The Art of Feeling by Laura Tims

The Art of Feeling by Laura Tims

Author:Laura Tims
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-06-07T04:00:00+00:00


Chapter Ten

ELIOT’S NOT AT SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY, SO I have to sit through lunch by myself. Then I have to sit through Social Studies by myself as everyone else pairs up to grade each other’s quizzes.

I watch them do it like they’re in another dimension. It’s so messed up to make us choose teams in gym, or partner up in class, just in case anyone was wondering who has no friends.

It wouldn’t kill you to text me back, I message him. If it would kill you, you should see someone about that.

I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

I mean, something’s probably wrong. Eliot lives crisis to crisis. I bet his house was swallowed up by a giant crack in the ground.

I google that under my desk to find out if it’s something that actually happens, and it is, and it happened to a family in New Mexico.

If you don’t text me back in the next hour I’m going to assume you’ve been swallowed by a giant crack in the ground like that family from New Mexico, I text him.

What family from New Mexico?

I nearly knock over my crutches.

Why aren’t you in school? Are you mad at me

Come over, he finally responds.

I’m in the middle of class, I can’t just waltz out.

Buzz. Don’t waltz, then. Walk.

What’s the matter? My fingers are sweaty on the screen.

May be dying. Need you to deny or confirm. Don’t call 911.

He has to be joking, some bizarre prank to break the ice from yesterday.

You’re not serious right

Eliot???

Oh, God.

How do I get to your house I don’t have a car. Fuck fuck fuck

I leap out of my chair as much as I can leap and basically scream, “I have to go to the nurse’s office.”

Everyone looks up from their partner’s quiz to silently judge me.

Mr. Parish frowns. “Samantha, did you know you’ve excused yourself from class six times this semester?”

He had to choose number seven to be a dick about. “I really don’t feel good.”

“You look fine to me.”

Eliot better be drawing his last breath.

I lean over and fake retch like I’m going to puke. Someone says, “Ew.”

“Very well.” Mr. Parish sighs. “Would someone please escort—”

I’m out of the room before he can finish.

At the end of the hall, I stop. Am I going to walk all the way to Eliot’s?

If he said not to call 911, I should probably call 911.

But he also said he hates hospitals.

After an hour of walking in the abnormally hot April sun, I’m soaked with sweat. The Vicodin staves off the pain, but I’ll be feeling it tonight.

When I finally reach Eliot’s, I want to fall on his front porch and die. Instead I shoulder his door open, my hand so moist it slips on the knob.

“Eliot?” I wheeze.

The house is roasting, and all the windows are shut. Luckily Gabriel’s shoes aren’t by the front door.

Eliot isn’t in the living room, so I check the kitchen. The oven’s on, which explains why the house is a furnace. A limp bag of frozen french fries, which I bought him at the grocery store, is melting by the sink.



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