For the first time in my life, I can’t wait to wake up every day. I can’t wait to see what crazy thing you’re gonna do, or what completely inappropriate thing you will say to make me laugh, or what long-haired seventies rock band will be on your shirt. I like that you’re unpredictable and complicated. Because I like you, Peyton. When I’m around you, I feel like I can do anything. You helped me let go, feel free, and give myself permission to move forward. For the first time in my life, I’m not scared of anything.”
I move a little closer. I want her to see I’m telling the truth.
Peyton cracks half a smile. “I’m sorry. I know we’re having a poignant moment here, but it’s very hard to take you seriously with that thing on your chin.” She rests her hand on my shoulder, laughs again, and pulls me into a hug. I breathe her in.
I whisper into her hair, “I mean it, Peyton.” I run my hand down the small of her back and press my cheek against hers. “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you ever again. I promise.”
Her body is warm and soft, and I can feel her heart beating as she leans into me. She buries her head in my shoulder, and I whisper, “Please just come home with me.”
After what seems like an eternity, she replies in a voice so quiet I can barely hear it. “Okay.”
I’m smiling from ear to ear as I help her gather what few things she has lying around and shove them in an empty, plastic drugstore bag. She scribbles a quick note to Monica and leaves it on her pillow. As we’re leaving, I say, “We can’t let anyone see us. We could get in trouble.”
“No kidding. That’s why we take the back exit,” she says as she leads me down the hall to a separate stairwell that empties out by the giant, pink phallic silo. “You could have just come in that way in the first place, you know.”
Who knew?
21
I'm back at school. Peyton is back too, and I swear everyone thinks she’s a transfer student because no one recognizes her with her new hair.
I’m going through the motions the best I can, like nothing ever happened, but I can sense something is off. Life in general seems too calm and I don’t trust it. It’s like we’re in a frickin’ snow globe that someone’s about to give a good shake.
So when Peyton is paged to the front office during last period, I get a weird feeling. It’s probably because she was MIA for a week. There must be rules about extended absences, but she knows how to work the system because in the time I’ve known her, Peyton has pretty much come and gone as she pleases. I have to be at work by four, but I wait for her after school by her locker to see what that’s all about.
She doesn’t show. I’m not gonna lie; this makes me anxious. A million scenarios compete in my head. Did she get detention? Could they have found evidence she was responsible for the fires and kicked her out? Or something worse? I unlock my bike from the rack in front of the school and climb on, about to leave, when I spot her walking down the front steps of the school with some woman. I can’t make out their words, but the body language between them is tense and the woman seems agitated. I ride toward them slowly, wanting to make sure Peyton is okay.
The woman looks vaguely familiar with curly, shoulder-length hair, tight clothes with cleavage spilling out, cheap shoes, and too much makeup. She reaches for Peyton’s arm, but Peyton pulls it out of her grasp, falling two paces behind her. Each time the woman speaks, Peyton flinches as if she’s been slapped. In between sentences, the woman’s mouth is an angry, straight line.
They walk in the direction of an old yellow car with oxidized paint and rimless tires. The woman opens the door to the driver’s side and Peyton begrudgingly opens the passenger’s, her head down.
That’s when I officially flip out, because I know why this woman seems so familiar to me. I’ve seen her picture on the walls in Peyton’s house. It’s her mom, the same woman who took scissors to Peyton’s hair and gave her those bruises. My stomach lurches. I yell, “Peyton!” and pedal faster until I’m