Page 64 of The Narrow

“Should we call someone? Get her to the nurse?” Zoya asks, peering around from behind.

“She’ll get in trouble,” Veronica says.

“I’m fine,” I say. No one seems to hear me. Or maybe they’re not listening. I’m not drunk. I’m concussed—because of Maeve, because somehow her touch brings my injuries back. And I’m maybe a little tipsy. Suddenly it seems hilarious, but I have the sense to stifle my giggle. I’m not even trying to lie this time. But nobody believes me, so it doesn’t matter anyway. I could tell everybody the truth, I think wildly. I could tell them and they wouldn’t even care.

I’m going to tell them.

That was what I said. After I called Dylan whatever horrible thing I could think of, and he laughed at me. All I needed to do was shut up for one more day, but when he laughed, when he said,You have a filthy mouth,Princess, I’d threatened to tell.

And that’s when he hit me.

Not Dylan. Luke.

Dylan was the one standing, laughing, the same way he laughed a moment ago, but now it was in shock rather than amusement.

Luke was the one with his hand on my face.

His knee in my back.

It wasn’t his fault. It was Dylan’s. He’d been working so hard. Doing so well. Dylan was the one who ruined it.

He apologized after. Over and over. Begged me not to tell.

“We can’t just leave her here. It’s not safe,” Ruth says.

“No, it’s fine,” I tell her, lying down. “As long as you keep the water out, she can’t get in and I’ll get better and it’ll be fine.”

“What is she talking about?” Zoya asks.

“I have no idea,” Veronica says. “Look. I’ll stay with her. I’ll stay on the couch and make sure she doesn’t throw up or anything, and I’ll be back in Westmore before morning.”

“Maybe we should all stay,” Zoya says.

“We could take shifts,” Ruth suggests.

“I’m not drunk,” I tell them, shutting my eyes. That makes the spinning worse. My stomach lurches, and I open my eyes again, fixing my gaze on the wall to try to steady myself.

You can’t tell anyone about this, my mother said when I told her.

“You don’t know if you took a serious opioid before getting drunk. Which you should know is a major no-no,” Ruth says.

Of course I know. I spent several summer nights up late googling interactions and side effects and horror stories, convinced my heart was going to stop.

You’re fine. Right? You’ll be fine. We just need to handle this ourselves.

I didn’t take a pill tonight, and I haven’t had more than a few sips to drink, but they aren’t going to leave me alone. “Wait. Check my pocket,” I say. I remember stashing one in case I needed it.

They exchange looks. With a sigh, Ruth heads back out into the hall. When she comes back, she has the pill.

“Looks like we’re safe,” she says. “Now we just have to worry about alcohol poisoning.”

“She’s a lightweight. She probably didn’t have enough to worry about,” Veronica says. She doesn’t know how much my tolerance improved over the summer. “I’ve got this. You can go.”

“Okay, but I’m taking the pills,” Ruth says. “And we’re talking when she’s sober.”

“Make sure you don’t get caught with them,” Veronica advises.

Ruth gives a curt nod, and she and Zoya head out.

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