Page 100 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

“No, not yet.”

“Dude, you’ll never believe my luck,” he groans. “I got stuck with Mrs. Fritz.”

“That blows,” I say, trying to mask my laughter. “The gods are clearly against you.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So, what are you doing today?”

“I have to go to the doctor.”

“Why?”

“To get my cast off.”

“Maybe you can keep it off this time,” I tease.

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, maybe ...” He sighs. “I might go down to the docks. Justin, texted right before you called and a few guys from the team are hanging out there later, so I’ll probably meet up with them.”

It’s weird to hear him talk about his friends that I have nothing to do with. It’s as if he’s living in a completely different world, and although he and I have a lot in common, there’s also so much that we don’t.

“That sounds ...fun, I guess.”

He laughs. “You suck at faking it, you know that?”

A line begins to form for the phone, and when I get a snide eye from the new kid, I tell Sebastian, “I should probably get going. People are waiting to use the phone.”

“I won’t make any plans for Friday,” he says, putting another smile on my face. “Call me later?”

“Yeah. It’s movie night, so the phone should be free.”

“Miss you, Low.”

“Miss you too.”

HARLOW

Alone for the first time since summer began, I stand in the doorway of my bedroom. There’s no one looking over my shoulder or telling me where to be, and it’s a strange feeling, like a bird being released into the wild. I want the freedom, but I’m not sure if I can handle it. Not that I would ever admit that to anyone because to do so would come with consequences.

Everything in my room is organized and clean, unlike how it was left.

I wonder how much my mother snooped through my stuff while I was away. Not that she would find anything, but still, it’s an invasion. My whole world has been invaded, and I want it back—my privacy. I want to go to the bathroom without being monitored, change my clothes without having to have someone unlock my closet, or sleep at night without a flashlight being shone in my face every fifteen minutes.

I want to scream into the open space of this world because I’m bitter about the time that was stolen from me. But what’s time when it means nothing, when it holds no value?

Still, I resent that it was taken without my consent.

I’m tired of feeling powerless. Staring at my bed, I go back to the first day of summer and see my mother throwing my belongings into the duffle bag that’s now slung over my shoulder.

She blindsided me and took away any choice I thought I held and had me locked away.

Two and a half months—gone.

And for what?

It isn’t as if I’m cured. The weight of desolation still presses down on me. It’s there no matter how many pills I shove down my throat, no matter how many therapy sessions I do, art projects I create, or yoga classes I breathe through—the bleakness remains.

“Harlow, could you bring down your clothes after you unpack so I can throw them into the wash?”

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