Killer Drop by Mette Bach

Author:Mette Bach
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: James Lorimer and Company Ltd., Publishers
Published: 2016-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

Mom’s gabbing on the phone with her bestie when I get home. They’re laughing over something. She must’ve heard the door because she comes out into the foyer.

“What are you doing home?” she mouths with her hand over the receiver.

“Long story,” I say, slumping down on the plush white couch in the living room. I toss my backpack down on the floor.

“I have to go,” Mom says to her friend and hangs up. “What’s up?”

“Sit down.”

All the colour goes from her face as I tell her about Tom being in the hospital. I want so badly to be able to stop there. It’s enough.

“There’s more,” I say. I tell her about Yasmin, and she starts to shake her head and say “No. No. No.” Over and over.

She looks at me as though I killed Yasmin myself. She looks at me the way she would look at a monster in a horror movie. I knew she’d look at me like that. That’s why I couldn’t say anything.

There. It’s all out of me now. She sits in front of me. There’s nearly no expression on her face at all. It’s like the time we almost hit a deer on the highway a few years back. The deer just stood there, stunned. Expressionless. That’s what shock looks like.

We sit across from each other in silence for a really long time as I watch her try to come up with words other than no.

“We should call the doctor,” she finally says.

“Why?”

“Maybe you have something. A fracture. Concussion. I don’t know.”

She whips out her phone and scrolls down to the hospital number. She explains the situation to the person on the other end. There’s a pause and then, “Seriously? With all the money we donated, you expect us to wait two hours? Get over here. Now.”

“I don’t think there’s any need,” I say. I’m not the one who’s hurt.

“I’m the parent. I’ll say what’s happening.”

“Okay.”

While we wait, I tell Mom about the upcoming funeral. She shakes her head and repeats the word Saturday.

“Yasmin Alvarez. Is she the one who dresses like a guy?”

“No, she’s the one who wears those hippie scarves you hate.” I pause. “Wore.”

“I don’t know who she is. I don’t remember what she looks like. This is awful.”

“You met her when you picked me up from yearbook club last year. She was the one who was eating a chocolate bar outside, and you told her she’d get fat if she kept that up.”

“Oh, her. She was pretty.”

“Yeah,” I say. And for a moment it strikes me as weird that I never noticed until Whistler.

“Marcus, you’re going to have to tell your dad tonight, and I’m not breaking the fall for you. Not this time. You’re on your own with him.”

“I know.”

The only thing worse than telling my mom will be telling my dad.

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