Checked Again (18 page)

I
don’t have answers to any of those questions. Well…to be honest…I probably have
access to all of the answers…I would just have to open up Dr. Gabriel’s email
attachment to find them. But if I do that, then I’ll have to see all of the
conference information. All of the hotel information. All of the plane inf—

My
chest…my throat…my body…begins to convulse in one dry heave after another.

In
a fast maneuver, I stand up and step away from my computer.

Moments
later, I’m back in the safety of my morning routine, sanitizing my bathroom and
steam mopping the bathroom floor. Without stopping to go back to my computer,
back to his message, I jump in the shower and then proceed to finish the rest
of my routine.

1:03
p.m. Done.

My
stomach is growling a little. Too bad. I can’t afford to eat right now, not
with a work shift ahead of me.
I will not throw up at work. I will not throw
up at work. I will not throw up at work.

I
grab my Kindle and try to get back to my homework. I try. I try to read, to
take notes, to highlight important information, but I don’t get anywhere. I do,
however, peel every last bit of nail polish from my fingernails. And repaint
them. Peel again. Repaint again. Peel. Repaint. Peel. Repaint. Peel. Repaint.

I
also stare at my computer. A lot. Feeling bad that I haven’t written back.
Wondering if he knows that I can’t write back. If he knows—

2:58
p.m. My phone buzzes against my dresser. I put my Kindle down and lean over to
get it. As I pick it up, it buzzes again.

I
have two new messages. Both from Unknown Number.

Count.
Open text.

Message
#1.

I’m sorry, Callie—I
know you don’t want to think about all of those questions I asked you. Take
your time—respond when you can.

When
I can? How about
if
I can?

Second
message.

Are
you okay?

Okay
with riding in Dr. Gabriel’s car in less than twenty-four hours? Okay with
getting on a plane? Okay with staying in a hotel room?

My
stomach begins to feel like…well, like a freaking mess. I lean back on my bed,
pick at my nails, and plead with my body to settle. I don’t have time for
throwing up…and cleaning up…right now. I’ll never make it to work on time.

Okay.
Okay. Okay. Pick fingernails. Okay. Okay. Ok—

There’s
that word. Okay.

Are
you okay?

I
look at his text once again, my stomach in some sort of throw up purgatory.
Nothing’s happening now, but it could go either way…

I
try not to think about my stomach. I stare at his words instead.

Are
you okay?

Okay
with you all of a sudden communicating with me again after calling off
everything between us? Okay without you? Okay with being so very tied to your
mother?

{The
Kiki Dee Band brings out
“I’ve Got the Music in Me
.
”
}

Okay
with you not knowing—

Stop.

One.
Two. Three. My finger moves to click the reply button on my phone.

I
type three letters quickly. Y-E-S.

I
am okay right now…okay as in I’m not about to throw up…okay as in I’m not in
any life threatening danger and in need of a hospital or anything at this
moment. So I am not lying as I send my three little letters through the text
messaging universe. Countclick. Send.

I
look at the time on my phone. 3:12 p.m. Gotta move.

3:13
p.m. Leaving-the-house preparations.

3:46
p.m. On my way to work.

4:24
P.M. ONLY ONE OTHER PERSON is here at the writing center. Ian at Computer 3. He
has already sent me another science-related paper to proofread. It’d be easier
to proofread if I knew anything about exoplanets…especially since Ian has used
the word “exoplanet” ninety-three times in his ten page paper (seriously—he did
use it that many times. I counted).

My
lack of knowledge on his topic keeps me busy, really, REALLY busy, as I look up
research, definitions, spellings, etc. I get even busier as I notice that Ian
has misspelled many terms and also used the incorrect citation format for his
research sources. In a way, though, all of his errors paired with my stupidity
in science adds up to one gigantic miracle, because my time at work goes very
quickly.

It
actually goes too quickly. I still have a page to go at 7:00 p.m., when I’m
supposed to be leaving. I decide to stay to finish Ian’s paper. For many
reasons.

1.)
Umm…leaving something undone isn’t really an option for me.

2.)
Based on my previous experience with students in the writing center, I’m pretty
certain that Ian has waited until the last minute to finish this paper. I’m
pretty sure that his paper is due tomorrow…probably at 8:00 a.m. And I don’t
want him to get a bad grade or not turn it in just because of me.

3.)
All of this scientific exploration is making me sort of tired…and I could use
tired tonight.

Okay…so
I don’t have many reasons. I have three. But that is plenty. I stay to finish
Ian’s paper.

8:04
p.m. Done. I send Ian’s paper back to him and head to the parking lot. Before I
start my car, I check my phone.

And
I have two new messages from Unknown—

My
phone rings.

Melanie.
I answer.

“Hey,
Mel.”

“Hi,
Callie. Where are you?” Her voice is somewhat anxious, worried…but pretending
not to be. Clearly Mandy has sent out some sort of report informing Melanie
(and the rest of my family?) that I have not yet returned from work.

I
pretend not to realize this, though, as I casually (I think) say, “Oh, you
know. I was caught up late at the writing center. I’m just about to leave now.”

Melanie
tries to cover with a cough, but I hear her quick sigh of relief.

And
I feel bad. I feel bad that I worried her. And Mandy. And whoever else Mandy
called.

Melanie
continues. “Oh, right. Great. Well, how is everything going?”

What
is going on? Why are you being so weird, Mel?

“Everything’s
fine, Mel. How have you been feeling?”

“Oh,
fine. Surprisingly fine. No throwing up so far.”

Wish
I could say the same thing about myself.

I
don’t tell her that. “Good. I’m really glad. How’s Abby?”

“Oh,
she’s fine too. She—”

I
hear Melanie’s phone, her landline, ringing in the background.

“Hold
on, Callie.”

I
hold on, staring out my window as a few students cross through the parking lot,
laughing. Three girls—wearing teeny tiny little tube top-type shirts and jeans.
Not even close to enough clothing for the breezy night we’re having. Their
bared stomachs must be so cold. And speaking of their stomachs, they must never
eat. Ever.

Hmm…and
speaking of eating…I really should try to consume something when I get home…I
should at least have some water so I don’t—

“Callie?”
Melanie still sounds really weird.

“Yep—I’m
here.”

“Hey,
I should take this call. But I’ll talk to you soon.”

No
mention of the conference? Something is definitely up.

“Um,
okay, Melanie.”

“All
right.” She draws out the two words wistfully, as though she has at least three
hundred more things to say. “Be careful, Callie.”

Something.
Is. Really. Really. Really. Up.

I
try to pretend otherwise. “Ah…well, yes, you be careful too, Melanie. Bye.”

Melanie
gives me a hesitant “goodbye” and hangs up. I spend a few minutes just sitting
and staring at my steering wheel, trying to figure out what is going on.

And
I have no idea. So I take a break from thinking about it, thinking about what
my sisters are up to, and look back at my phone. Time to open my two messages
from Unknown Number.

Count.
Open. First message.

Can you just tell me
what time your flight leaves tomorrow?

No.
I honestly don’t know. Dr. Gabriel said he’ll pick me up in the morning…so I
assume it’s a morning flight. But I don’t know. And I can’t think anymore about
this right now.

Count.
Look at second message.

Don’t
get mad at Mandy.

What?
What does that mean?

Did
something happen to her? Did she forget to wear a seatbelt and get into a car
crash? Or did she let one of her drunken sorority sisters drive her home and—

Wait.
If something happened to Mandy, he wouldn’t have written about it that way,
right? He wouldn’t have told me to not get angry with her. Right?

I
don’t know. I’ve gotta get home to find out. I count to three, turn on my car,
and head home…wishing that just this once my mind, my head, would allow me to
drive a little over the speed limit.

8:19
p.m. I park and breathe out a little relief as I see Mandy’s car safely in its
spot. Still…that doesn’t mean that something bad didn’t happen to her, though.
I lock, lock, lock my car doors and hurry into the house.

“Mandy?”
I call out her name as I slip out of my heels, trying to decide if I should (or
can) postpone my shoe spraying and hand washing to search the house for—

“Hey,
Callie. How was work?” I hear Mandy’s yelling voice. It sounds like she is
upstairs, probably in her room. More relief breathes out of me.

She’s
okay. She’s okay. She’s okay.

I
quickly spray my shoes and wash my hands before heading upstairs. I go right to
Mandy’s room. And…it’s empty.

What
the—

Glancing
across the hall, I see light shining in my room.

What
is going on?
I pause for a minute, right in the doorway of Mandy’s room, trying to decide if
the murderers are in my room…if they have Mandy.

Well,
the light is on in my room. I don’t think the murderers would turn on the
light. They would definitely work in the dark, right? Unless this is some sort
of trick. Unless they already have Mandy and are making her call out to me so
she can lure me into my room…

If
that is the case, well, they have Mandy, and I have to try to save her, so—

I
rush over to my room.

Mandy’s
standing right beside my bed, zipping up a travel bag.

No
murderers.

Relief
pours out of me, which has to be cleansing somehow, because—

Wait
.

Mandy
is zipping up a travel bag. My travel bag.

I
look at her in confusion.

She
looks back nervously, immediately beginning to speak. “Please don’t be mad,
Callie. I just…since you’ve been making yourself sick and throwing up or
whatever today thinking about, well, about everything…I just didn’t want you to
have a horrible time packing.”

“Wait—how
do you know that I’ve been sick today?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
There’s only one way that she could know…if she was told by a certain someone
who magically knows every little minute detail about me (well, except one
music-oriented detail…).  I never confirmed that I was sick today, though…that
I was throwing up. He has just assumed this…assumed correctly…

“Dr.
Blake called me,” Mandy interrupts my thoughts. Her face looks serious for
about a second, and then her eyes begin to twinkle. “And, seriously, who can say
no to him when he needs a favor?”

I
shake my head. “So he told you to pack for me?”

Mandy
nods, now sitting down on the corner of my bed. The twinkle in her eyes
disappears for a moment as she looks up at me. “I promise I washed my hands
before I started, and I was careful not to mess up anything in your clos—”

I
shake my head again and move to sit beside her. “It’s fine, Mandy. Thank you. I
probably would’ve thrown up all over my clothes if I had tried to pack.”

Mandy
smiles. “That’s exactly what he said might happen if I didn’t pack for you.”

Of
course. Of course he did.

“What
else did he say?”
Did he mention any other information that he’s somehow
snatched from my brain?

Mandy
wrinkles her eyebrows a little. Her nose scrunches up too.        

“What?”
I ask, almost afraid to ask.

“Well,
he,” she fumbles, not looking at me anymore, “he told me not to mention the,
um, the conference.” She sneaks a look over at me and then looks away just as
quickly. “He said that talking about it will just upset you.”