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My frantic thoughts break when I hear my name.
For a second, I can’t quite figure out where the voice is coming from.
Because there’s no one here.
I’m alone. And I’m sitting. On something.
Blinking, I look around, trying to gauge where exactly I am; how did I get here and all that.
“Echo,” the voice says again, this time accompanied by a couple of loud, banging sounds. “Open the door.”
The door.
Right.
The voice is coming through the door.
Of the bathroom where I’m currently sitting on a closed toilet seat, my hands fisted in my lap and my eyes pinned to the tiled floor. And that voice belongs to my friend, Jupiter.
Straightening up, I take a deep breath and reply, “I’m busy.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“What?”
“Fine. Busy with what exactly?”
Honestly, I should’ve known.
It’s Jupiter.
She’s feisty and fiery and a little too nosy.
All qualities I usually appreciate.
Because if it wasn’t for her, we never would’ve been friends in the first place. We never would’ve gotten to know each other and discover that we’re not just friends but the best of friends.
Not because I have bad social skills. I actually have very good social skills and I have always been able to make friends easily. But as it turns out, St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers has a way of squelching the best in you. My friend on the other side of the door though, was granted this one good quality. The ability to break down barriers.
And so here we are.
Best of friends ever since we both arrived at St. Mary’s two years ago.
“It’s a bathroom, Jupiter,” I tell her, eyeing the white door. “What do you think people are busy with? In a bathroom.”
I can see Jupiter roll her eyes at my reply. “As if you’re using the bathroom for any of its intended purposes.”
I draw back and repeat, “What?”
“I can always tell when the bathroom is not being used for its intended purposes.”
“That’s...” I shake my head. “The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Or,” she goes, “is it the most awesome thing you’ve ever heard? That I’m so in tune with human emotion that I can sense someone’s distress from a mile away.”
“No,” I say, decidedly. “It’s definitely the most ridiculous thing. And I’m not in distress. All I need is a little privacy, thank you.”
“Right,” she scoffs, “to do what, overthink?”
