Page 160 of We Can't Be Friends

Halfway up the stairs, I quiet my steps in case she’s taking a nap.

When has Chloe ever taken a nap? Never. Maybe she did today.

Possibility after possibility calculates in my head, each with an implausible outcome.

As I walk up the steps into the hallway leading to our respective bedrooms, I hear a low whimper. A drawn-out cry.

Tucker.

Following the sounds, they grow louder and more desperate.

Her door is open.

I bite my lip, inhale deeply, and exhale before entering. Steadying myself for. . .for what, Cal? She’s okay.

My chest tightens.

Her lights are off, but the curtains are open, the lengthening daylight cascading in. Head swiveling, I spin slowly around her room.

I cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong.

It scares me.

Another loud cry sounds. My eyes shoot to Tucker. He’s lying by the door to the ensuite bathroom. Snout pressed up against the door. One of his front paws flicks up and down, scratching at the door.

Behind his crying, the sound of water is present.

I close my eyes, breathing easier. She’s in the shower.

Chloe’s in the shower, I repeat in my head. Tucker needs to go out.

“Need to go outside, buddy?” I walk over to him, crouching down to pet his head.

He peers up at me. I’ve never had a pet before—the only animals I have experience with are cows and horses on a farm—and I never know how to tell what he needs. Staring into his brown eyes, I see terror, not his pangryness (needing to poop so bad that it makes him angry). He is concerned for what’s on the other side of the wooden door.

“Your mom in there?” I ask him as if he’s going to respond to me. “You want to have eyes on her? I’ll open the door for ya, buddy.”

I reach for the handle, and he rises to all fours. Twisting it to the right, it barely moves. Locked.

“Chloe?” I knock. “You in there?”

No response. I try again. No response.

Retreating to the kitchen, I dig into our organized junk drawer. There is a key to all the doors in here somewhere. Too impatient to find it, I grab a bobby pin—I never expected Audrey and I’s lock picking skills would ever come in handy.

Bounding up the stairs, Tucker is standing by the door. When he hears me enter, his tail wags, bouncing off the wall.

“We’re going to figure it out, I promise,” I tell him and myself.

Contorting the bobby pin into a tool, I push it into the small hole on the door handle. Wiggling it around, the lock pops. Testing the handle, it twists, opening. Tucker pushes through between my legs, finding a spot next to the shower and immediately laying down protectively.

The bathroom isn’t billowing with steam.

The air isn’t even warm, but cold. It’s freezing in here.

Is she. . . is Chloe taking a cold shower?

In the corner of the shower, pressed up against the tile is Chloe. Naked. Hair flat and stuck to her face. Her legs folded up into her, arms hugging her knees. Head tilted back, using the tile for support, black makeup streaking down her cheeks.

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