Flawed Plan

by Amabel Daniels

  Like I’d be telling him.

  When I didn’t reply, he said, “His shift is over at quarter ’a ten.”

  So, he’d be heading home at ten. Just like Ashlyn calculated. In a little town where everyone knew everyone’s business, it wasn’t surprising Jackson’s whereabouts could be expected. I rubbed my palms on my arms to fight the chill. Maybe they wouldn’t prank him tonight. It was damned cold out. Too cold to sit on an old chunk of bridge to lob eggs. Wasn’t it?

  Maybe for normal people, yes. But those bullies were a different breed.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I’d just have to… I’d what? I chewed on the inside of my cheek as I rushed out of the gas station and righted my bike. I hopped on and pedaled back down Main Street to the diner. I could bike over to Jackson helping Mrs. Sloan over by the park and tell him quickly. But then that snooty lady would overhear and probably call Mrs. Vensel that I was spreading rumors about her precious kids. Then they’d really want to egg something, or someone. Like me.

  Or I could hustle back to work and simply tell my boss I needed to leave early. For God’s sake, it wasn’t like business would pick up that much more on a Wednesday night. Power had already been resumed on the better half of town. I’d tell him…my period started. No male ever challenged the declaration of a menstrual cycle. There. I had my trump card.

  Lies weren’t my favorite things to participate in, but there was no way I was going to let Ashlyn win this round.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Five minutes. I’d have five measly little minutes to intercept Jackson from driving home.

  The rest of my shift was typical. Slow. Mind-numbingly boring. The lack of many customers aided my period-starting excuse because my supervisor seemed to hardly care when I said I needed to leave early.

  Still, I only had those handful of minutes to warn Jackson.

  God. What I would give for a stupid cell phone!

  No. What I would give for a car. A truck. The Flintstone-mobile. Something better than my second-hand fifteen-speed bike. Because you know what sucks more than riding a bike on a cold fall night? Doing so in a steady rain.

  The precipitation should have been the first omen I should have listened to. Because once I stepped through the gas station door for the second time that night, I encountered the owner again. Not Jackson.

  Where was he?

  “Dang, Renee. Ya just missed him again. I let him off early, just a couple minutes ago—”

  I smacked my palm to my forehead. And had I rode my bike down Main Street to get here, instead of pedaling along the alley behind the downtown businesses—my attempt for meager shelter from the rain—I would have probably seen Jackson driving home.

  I didn’t bother to wait for the gas station guy to finish and ran out the door.

  If I thought I’d pedaled as fast as I could during my break earlier in the evening, I was aiming for double that now. My only saving grace was that the wind was at my back, instead of blowing raindrops into my eyes like stinging barbs of near-ice. I’d never zoomed down the empty streets of town so fast—and given the lack of power and nonfunctioning traffic lights, I had the right of way as I pleased. In minutes, I exited town, passing Crimson Falls’ welcome sign in a blur.

  It didn’t matter how soaked I was. As long as I could wheel faster and faster down River Road and flag down Jackson…

  God. How? How the heck would I alert him now? Ride right out in front of him with poor visibility for a driver? Assume superhuman biking strength and cruise up to the Vette’s trunk like Marty waiting to hang on for a skateboard assist?

  “Dammit!”

  Rain shot into my open mouth, and I was vexed with myself for even muttering that single complaint. It took that much more energy to whine when I could have used it to pedal faster and faster. Blinking slower, I sensed the rain easing up. Still no help. I was almost behind those faint taillights of Jackson’s lovingly restored Corvette.

  Almost.

  I was almost to him, just as he was nearly approaching the old bridge abutment that was never removed. Would those fools even be up there? In the cold, drenched in this frigid, numbing rain?

  Yes. I could see them. I envisioned them perfectly. Ashlyn huddled under cozy fleecy clothes, protected in an expensive poncho. Meg probably hopping on her feet to stay warm and just as decked out in dry, insulated designer garments. Tim would be squinting in the darkness, priming for a perfect pitch of an egg.

  Yards, feet separated my handlebars from the growing brake lights that beamed cherry in the darkness. Jackson had to slow down for some of the curves. If he could just ease off the gas a little more… Maybe look in his mirrors and think, well, hey, who’s that on a bike out here at this time in a stormy night?

  “Stop, Jackson.” Please. I needed him to stop. His car approached that structure I knew those three jerks had to be on. If an egg was poised for his car, he was already too close.

  “Stop. Don’t.” Such a feeble beg of a whisper that no one would hear.

  As the Vette’s hi-beams illuminated the drenched, empty roadside, I could make out the outline of a small crowd of people atop the old bridge post, well above the road Jackson drove down. They were there. Just like they’d planned. My faint hope that they would’ve ditched this stupid prank plummeted. No matter how hard I’d pumped my legs and panted for more air to get to Jackson faster, my heart raced triple-fold, dizzying me as my worry crashed over me. Rain had ceased to a soft drizzle, not even hindering my eyesight as I watched an arm raise and lower. Tim. He threw the egg. I wasn’t close enough to see the actual object, but what else could it be? I clenched my frozen fingers tighter on my handbrakes, slowing my bike to a slick, skidding stop. My wet skin stung from the force of clamping the handles so tight, but I couldn’t let go. Something, I needed something to hang on to as I realized I was too late.

  I failed.

  Brake lights snapped on like a furious spark against the pitch-black roadside. Two beacons of red lights danced back and forth, the erratic zig-zags of brightness almost dizzying with alarm as the Vette swerved and slid.

  “No.” My legs stilled, the pedals forgotten as my limbs dropped down, frozen in shock as I was. The front wheel of my bike skidded on loose stones and I hardly had the focus to keep it from toppling. I gasped as I witnessed the car ahead of me.

  In too fast of a blur of noise, the tires crunched the gravel on the berm, and the metal squealed as the fender scraped the guardrail. Thuds, definite smacks of impact followed as Jackson’s vehicle sped through the faint tree line that stood between the pavement and the running river. The Vette was a pinball, bashing against feeble tree trunks that failed to abort a slide into the water. Even the splashes splatting among the waves couldn’t jar me from staring. Couldn’t jolt me into screaming. Into running to help.

  “Oh my God!”

  The yell startled me. Reminded me that I, in fact, wasn’t alone in witnessing Jackson running off the road. I jerked my head in the direction of the feminine scream. Ashlyn or Meg, I couldn’t be sure. As quickly as I’d let my sights leave the Vette submerging under the water, I returned my attention to Jacks—

  It was gone. Him. The Vette. The entire car. Even the headlights were shielded within the murky water.

  Oh my God. How could it have sunk so fast? Where? Where—how was Jackson?

  I let my bike fall to the edge of the road and ran through the strip of woods to reach the riverbank.

  This was a prank? This was their damn idea of a prank? A joke? To run an innocent guy like Jackson into a freezing cold river to—

  Die?

  Please no. Choking back a whimper, I hurried through the trees and glanced back in the direction of the bridge abutment where those imbeciles had caused hell. It was so dark, I couldn’t make out the structure, much less them. If I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me?

  God, I hoped not. And so what if they did? If they turned on me out here, well, I’d just have to fight back. They
wanted to call themselves pranksters? Try murderers. Didn’t they consider the possibility of an accident? I hadn’t, really, and I should have. And I should have tried harder to prevent it, dammit.

  Now that I realized how violent they actually could be, I didn’t want to set myself in harm’s way. Yet, here I was, firmly in harm’s way. On my hands and knees in the mud, scanning the river’s wavy surface, praying, begging for a glimpse of Jackson having escaped the sinking Vette. My fingers slipped in the muck, and I was suctioned further to the lapping water at the edge.

  Jackson?

  He could swim out. He had to. He just had to. He was so strong. Not a manufactured strength from Falls High’s weight room in the basement, but a real, hard-earned physique from manual labor. The river was deep enough to swallow a car, but it was no Mississippi. The rain wasn’t helping, but he couldn’t be stuck under there. He was simply too much to snuff out like that. Bigger than life. He couldn’t be in that car…trapped. Or helplessly drifting down to the waterfalls.

  Sobs grew in my throat until I felt I’d burst with the pressure to explode. Because as much as my heart and mind insisted he couldn’t be trapped and drowning, my conscience argued he very well could be. If he’d hit his head on the steering wheel when he’d lost control of the car. Or smacked into the windshield.

  I reared back, freeing my forearms, only to sink further into the mud on my knees. In a clumsy, wobbly rise, I scooted back to firmer ground, distancing myself from where I needed to be.

  Where I was needed? Like, in the water? As if I was strong enough to swim under there and free him? Even find him in the dark, swirling liquid? There was no hesitation to help. To do something, but I knew my limitations. I wiped drizzle from my brows as I stared for any sign of Jackson breaking the surface. Mud smeared over my eyes, and I had to drag my forearm to clear it.

  I’d failed to help him. I hadn’t warned him. I’d tried. But not hard enough. In the mud, straining to see all of the river, I knew I couldn’t be done yet. He’d only just gone under. I had to get help. Tell someone. Call someone.

  The others…

  I wasn’t alone out here. Ashlyn and Meg were probably less physically able than me to swim under the water in these fast waves, but Tim… He could put that stupid pitching arm to use and get in that river after Jackson.

  Or their phones. Yes. Those spoiled brats had phones. They could call. They’d just have to fess up to their stupid, stupid, prank and call the police. Now. Even if lines were out in town, 911 would pick up somewhere, right?

  Moved into action, I slipped into standing on my feet and grabbed at saplings and baby trees to assist my climb up the riverbank. They’d have to help. By God, I’d make them help. I’d yank their damn phones out of their pockets if I had to. I’d—

  Taillights blinded me at first until they shrank into twin dots, speeding them away from their crimes. I watched them drive away, tires skidding on the slick road.

  I hadn’t even gotten up to level ground, a few paces from the berm, and there they were, fleeing in Tim’s red muscle car.

  I threw my arms up and let them flop back down with the rest of my body. All the way to the roadside, I collapsed.

  How? How could they leave? Run? They ran away from someone in distress. Someone they put in distress. Were they even human?

  Hatred had never run deeper in my veins. I couldn’t even bear a glance back to the river. There was no hope. At least none I could offer. Minutes had passed already, too long for him to hold his breath. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the spot where I’d seen the Vette halfway under. A useless scream and tears wouldn’t do any good. There was nothing I could do.

  With a growl in my exhale, I pushed up to my hands and knees. I ignored the lancing pain in my legs as I stood and got on my bike. Shivers tested my maneuverability of the handlebars, but I hunched over, bracing myself against the wind on the wet clothes clinging to my already soaked skin.

  Right, left. Right, left. Pedal after pedal, I lumbered my way back to the small-minded town that had bred such wicked excuses of bullies who’d killed my friend.

  I had to get to help.

  No, shock and fear hadn’t disillusioned me. Jackson was gone. There was no way he could have survived. By the time I could pedal down the empty dark road and back into town where all would be sleeping, it would be beyond too late to rescue my friend, the boy I’d fallen in love with, the one person who’d respected me and who’d given me so many reasons to smirk and smile.

  I had to get help to tell the world just how successfully Ashlyn and her pals had pulled off their prank. My mind was numb, not from the cold but from the shock, that dark, oppressive truth chanting he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s really dead.

  No one drove or walked on Main as I made my way home. Puddles were my only company on this morbid night, and even those I ignored. Wheeling through more water hardly mattered at this point. Before I headed to my house, I stopped at the pay phone booth on Main Street to call for help. Nothing. Lines were still down. The phone shook like a rattling bomb as I set it back on the hook. Looked like it’d have to be a face-to-face chat with the cops, after all. First, I had to be thawed enough to speak. It took me six trembling attempts to fit my key into the front door once I finally got to the tiny one-story house Mom and I shared.

  Even here I was alone. She wouldn’t be off from her double shifts as a nurse’s aide at Arbordale’s hospital until early in the morning. If she were here to welcome me in, she’d know what to do, how to explain that my peers had murdered my only friend. She’d be right at my side as I told the cops. If she was home.

  On my own, it fell on my shoulders. I wouldn’t shirk my duty; I’d bike right down to the station and demand someone to listen. Insist someone go and arrest those nasty bullies.

  Yet, I wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. As soon as I opened the door then shut it, I slouched my back to the wood, sucking in a wheezy gasp. If I ventured outside a minute longer in these clothes, I’d ice off and catch hypothermia before I could tell the truth of what happened to Jackson tonight.

  I shucked off my coat as I staggered through the hallway, my sneakers slipping in the joke of friction that muddy soles had on linoleum. Step one, get out of these clothes. Then a scalding shower. Once I was dry and warm, able to string together a sentence without my teeth chattering over the volume of my voice, I’d go tell whoever was on duty at the police station. No matter how late. It had to be too late for Jackson, but not for justice.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Faint light alerted to me to wake up. Deep sleep was my superpower, and it was freakishly new to be roused by…nothing. Not a noise sounded in the house. Blinking one eye open, I raised my arm to check the time on my watch.

  My alarm clock had fifteen minutes before the alarm was set to blare. Mom’s radio show wasn’t blathering on in the distance as she made breakfast.

  Jeez. If she was sleeping in, she’d probably had to stay even later on her shift last night.

  Last night.

  I jolted upright.

  Last night. It all rushed in. Memories of dread and gut-twisting fear, racing through the rain and cold. The previous night, I watched Jackson plummet into the river. Hours ago, I could have been the single person to prevent him from his death.

  And all I could do was come home and…sleep?

  I glanced down at my sweats that I recalled dragging on after the hottest shower I’d ever taken. Once I was red from heat instead of the elements outside, I’d come in my room and sat on my bed to get dressed. I’d been so determined to tell the authorities of the crime on River Road, but… Weak. I was just so weak I hadn’t even been able to stand to get my feet through the pants. Like the adrenaline rush crashed me into a coma. Sleeping hadn’t been my plan, though. I was supposed to go to the police and tell them what Ashlyn and her followers had orchestrated.

  I dragged my hand over the crumpled comforter I’d lain on. Not under. On. Because I hadn’t intended to get into be
d. As I moved my arm, surveying my room, the throw slid off my shoulder. The blanket from the couch. I definitely hadn’t brought that in here.

  Then I saw it. Mom’s rushed and nearly illegible handwriting on a note propped on my nightstand.

  Good morning, Sweetheart,

  You were so tired you couldn’t even make it into bed last night! I’m sorry I wasn’t home earlier like I thought I would be. Had to stay an extra hour. They needed me to pick up a shift for this morning too, so I won’t be here to get you breakfast. Here’s the last of my cash. Treat yourself to a little croissant from the bakery on your way to school. I should be home at three today, and I’ll be all yours for the night.

  I love you,

  Mom

  A groan rushed out my lips before I clamped them shut. So much for her help or any adult’s assistance in going to the police. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek as I paced.

  Like it’d matter. I’d been on my own for so long, it would almost feel surreal to have someone at my side. Mom wasn’t neglecting me, and she wasn’t some kind of free-range parent. Just a single parent who had to make ends meet. My dad ran off when I was just a kid, and my grandma’s nursing home bills didn’t come cheap. Sure, I missed Mom when she worked such long hours, but I was proud of her work ethic and grateful she could manage it. I worried she overdid it, but I understood her drive to do so.

  Now it was a lucky break to have woken up early. My exhaustion from last night must have forced my body into a fast but thorough doze. Where I was barely limping along and freezing then, I was warm and ready to leave now. I jumped up to trade my sweatpants for jeans and grabbed a clean pair of shoes from my closet. Five minutes later, I had my backpack strapped over a shoulder and my leg swinging over my muddy bike frame.

  No more time to wait. No more stalling or delays. I was hauling myself to the station and telling them where to find Jackson.

  Jackson.

  Gone.