TMI

by Patty Blount

  Since she’d spent lunch dodging more insults, Meg dragged herself to the kitchen for a snack. Again, there was little to choose from, so she snagged the last apple, grabbed a jar of peanut butter, and headed to her room, only to discover she’d forgotten a knife. With a loud sigh, she plucked an X-Acto blade from her brush jar and started slicing the apple into wedges.

  “Damn it!” The knife clattered to her desk, leaving a long bloody gash in the webbing between the thumb and index finger of her left hand. She hurried to the bathroom and ran the wound under cool water, watched blood drip into the sink. It was a deep cut, but it didn’t hurt much. She wrapped a towel around it, figured it would stop bleeding soon, and went back to her room to uncover her test project.

  She mixed paints—acrylics this time. She stared at the test project for a long time and then tore it from the clips on her easel. She fastened her last canvas, grabbed a wide brush, and laid down a flesh-toned foundation and then switched to a smaller brush to put down the shadows and angles for a face. She moved with precision, certainty. Bold strokes and soft blended edges. Light and shadow. Lines, curves, shapes. Slowly, the image appeared. The image she couldn’t get out of her mind, her dreams, her heart. Chase. Always Chase.

  Perspective. That’s what she needed. More perspective. She imagined the contours of his jaw under her hand the day she’d kissed him, the strength in his broad shoulders, the stubborn set of his mouth. She imagined those lips on hers, the scrape of stubble against her cheek. Her own lips parted. She switched brushes, painted hair. Oh, his hair. Her fingers itched to feel all that silk again. She imagined his nose—straight and perfect. He was beautiful. She could not deny that. But it was his eyes that always drew her in, made her wish she’d studied the Old Masters. She dabbed on color, stroked on contours, smoothed out rough edges with the tip of her finger.

  She painted until the light faded, until her hands cramped and her head spun. When she finally put down her brushes and stepped back, she gasped.

  She’d done it. She’d finally done it. She’d rendered Chase on canvas. Her eyes studied the play of color, the sepia-toned mood she’d managed to capture. There was blood on her palette, blood mixed with the paint and blood on the portrait, the portrait that perfectly captured his pain, his disappointment. Her betrayal. She lifted her hands, saw that her wound was still dripping. The towel was saturated.

  Maybe that had been the key all along? To hurt like she’d hurt him.

  Somehow, that felt entirely appropriate.

  Meg capped her paints, cleaned her brushes, and wrapped a clean towel around her hand. She grabbed her keys and some money from the meager stash in her wallet and locked the front door.

  It would be a long walk to the hospital.

  Chapter 26

  Bailey

  The day had dragged on. When Bailey first posted Meg’s little underwear problem, it felt right and just. It felt like payback. At first, she thought it was funny how the whole school lined up to attack Meg, pelting her with underwear and leak pads. But it got old fast.

  Maybe she’d gone too far. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t heard anything from Ryder. Maybe she should apologize to Meg. She sent Meg a text, but there was no reply. She was probably painting. Meg often ignored the phone when she was caught up in a subject. Bailey would try again later.

  Bailey went downstairs when Gran called her for dinner. When the dishes were cleared away, Gran handed her the plastic containers of leftovers and that made her think of Meg. And thinking of Meg made her feel guilty, so she went upstairs to find something else to occupy her time.

  She tried Xbox, but WyldRyd11 wasn’t logged on. She tried Facebook and saw no status updates from Ryder or Meg. But her little “wet pants” story had gotten a lot of airtime. Likes by people she didn’t even know, comments by the screenful—and some of them were ridiculously funny, except for the one from Chase, who told them both to leave him out of their dumb fights from now on. She shrugged and then checked her email. Still nothing from Ryder, but she did find one from the classmates site.

  They’d located her mother’s yearbook.

  Her mom still wasn’t talking to her. She’d gone over it in her mind a dozen times. Should she forget the whole idea or keep going? And a dozen times, she’d arrived at different decisions. Now that her mother’s yearbook was a click away, Bailey knew she had to keep going. She had to find him.

  Bailey logged in, clicked the link, and flipped through the scanned pages. Nicole at seventeen looked a lot like Bailey at seventeen. They both had the same curly hair and similar body shapes, but Nicole’s face looked older. Wiser. Tired. With a start, Bailey reminded herself most of these pictures were taken when she’d been just a few months old.

  It must have been so hard to go back to school after she’d had a baby.

  Bailey scrolled through page after page. Her mom was in a lot of pictures but never with any guys. So who was her father? Where was he?

  “What’s that?”

  Bailey leaped and spun at the sound of Gran’s voice behind her. “Oh, my God, you scared me half to death.”

  Gran didn’t smile. “What are you looking at?”

  Crap. “Mom’s yearbook. It’s online now.” Bailey figured Gran already saw the screen, so there was no point in lying.

  “I see that. Any particular reason why?”

  Double crap. “I wanted to see who my dad is.”

  Gran came in, shut the door behind her, and sat on Bailey’s bed. “Sweetie, there are some things way better off left unasked, unseen, unfound—this is one of them.”

  Bailey considered that for about three seconds and decided it was too bad. “For mom. Not for me. I need to know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Why?” She exploded with it—the years of secrecy and evasion. “Why can’t I know who my own father is? Was he some evil rapist or something?”

  Gran’s mouth fell open, and she pressed a hand to cover it. “No! Why would you even say such a thing?”

  “Why wouldn’t I with the way everyone pretends I was hatched instead of conceived?”

  “He broke your mother’s heart. Can you not understand how painful it is for her, seeing you every day, a living, breathing reminder of that?”

  Gran’s words were like the crack of a palm on a bare cheek and she flinched. She sank to the bed beside her grandmother. “I guess so,” she murmured. “But I still don’t think it’s fair. I’m not Mom! Why am I the one getting punished? He has rights too. Maybe he wanted me!”

  “Do you see him here?”

  Slowly, Bailey shook her head.

  “Bailey, honey, listen to me. I know you’re hurting. But so is your mom. It’s been seventeen years and it still hurts her. Let your mom heal.”

  Long after she left the room, Bailey sat in the same spot, wondering if anyone cared that she needed to heal too. She turned back to her computer and logged into her blog page.

  Girls love secrets. I think it’s hard-coded into our DNA or something. We collect secrets, save secrets, even use them when it suits our needs. But we don’t reveal them. That’s against the BFF Code.

  Girls have a code just like guys. Doesn’t the guy code say never to hook up with your girlfriend’s best friend? Well, girl code says never reveal your best friend’s secret. Ever. Just don’t, okay?

  Secrets can be weapons and armor at the same time. They can be strengths and weaknesses at the same time. It all depends on who knows them. When it’s your best friend, your secrets are protected. They’re part of what holds you together. That’s why there’s no bigger pain than when a best friend spills one of your secrets. It’s like she’s chipping away at the foundation of your friendship and you wonder when the whole thing might collapse.

  Bailey twirled a lock of hair and read her notes so far. It was almost ironic that she was upset with Meg for sharing a secret and just
as pissed at her mother for keeping one.

  Secrets aren’t just for BFFs. Families keep secrets too. Is it worse for a relative to keep a secret from you or for your best friend to blurt one of yours? I don’t know yet, but I know both totally suck. I wish I didn’t have any secrets. Then I wouldn’t be this sad.

  Meg told Ryder one of her secrets. Bailey wondered how long before their friendship crumbled.

  No.

  No, she wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Chapter 27

  Meg

  Tired. It was the only thought that consciously formed in Meg’s mind.

  Her feet shuffled along the dark street, her eyes unfocused.

  “Megan! What’s wrong?”

  She jerked and froze like she’d been zapped with a bolt of lightning. There was Chase in the car that had pulled up beside her, the car she’d hardly noticed.

  “I’m fine.” She started walking again. Chase jumped from the car with a curse.

  “You’re not fine. What the hell happened?” He blocked her path, gestured to the pocket of her hoodie, where she’d tucked her hand.

  She followed his gaze, saw the dark wet stain, and inhaled sharply. Gently, he tugged her hand from the pocket. The towel she’d wrapped around it was drenched.

  “Get in the car,” he ordered, his mouth pressed in a tight line. When she didn’t move, he pushed her toward the open door.

  “The seats,” she protested.

  “Get in the damn car, Megan.” He opened the back door, shoved her in, slammed the front door, and then climbed in the backseat with her.

  “Megan, tell us what happened.” Dave Gallagher demanded and pulled back into traffic with a squeal of tires.

  “Megan?” Chase snapped his fingers when she didn’t reply to his dad. “Talk to me. What happened?” He stripped out of his own hoodie and then his T-shirt and wrapped the shirt around her hand.

  She blinked, and then her eyes traveled down his naked chest. Chase quickly pulled the hoodie over his head. “Um, I was slicing an apple and the knife slipped.”

  “When?” Dave asked.

  “Uh, I don’t—when I got home from school.”

  “Shit, Megan, that was four hours ago. Why didn’t you call us immediately?” Dave increased speed.

  “I…I didn’t think it was that bad. I thought…I figured it would stop bleeding.”

  Chase increased the pressure on her hand and she hissed in a breath.

  “Sorry, sorry. I know it hurts.”

  “It didn’t. Not until now,” she murmured, her words slurring.

  They arrived at the emergency room entrance minutes later. Chase tugged her out, but as soon as she put one foot on the ground, she wobbled and her vision grayed. She felt Chase scoop her up under the knees and carry her through the ER entrance.

  “I need help here!”

  Was that his voice? It shook and sounded almost shrill.

  Suddenly, a wheelchair held her. Chase was talking to someone, his voice still weird. “Her hand is pouring blood. She says the knife slipped while she was cutting up an apple, but that was hours ago. Maybe three o’clock. She didn’t think it was that bad, so she started working on a painting.” They unwrapped her hand, poked at the gaping sides of the wound.

  “Get the vascular on call down here,” the nurse said to his colleague. “What’s your name?” a white blob asked her.

  “Megan. Megan Farrell.”

  “You her boyfriend?” the white blob asked

  And before Meg could think of a response, Chase replied, “Yeah, her mother’s working. She doesn’t know.”

  “We’ll call her. Put her in bed seven!”

  They pushed her chair behind a large room with lots of curtains.

  “Megan. My name’s John. We’re gonna take care of you. Can you climb up here for me?”

  She started to stand but wondered where here was. She didn’t see anything. Leaning heavily on the arms of the chair that felt like it was now spinning, she reached out a hand, felt a bed to her right, and all but collapsed onto it.

  “Megan, can you tell me your full name?”

  Meg blinked and frowned. “Megan Elise Farrell.”

  “Good. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Good, good. Tell me what day it is, Megan.”

  “Um…Monday?”

  “That’s good.”

  Meg felt a warm heavy blanket cover her.

  “She’s a little shocky. Start an IV.”

  They stuck a monitor on one of her fingers and she could hear cabinets and drawers opening and closing, the sound of metal meeting metal, footsteps rushing in.

  “I called her mother.”

  “No! I’m fine. She doesn’t need to come.” Meg tried to sit up, but hands gently restrained her. A minute later, she felt a pinch in her good hand. Then tape was wrapped around it.

  “You are not fine, Megan. You’ve lost a decent amount of blood and your body is starting to go into shock. If you hadn’t gotten here when you did, we’d be transfusing. As it is, this is gonna need at least a dozen stitches, maybe more.”

  Someone—Chase?—gripped her arm and squeezed.

  “I left a voice mail,” Dave said.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Never been so happy my kid’s a Peeping Tom—”

  “Jesus, Dad, not now!”

  Chase’s voice sounded like him again. And her vision started to dial back in until another white-robed medic prodded and poked and tugged at her wound. Oh, God! The pain crossed her eyes and burned a track all the way to her brain, and she reached blindly for Chase’s hand. He took it and squeezed. With his other hand, he smoothed her hair, and she shut her eyes, grateful for his presence.

  Another spike of pain had her eyes flying open. The doctor was flushing out the wound with some syringe full of fluid that burned. Her eyes met Chase’s and she flashed a smile—that smile, the one just for him.

  It was second, maybe third grade when they’d first met. Chase and his family had just moved to the house behind Meg’s. He seemed pretty shy, but during recess on his first day of school, he ran for the slide and had reached the top step when Peter Sidell pushed him off. He wasn’t hurt, but he came up ready to fight. So Meg ran up and pounded Peter the second his light-up sneakers touched the rubber mat. He ran off crying while Chase just stared at her, kind of the way he does now. So she gave him a cookie.

  Maybe that’s what did it. That’s when they’d both fallen with a splat.

  Something stabbed her, tearing her right out of those daydreams. Jesus, the doctor was injecting something right into the gash itself. “Talk to me, Megan,” Chase demanded. “What painting are you working on now? Oils? Watercolors?”

  “Acrylics.” She pushed the word through gritted teeth.

  “Acrylics. I’m not very good with acrylics. They dry so fast.”

  “That’s why I like them,” she said. “I can change stuff if I don’t like how it comes out the first time.” Her voice rose and fell with the pain.

  “What about watercolors? Are they hard?”

  “Yeah, I like tube color better than pan paints. But I never get the same color mixed twice.”

  “I guess that’s the point,” Chase said.

  Her eyes met his, surprised. “I never thought of that. That’s a good point.” She considered that for a few minutes—how each artist mixes and layers her colors. And then the pain flared again.

  “What about working flat? You can’t use an easel with watercolors, right?”

  Again, she looked surprised. “How do you know so much about this? I didn’t even know you liked art until this weekend.”

  Chase shrugged. “You like it. So I’ve been…uh, studying.”

  “Why would you bother?”

  He di
dn’t answer.

  “That’s it. All done,” the doctor announced, and she saw Chase’s eyes shut in relief. “Thirteen stitches, some inside, some out. We’ll get a sterile dressing on it, and you’ll be good to go.” The doctor left and Meg lifted her hand to examine her wound. A line of stiff black threads followed the angry red trail in the webbing between her left thumb and index finger. Slowly, Meg flexed her hand.

  “Easy, Megan. You’ll tear,” Chase’s dad reminded her.

  “Relax. You’re right-handed. You can still paint. For everything else, I’ll help you and so will Bailey,” Chase promised.

  To her profound embarrassment, she burst into tears.

  “Jesus, Megan! It’s okay. We’ll take care of you.”

  “Bailey won’t!” Meg shook her head. “It’s her fault this even happened.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Meg shot a glance at Dave Gallagher.

  “Um…I’m going to step outside and try calling your mom again.” Dave jerked his chin toward the corridor.

  Chase nodded gratefully. When his dad left, Meg couldn’t stop herself from venting.

  “The underwear. She told everybody I wet my pants in first grade. Posted it on freakin’ Facebook! Chase, it was horrible. Every class, even in the hallways, people kept throwing their underwear at me.”

  “Hey, rock stars live for that shit,” he offered with a grin, and she knew it was a lame shot at making her laugh.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a rock star!”

  His smile faded. “So Bailey’s mad at you, huh?”

  Meg shrugged and then winced in pain. “I’m tired, Chase. Just so tired. Every time she meets a new guy, she pulls away from me. She never hears me when I tell her how great she is. But she listens to them. A guy she never met said I told him she threw up all over our teacher. I never told him that. I wouldn’t do that. But she believes him.”

  When Chase didn’t say anything, Meg let her head fall back against the gurney and shut her eyes.