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I don’t know which would be worse.
“Hey, Perry.”
The dog makes his way over to me and plops on my bed, his head resting on my stomach.
I pet the top of his head.
“You’re determined to make me like you, aren’t you?”
He yawns in reply.
I take that to mean yes.
“I wonder what I should do today?” I ask Perry. “Maybe I should clean?” I hate cleaning, it’s the thing I loathe most—I’d rather do laundry—but it’s something I try to do since my mom works and I’m here. She has a maid come every two weeks, but I figure if I can pick up on the week in-between it helps.
Perry sticks his tongue out. “Yeah, I agree. No cleaning today.”
I swear he smiles at me. He’s expressive for a dog.
I stretch, reaching over to the low table beside my mattress, and pick up the book I’ve been reading. I open it to my bookmarked page and start reading.
Books have saved my life since my diagnosis. Those initial months were difficult. I was weak and tired, and my body had to adjust to dialysis. So, I spent a lot of time in bed, and honestly there’s only so much TV one person can watch. But books? I never seem to get tired of those.
After about an hour of reading time, my phone buzzes.
And buzzes again.
And again.
I place my bookmark inside and set the book aside, scrambling to find my phone lost in the tangle of my bed covers as it buzzes again.
I finally find it and the screen is lit up with several different texts.
Harlow: Willa?
Harlow: Please answer
Harlow: It’s important!
Harlow: I NEED YOU!
Willa: What?
I’m totally confused as to why my sister is blowing up my phone while she’s at school. I mean, she texts me occasionally while she’s at school but never like this.
Harlow: Oh thank God
Harlow: I need you to go into my room and get on my computer. I forgot to print off my essay for English and Mr. Slater will MURDER me if I turn it in late. Please, print it out and bring it to the school.
Willa: I can do that.
I head across the hall to her room.
The walls are a vibrant yellow, and her bed covers are a floral monstrosity. Her room is a lot neater than mine. Her violin sits in the corner along with a stand that has sheet music on it. The floor is covered in mismatched rugs—I think it looks silly, but Harlow says it’s aesthetic. I look around, but I don’t see Webber hiding anywhere. He’s probably under her bed hidden by the bed skirt.
He better not try to sneak attack my feet.
I pull out her swivel chair at her desk and sit down. Lifting the lid of her laptop it wakes up and asks for a password.
