,” said Miles. “She fell down screaming, and we got her up and I brought her here.”
    My mother stared at him. “What’s that mark? Did she hit you?”
    â€œYes, but . . .”
    She rounded on me, eyes flashing. “Thank you,” she said over her shoulder to Miles. “I’m very sorry for your trouble. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”
    â€œBut wait—is she okay?”
    My mother closed the door in his face.
    â€œMom!”
    â€œAlexandra Victoria Ridgemont. You haven’t been taking your medicine, have you?”
    â€œMom, I—I thought I was—”
    She stormed into the bathroom and returned with my prescription bottle, thrusting it into my hands. “Take them. Now.” She bent down and pulled my shoes off like I was four. “I trusted you to take those on time. I thought, after years of this, I could count on you to do it yourself.” One of her nails scratched my heel. “I can’t believe you hit him. What if his parents decide to press assault charges? I can’t believe you were so irresponsible. Are you still seeing things?”
    â€œHow am I supposed to know, Mom?” I had to force the words through the knot in my throat. I wiped tears from my eyes. I clawed open the pill bottle and choked down the medicine.
    â€œGo into the living room. I’m calling Leann.”
    Leann Graves, my therapist. The Gravedigger.
    My stomach convulsed.
    â€œI’m fine, Mom, really,” I said, voice wavering. “I’m okay now. It snuck up on me.”
    But she already had the phone in her hand, her thumbs flying over the buttons. How did she not have the Gravedigger on speed dial? She smashed the phone against her ear.
    â€œI’m calling your father after this,” she said in her most severe, threatening tone.
    â€œGood!” The strength of my voice surprised me. “He listens better than you