Page 48 of 72 Hours of You

An idea seizes me by the throat and I bolt upright in my bed. The idea is ridiculously stupid. But maybe it’s also ridiculously perfect.

Before I can second-guess myself, I grab my phone, my thumbs shaking with so much excessive energy that autocorrect has to work overtime.

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: Hey

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: Listen

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: I know it’s late but can we talk?

I wait for his little bubbles to appear. Nothing.

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: I’m sorry I was kind of shitty to you this afternoon

Still nothing.

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: Okay all the way shitty

Nothing.

Whatever. I can just talk to him tomorrow at school.

I mean, it’s not like this is a time-sensitive idea. Well, not technically. But now that the thought is there, I can’t un-there it. And hell, maybe this idea has always been there, in the background, like those weirdo theater kids who run around in all black pushing the stage furniture while we pretend we can’t see them.

My foot shakes under my teal comforter. I need to talk to Peter.

And I need to talk to him now.

I throw off the covers, toss my hair into a ponytail, and grab my car keys from my nightstand.

Fuck it. It’s not like he’s going to think I’m any crazier than he already does.

Twenty-Four

ONE OF THE PERKS OF GROWING UP in a small town is that I know where everyone lives. And I know that Peter lives in the Choes’ old house.

I pull up and park my car on the street.

There’s a light on downstairs, but it looks like the lights upstairs are off. My mom used to go to Mrs. Choe’s book club, and a few times she couldn’t find a babysitter so she just took me and Jules with her and let us play upstairs. I remember the layout pretty well, and there’s only one primary bedroom and one other room, so I know which window has to be Peter’s. The curtains are drawn though, so I can’t tell if the lights are on or if he’s in there or what.

I look at the glowing green clock on the dashboard. It’s 8:45 p.m. What is he doing? Is he out? Is he, like … watching TV downstairs with his actual parents? I can’t imagine. Actually, I kind of can. I can just see him there with his tall parents all squished together on a sofa, laughing and rooting for the underdog on Dancing with the Stars.

He’s probably just reading in his room, with the curtains drawn to really set the mood for Dostoyevsky and his highlighters.

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: Hey so I’m here

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: Like at your house

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: Can you come out?

Once again, nothing. I don’t know why I thought being in closer proximity would somehow make him decide to answer my messages. But really, this is getting fucking ridiculous.

I climb out of the truck and walk up to the house.

And realize I don’t have a plan.

I could just go to the door and ring the bell. But then I’d have to talk to his parents and fuck that.

So, the options left are: Go home (no thanks), sit in the car like a stalker and continue sending him thirsty DMs (also no thanks), or go full ’80s movie and, like, throw shit at his window?