The pills are huge; I can still feel them in the back of my throat after I’ve swallowed.
“So we’ve finally gotten hold of your mom. She was so, so worried on the phone, and I understand she’s on her way over as we speak.”
Any other time, I’d roll my eyes at that. Of course my mom isso, so worried.Of course she’s jumped into her car, ready to come and save me from a thousand unseeable dangers, but right now, I only feel relieved.
I could have died tonight.
“And”—Nurse Megan scans the room and then picks up my viola case and hands it to me—“I believe this belongs to a Miss Addison Sullivan.”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for it. I’ve never been more grateful for the labels across the back and stitched on the inside. I open the case and immediately begin scouring every inch of my viola for scratches or dents.
“The medics said they used it to ID you before they found your proper ID.”
“Oh,” I say. I like the idea of that, of being found by my instrument—the same way I feel found when I play.
“What’s the verdict? Will it live?” Nurse Megan asks with a chuckle, and I’m embarrassed to realize I’ve been holding my breath. But my viola looks fine.
“I think so,” I say, shutting the case. “So, the other passengers…they’re here, too?”
For some reason, the smiling boy’s face keeps appearing in my mind. I want to ask about him, where he is, but I realize I don’t even know his name. And is it creepy to do that? I mean, we had one conversation.
“They are. Brought most of you in ambulances. Are you worried about someone in particular?”
“Yes. Well, no. I mean…we just met on the bus tonight. It’s not like we’re friends or anything.” Despite the water, my throat is still parched. “We talked a little. I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”
If my rambling is evidence that my faculties are returning to me, I’m not sure being without them is any great loss.
The nurse gives me a weird look now. Knowing. “I’ll see what I can find out for you. Do you know his name?”
I shake my head. “But he’s tall. My age-ish. Big smile.”
Nurse Megan is grinning at me now, like she missed the part where he’s a boyI just met,like any second now she’ll break into a soliloquy about young love or Shakespeare.
Luckily, just then the doctor raps twice on the door and comes in. Dr. Kennedy is tall and in her mid-thirties, with fashionably cropped hair and tired-looking eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses. It seems like she’s been up for hours, but she smiles kindly at me and says it’s nice to see me awake. I guess she saw me when I was first brought in. She has me sit up now and checks my reflexes, shines a light into my eyes, and exchanges medical-speak with Nurse Megan.
“I think we’ll keep you overnight, Addison,” Dr. Kennedy says. “Just to make sure you don’t have a concussion and that that head is doing okay.” She inspects my right temple, which is not bandaged or anything, just heavily bruised. They don’t know what hit it, and I don’t remember, either.
After Dr. Kennedy leaves, Nurse Megan follows her, winking at me in the doorway. “I’ll see if I can find yourfriend.”
“Thanks,” I say nonchalantly, but I feel my cheeks heating up. Thank God my skin is dark enough that you can barely tell when I’m blushing.
I’m curious to know what she’ll find out about the boy. Does he live in Lyndale? What is his name? How injured is he?
I lean back and shut my eyes, trying to appreciate the lessening pain in my head, courtesy of the painkillers.
A few minutes later, Nurse Megan bursts into my room.
“Good news! Your young man is doing well. Broke his elbow, but they’re putting it into a cast as we speak,” she says.
“Oh, thanks,” I say, suppressing the urge to saynot my young man.
“His name is Bo, in case you were wondering,” she says, coming around to my side of the bed. When she reaches me, I see that she’s frowning. “Not that it’s my place to judge, but he’s a little bit sour, isn’t he?”
“Sour?” I repeat while the image of his smile flashes in my mind. God, she didn’t tell him I was asking for him or anything embarrassing, did she? I mean, maybe it freaked him out and that’s why he seemed annoyed….
“The lip rings. The black hair. I’m sure it’s my bias talking because my daughter’s ex—well, one of them—was exactly like—”
“Oh, Goth Guy!” I say, remembering the glare he’d given me for talking. “That’s not who I meant.”
