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Seriously?This is the position she’s putting me in? I have absolutely no idea what to do. If I do call the police, I’m breaking trust. If I don’t, she could be in serious danger.
“Is there a lock on the door? Are you feeling threatened in any way?”
“I locked the door. Just text me when you get here. And please, please don’t call my dad.”
Double shit. It’s the first thing I was going to do after hanging up. But then I have another thought—I shouldn’t hang up at all. I need to keep her on the line. That way I’ll know if anything else happens.
“I won’t call anyone because I’m going to stay on the phone with you the whole time. Drop the pin, Darla.”
“Okay.”
When nothing comes through, I ask, “Are you doing it?” There’s no reply. I think she dropped the phone. I pray she doesn’t hang up on me.
Finally, a text comes with her location. I’m already in my car when it does. She’s only a few miles away.
“Talk to me, Darla.”
“I don’t feel like talk—”
Her words are cut short and then I hear an awful noise like she’s vomiting before the call ends.Oh dear Lord.
I may be driving faster than the law allows, but the streets are deserted this time of night and it doesn’t take long to arrive. When I do, it’s clear which house. There are several bikes and skateboards in the driveway, and a few cars clearly belonging to teenage boys line the street. I hear music even before I open my car door. I’m surprised the police aren’t already here. I do spy a neighbor peeking from a window shaking his head. His phone is in his hand. I really want to get her out of here before any police arrive.
I don’t bother knocking. I walk right in the front door. Then I text her.
Me: I’m in the house at the front door.
As I await her reply, I contemplate ripping every door open to find her. Instead, I’m looking around at all the baby-faced teens. A few girls I recognize from soccer tryouts.
A boy walks over and hands me a can of beer, then he eyes my stomach. “Um… you drinkin’? Hey, how old are you?”
All of his words are slurred. It’s a good thing I have a lot of experience in ‘drunk teenage boy speak,’ having grown up with three brothers.
I shove the beer forcefully back at his chest. “No, I’m not drinking, you little shit. And neither should you. What are you, twelve?”
He stands taller. “Fifteen.”
I see a streak of blue flash past me and realize Bug is darting by me and heading outside. I follow her, not bothering to close the front door.
Bug doesn’t go straight for my car, she heads for a nearby bush instead and pukes on it. Well, I suppose that’s better than in my car. I just hope she can make it five minutes before it happens again.
I don’t bother saying anything to her in the car. It might make her sick. I remember the first time I got drunk. All I could do was sit and focus on something so my head would stop spinning. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me or touch me. I just wanted to stare at one immobile point.
I want to laugh, because I know she’ll be in for a world of hurt tonight and tomorrow. But I can’t laugh. Because she was in a fucking closet. And the implications of that scare the life out of me.
My own stomach turns when I inhale her putrid scent. She must have vomited on herself. I lower the windows and turn on the air.
As I wait for the garage to fully open, she flings open the car door, hurries out, then graces the front bushes with more rejected alcohol. I close my eyes, praying alcohol is reallyallit was.
She’s nowhere to be found by the time I park the car and get inside. I gather supplies—a few bottles of cold water, some Advil, a cold washcloth, a mop bucket in case she can’t make it to the bathroom—and knock on her door before opening it, glad she didn’t have the wherewithal to lock it.
“Darla?”
She groans, lying face down on her bed.
“Darla, I need to know if you’re just drunk or if you took anything else.”
“I’m not stupid,” she says into the mattress.