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“I don’t feel good,” I moan, feeling like vomit might come up with the words. My throat tightens and my vision vibrates. I’m overwhelmed with the need to get the hell out of here.
I shoot up from the chair, falling against her a little before taking off towards the exit. The music fades and everything suddenly seems distant, like I’m submerged underwater. My head sways to such an extreme that every step makes me feel like I’m going to fall over.
“Want me to come with you?” she calls out after me.
I think she calls out after me. Maybe I made it up. I can’t tell anymore.
All I can manage is a dismissive wave back at her, hoping she’ll just leave me alone. I may have decided I don’t care what anyone else in this school thinks about me, but I don’t want to look like the loser who couldn’t handle her alcohol in front of Bridgett.
I’m suddenly very glad I decided to wear these tennis shoes because I’m positive I’d fall right over if I were trying to manage walking in heels at this moment. The smells wafting from the refreshment tables mix in with the scents of fresh flowers, hairspray, cologne, perfume, breath mints, and alcohol. It all swirls together, making me terribly nauseous.
I push forward with a weaving walk, my voice slurring as I try to give normal greetings to the people staring at me. My arms wave in front of me, but I feel like I have no control over where they’re going. Then I nearly fall as I bump into the corner of a bleacher.
As I stumble past, I eye the tower of water bottles and think I should grab one, but I’m so disoriented, I’m scared of sending them all crashing to the ground. Then I notice the punch bowl and remember what happened when I filled up my cup. That guy distracted me, and I sat it down for a while. Did someone drug me?
I turn back towards Bridgett, wanting to ask for her help. But she seems to have disappeared back onto the dance floor. I know I’ll never manage to hunt her down in the bouncing crowd. If I don’t get out of here right away, I’m going to throw up or faint right here in the middle of everything. Part of me thinks if I’ve been drugged, it’d be worth it to humiliate myself and make a scene if it meant getting some help. But then again…what if whoever did this to me is watching? Waiting to swoop in and carry me off before anyone can see what’s happened?
I don’t feel capable of making any rational decisions right now, so I decide to follow my instinct to escape. My dress feels like it’s constricting around me, growing tighter, and I just have to go. I have to get out of here. I’m hit with a gush of cold air as I stumble out the exit, escaping the swelling heat of the dancing bodies in the gym. I lurch to the side with shuffling steps, hunched over against anything to steady me.
I feel a little better once I can brace myself against the wall in the hallway. I take long, slow steps, my feet feeling like cement blocks, as I drag myself to the bathroom. I’m faintly aware of how sweaty my palms have gotten as I feel my way down the shiny, slick painted cinderblocks. But everything is starting to feel further away. Even the things that are only inches away from my face. But the bathroom door up ahead weaves back and forth, seeming within reach one minute and then when I extend my hand for it, it vanishes back to the other end of the hall, seeming miles away.
Just when I think I’ll tumble down right here in the hallway, I reach the door. My hand fumbles across the handle and I realize it doesn’t seem right. I don’t remember any bathroom at this school having a handle like this, but just as I think it, I crash inside, falling to the floor as the door gives way in front of me. I hit the ground like a ton of bricks, but somehow don’t feel anything from it. My body is completely numb, reminding me of the shots you get in your gums at the dentist, except every inch of my skin feels that way.
I try to lift my head and I swear it’s shaking. But I can’t tell if my head is shaking or just my line of vision. That’s when I notice the buzzing fluorescent lights up above and the cold concrete floor against my arms and legs. The shelves lined with mops, buckets, and cleaning solutions let me know I’m not in the bathroom at all. I’ve fallen into a closet.
I want to get up, but no matter how many times my brain sends the command, my body won’t respond. Unable to move anything else, I blink rapidly, trying to focus on anything I can. Then I hear voices coming from an open door at the other end of the room. My head falls back down to the floor against my will, and I can see the shadows of two people standing on the other side of the wall.
“Do you regret it?” a familiar male voice asks.
“No,” a woman replies sternly.
At first, I’m unable to place them, but then I recognize the man’s voice. It’s Coach Granger and I’m positive the woman he’s speaking to is his assistant, Jada.
“My brother made some mistakes, but he was a good man,” she adds with a cold resolve in her tone. “He was trying to turn his life around, and had those assholes not planted those drugs right in front of his face, he’d still be with us today. I know he would’ve stayed sober this time or asked for help. Even as a junkie, he was never the kind of sick person these spoiled, entitled brats like Malcolm are.”
“It’s a shame,” Coach replies. “But I think the world is better off without people like him in it.”
“What about the other one?” Jada asks. “That Lily girl?”
“Let her be,” he says.
“She’s suffering enough locked up in rehab and I doubt her parents will be signing off on her release any time soon.”
“But Dad…” she argues.
“I said let her be. I’ll keep an eye on that whole situation and let you know if anything changes,” he barks, leaving no more room for debate.
My head is swimming as I try to understand it. Dad? Jada is Coach Granger’s daughter? Why wouldn’t he tell us that and what the hell are they talking about?
“What about you?” she asks him. “Do you have any regrets?”
“No,” he sighs. “We had no choice. The police and the courts weren’t going to do anything. We had to take justice into our own hands. My son deserves to rest in peace without the guy responsible for his death roaming around free, hurting anyone else.”
“And what about that Emmett kid? How did that DNA evidence get in the car?” Jada questions.
“I don’t know. I had nothing to do with that,” he explains. “But I bailed him out. I’ll find some way to make sure he doesn’t take the fall for this.”
I can’t tell if the pounding in my chest and rising sickness in my gut is from whatever is happening to me or realizing that Jada and Coach Granger are discussing how they murdered Malcolm. I want to call out for them to help me but interrupting a murder confession seems like a terrible idea even in my impaired state.
