“You shouldn’t be on school property, J. D. You’ve already been kicked out of Franklin—do you really want me to have to get the police involved?”
J. D. throws his head back and laughs. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are filled with derision.
“You can’t do shit to me and you know it.”
He starts to stumble in my direction, but Smith yanks me back.
“Get out of here, Cyn, please,” he breathes, then raises his voice so J. D. can hear him. “I don’t need some bitch teacher interfering in my life.”
“Funny how the tables have turned,” J. D. slurs. “Asher may have protected your ass before, but no one’s sticking up for you now.”
I glare at him, then at Smith.
“I’m going to get your brother,” I hiss at him.
“Shit—Cyn, don’t!”
Smith reaches for me, but I manage to slip through his grasp. Then I break into a run.
“Fucking A—I’m gonna get you, you fucking nosy bitch,” J. D. hollers. Seconds later, I hear the roar of an engine and a peeling of wheels, and I start running even faster. I’ve just made it to the edge of the parking lot when the light hits my body, bathing me in brightness. I can’t help but turn toward it and squint. For some reason, the headlights don’t look like headlights. They look like something singular, like a flashlight. Or a freight train.
There’s no way he’d actually hit me with his car, would he? Then again, if he’s drunk or high, who knows what J.D . Fenton would do . . .
There’s long, low growl coming from the Mustang, then the screech of rubber as J. D. slams on the gas and the Mustang comes barreling in my direction.
“Hyacinth!”
Smith’s voice booms, a thunder rolling over my consciousness. He’s charging toward me and I don’t know where to move. His gaze locks on mine, and the terror I see in them is scarier than anything I can imagine.
I’m not looking at the Mustang when it hits me.
I’m looking right into Smith’s eyes.
There’s a sensation of being crushed, of losing breath and blood and life, all in mere seconds. And then there’s nothing but air. The sounds are the only thing I can concentrate on, because every other body sensation seems to be frozen around me.
Then I slam to the ground, and all those body sensations turn into excruciating, horrendous pain.
Smith is at my side in an instant, pressing his hand to my head. I hear the scream of the Mustang as it peels out of the parking lot and roars away from my broken body and Smith’s frantic voice.
“Cyn, can you hear me? Motherfucking hell.”
He leans closer to me. I feel his warm breath fan over my cheek.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here.”
I try to groan, to say something, but my mouth refuses to open. He strokes my face, and everything begins to fade into the distance. I start seeing images flash through my mind.
Body paint.
Cave walls.
Hamlet scripts.
A chalkboard eraser.
Smith’s mouth.
Smith’s eyes.
Smith.
Smith.
Smith.
Then, the sirens in the distance are the last thing I hear before everything disappears in the night.
***
“Miss Hendricks?”
The voice sounds like a student and I wonder if I’ve fallen asleep at my desk. I try to blink, but my eyelids feel immobile. More than heavy, they feel glued down. Like I’ve been drugged.
Oh, fuck—have I been drugged?
I try to say roofies, but nothing comes out.
“Hang in there, princess,” another voice says.
Dad’s here? Why is Dad at school?
“How long will it be until she’s fully conscious?” someone else asks, her tone high-pitched and frantic.
Carson.
“Once her eyelids begin to flutter, we’ll have a better idea,” the first voice says. “Let her do this at her own pace. Talk to her, but don’t try to coax her out of her sleep. It’ll just make her more groggy and confused when she wakes up.”
A warm hand—Dad’s, I think—takes mine and holds it firmly, providing me with his trademark strength through his skin and bones and blood.
I smell antiseptic and latex, and using all of the strength I can muster, I manage to crack open my eyes.
I’m in the hospital.
Why am I in the hospital?
“Whuh—whuh-uh hap-p-ed.”
Those are my first words and they’re not even real words. But Dad and Carson are immediately up in my face, as though getting closer to me will make me speak more. I try again, but my words are too garbled, like my mouth has forgotten how to form them.
“Did she say ‘hat pins’?”
Rainey comes over and peers down at me.
“I heard ‘lap dance.’”
Is that Wyatt? Jesus, how many people are in this room right now?
“Whu-ut. H-h-hap. Ennnd.” I feel victorious, despite the fact that my eyes burn from the acrid smell of rubbing alcohol, and my mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton.
“There was an accident, princess,” Dad says quietly. “You’re at the hospital.”
I want to nod, but now my senses seem to be returning—and the sense of touch informs me that I’ve got some kind of weird brace thing around my neck. I manage to reach up and pull at the stiff material.
“No, honey, don’t mess with that yet,” a nurse, the owner of the first voice, says. She places both her hands on my shoulders and refastens the neck brace.
I try to lick my lips, but my tongue is so dry, it’s no use.
“Wa-t-ter.”
The nurse hands me a foam cup with a lid and straw.
“I’m Jessica—the day shift nurse,” she says, smiling warmly. I take the cup gratefully. As soon as the cool liquid meets my tongue, I moan with relief.
“Thanks,” I croak.
Dad wheels himself a little closer to the head of the bed, then reaches out to stroke my face.
“How are you feeling, princess?”
I want to shrug, so I try, but there’s an immediate, searing pain rolling up and over my chest.
“H-hurts,” I finally manage. Dad nods.
“You got yourself a half dozen broken ribs. It’s bound to be painful.”
Broken ribs?
I take a deep breath in and immediately wince. It even hurts to breathe. I can’t imagine actually getting out of this bed and functioning right now.
“There was an accident,” Carson says, coming around the other side of the bed. “You were struck by a car.”
I furrow my brows, trying to recall any details. “Is my car okay?”
Carson and my dad share a glance.
“You weren’t in your car,” she says quietly. “You were standing in a parking lot—in the school parking lot. At Franklin.”
Dad licks his lips nervously and he’s watching me closely, like he’s afraid the whole incident will come rushing back at me all at once.
Which is a rational fear, I suppose, since that’s exactly what happens.
The basketball game. I’d been chaperoning.
I’d gone out into the faculty parking lot.
Smith was there. So was J. D.
There was a bag of pills.
All I saw were headlights. And then I saw nothing.
“I felt like I was flying,” I say slowly.
Rainey cracks a smile.
“Well, your landing was a little rough, and you’ve got some legit bruises,” she assures me with a wink. “But you look pretty hard-core.”