but seeing the kid rammed something home for me this morning—the next time Judith Foster tries to get me to smoke weed at one of her dumb parties? I’m going to tell her to go fuck herself.
And after four hours of being stuck in this waiting room, that belief has only grown more powerful.
I’d been tempted last week. So tempted. All my friends had been doing it, and they’d all started being mean to me when I said no. But I just knew I’d like it, that I’d like the escape, and that made me distrust it.
And what I distrusted, I avoided.
Which is one of the reasons I never speak to Kieran Laugherty. Sure, he might be beautiful, sure, he might be the quarterback of the varsity team, but his eyes?
Shifty for sure.
The priest’s eyes? Definitely not shifty. He looked like he’d turn the other cheek, he looked like he’d approve of my huffing at the woman who’d been sitting beside me. I’d just bet he wouldn’t have teased me for saying no to the pot Judith had waggled under my nose last week.
Feeling a little self-righteous, I fold my arms under my boobs, and grumble to myself about weed and Judith and quarterbacks who have grabby hands. But then images flash of the war-torn country once more, and my heart starts to ache.
It takes me a few moments to realize a doctor has entered the waiting room, and though his scrubs are clean, they’re wrinkled, and his eyes are tired and his face is a little worn. He has a blue cap on his head, made out of the scrub material, and it’s wonky, like he rubbed his hand over it, and it had resettled at the wrong angle. He’s at my side, where the old witch had been sitting, and his elbows are on his knees as he stares at the screen.
It’s such an informal move that my heart starts to pound with unease.
Because he doesn’t say anything, my nerves have me trying to think of something to utter to break the ice. “Tragic, isn’t it?” I whisper, staring at the TV screen.
“Yes. It is.”
For a second, I just let the images flicker through my mind, then, I build up the courage to ask something his position alone told me, “He didn’t make it, did he?”
“No.” He releases a heavy sigh. “He didn’t. His body was too weak, and the strain on his heart was just too much.”
Tears prick my eyes and I gulp. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. It does.” He cuts me a look. “Do you know the boy?”
I shake my head. “No. I promise. If I knew, I’d say. The receptionist didn’t believe me—”
He raises a hand. “It’s okay.”
My brow puckers. “No, it isn’t. I’m not a liar. I just found him on the street.”
“The police will want to talk to you about him.”
I shrug. “They can. I don’t know anything. I’m sorry he’s gone though,” I whisper a little mournfully. What was the point in my finding him if there was nothing that could be done to save him?
I want to believe we are set on the right path for a reason. I want, so badly, to hold that as the key tenet in my life, but I can’t in this instance.
Why had I found the kid if I wasn’t supposed to save him?
My throat clutches at the thought, then this talk of the cops? Nervously, I whisper, “A-Are they going to arrest me?”
The doctor tenses. “No, of course not. They just want to understand where you found the boy. He was very young. Too young to—” He blows out a breath. “Too young to die like that.”
I bite my lip and dip my head between hunched shoulders. “I thought he was my age.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
The doctor’s chin tips up. “The police can’t speak to you without a guardian present anyway. If you leave your address with the receptionist, they’ll be in touch.”
I blink at him. “Am I in trouble?” I didn’t believe him before.
“No,” he says impatiently. “You’re not.”
Nerves make my stomach churn. “I-I just wanted to help—”
“You did your best. In fact, you did more than most would have.”
“I know you did your best too.”
His smile’s tired. “I hope I did him justice, but sometimes, it’s never enough.” He heaves a sigh as he gets to his feet, and his hand comes down to rest on my shoulder. He squeezes tightly, then mutters, “You’re a good kid. Not many would stick around, not many