Page 42 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

blood pressed to her cheek from laying on the ground where she cut

her shoulder. I lean in while the staff works to make sure she can’t

roll off the bed.

“It’s going to be okay, car chick. I promise.”

Her little voice peaks, though it’s hard to hear through the gravelly

sound of her tone I can only assume has come about because she’s

screamed in agony. Judging by the mark on her shoulder, when the

nurse turns her on her side to see the source of blood, I know I would

have screamed too.

She whispers something at first, and I can’t make it out until I lean

in, my ear pressed to her soft, cold lips. “Don’t call me that.”

I snicker slightly but straighten up and nod. She huffs as they take

her away, and for the first time in about twenty minutes, I realize

what’s happened. There’s blood on my backseat, on my clothes, and a

short trail of it follows the gurney as they rush her inside. I move my

car, change my shirt with a spare that comes out of my trunk, and go

to sit down in the lobby.

The nurses come and go down the hall. This hospital is more like a

clinic considering its size, so I hope they can fix her here. If not,

they’ll have to take her somewhere further away, and I don’t want her

to be alone in that. I promise myself to wait for her, to at least check

in on her, before leaving.

Bowing my head, I count the gray tones in the white tiles and keep

the number in my head like a neon ticker that rises in amount, my

mind obsessed with numbers ever since I was little.

There were twenty cigarettes in my dad's last pack when he left to go

get high. When he died, the police told me they found thirteen left. In

the span of four hours, not including the time it took for him to die,

there were seven cigarettes smoked.

There are at least ninety-six stars out at night that I can see from the

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