Away We Go - Emil Ostrovski Page 0,72
my left and we will wait for the clock to hit 11:37 p.m.
That would be the perfect end.
Except that’s not what happens.
At five p.m., my pants emit a beep. I steal a glance at my phone when the teacher turns her back. The guy sitting opposite me gives me a dirty look, but I don’t care. The text is from Zach.
i need help. pleaes.
I leave the lecture hall. Stop at nearby bathroom. Splash water in my face. When I get to his room, he’s on the floor, on his side, bedcovers everywhere.
“Can’t move,” is all he says.
I pick him up, help him to his bed. He’s talking, talking. “Woke up yesterday and couldn’t move my legs. Can’t move my legs. But I needed to make it to today. I made it to today.”
Lines of sweat worm their way down his face, his arms. I’ve never seen him panicked before, not like this.
“Noah,” he says. “They see me like this and I suppose they’re going to take me away now.”
“How long have you been like—this?”
“They’re going to take me away now.”
“Zach, how long have you—”
“Yesterday. I kept hoping. Kept waiting. I thought I’d wake up today and be better, good days and bad days. Sometimes my legs go numb. But not like this. I can’t move them, Noah. And I’m losing—I can’t feel the left side of my face.”
I’ve never seen someone this bad. They’re always taken away before they get this bad.
“Have you told anyone?”
“Addie would flip. She would freak. She knocked on the door but I can’t deal with that. Right now. I don’t know if I love her. Isn’t that crazy? After all that. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m so—God, I need you to help me.”
I stand there, as paralyzed as he is.
He takes a deep breath. “I need—” He looks away. He points to his closet. “The painkillers. Top shelf.”
“I remember,” I say, find the bottle, and hand it to him. He fumbles with the cap, can’t get it open. I look away. He laughs; there’s no humor in it.
“Get it open for me, will you?”
I open it, pretending to have some difficulty.
He takes it from me. “Thanks, Noah,” he says. One look inside, and his face falls. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” He throws the bottle against the wall. I count three pills rolling on the floor. Pick up the bottle. Empty inside.
“I thought there were more. Thought there were more. Fuck,” he says. “God,” he says. “Shit.”
His phone rings and he ignores it. I think he’s crying now, but I’m not sure, since his face is already drenched from sweat.
“Three’s not enough?” I ask. I’m about to reach down and try to pick the pills up.
“Fuck, Noah. I had an appointment at Wellness today. They keep calling. I told them I forgot and they made me reschedule for five-thirty. When I don’t show up, they’re going to send someone here—second they see me like this they’ll—” He bites his lip and, with apparent difficulty, says, “I just wanted to know if Apep, I couldn’t save anyone, I mean, Polo Club couldn’t, but I thought, I don’t know what I thought, but if Apep doesn’t hit—they shot Marty and now they’re going to take me God knows where. I don’t know what I want, but I don’t want that. I’m sorry, Noah.”
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it couldn’t be farther from okay.
“I’m sorry because—because I need to ask you to help me. I need you to do something. Horrible.”
My eyes meet his red, watery ones.
“If Apep doesn’t hit, we can’t let them take me. I don’t want them to take me. I wanted to save—” his voice breaks. “I know I promised we’d figure it out, but I don’t want to know which stories are true and which aren’t. I don’t want to know where the sick kids go, okay? That’s the truth, kid. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
I understand now why he’s called me here, why he needs me, why he was upset that the bottle only had three pills.
“No,” I say. “I can’t, Zach.”
“Please—”
“I can’t.”
“Noah, I know. What I’m asking is horrible. I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry it’s you. It shouldn’t be you. But I have nobody else. I tried—I texted, I called, there’s nobody else and Addie will freak, she won’t understand, and you’re always so good at responding to texts—”
“Zach, I can’t.”
“I know I said I’d do it. The one who goes away