Aiden groaned. He groaned and muttered something incomprehensible. And then he groaned again.
"I always hated being in bed with you," Ashley remarked, watching his facial features contort in his state of semi-wakefulness. "You remember Oscar? He was the oldest, fattest bulldog ever, and he had, like, fifty different breathing problems and even he made less noise than you," she continued over his intermittent groaning.
Picking up Aiden's watch, Ashley counted the number of hours she'd spent by his bedside. Three whole hours. The only company she'd had so far were his parents who had now left to get lunch. She was on the verge of getting shipped off to the psychiatric ward for post-traumatic boredom.
So she moved over to the window and yanked the curtains open. Aiden jerked up, slapped his own forehead and let out the mother of all groans before sinking back down into the bed.
"I'm dying," he mumbled. "I'm dying and this is hell."
"Then I must be Satan's pretty little wench," she retorted, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?"
"The good news is I can't feel anything below my waist—"
"That's new."
"—and the bad news is that my head feels like …" He raised his eyes toward the television, where a crocodile was slamming a wild boar against a rock. "Like that."
"At least you're alive."
"Doesn't feel much like it."
"If I'd known you were such a puss—"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Dennison," a deep male voice said. "Nice to see you're finally awake."
Stepping into the room, Dr. Samuels flashed a pleasant smile and started flipping through Aiden's chart. "So how's the knee feeling?"
"Not a whole lot. I guess you guys gave me the good stuff."
The smile on the doctor's face shrank ever so slightly. "You're on painkillers right now, but when the effect wears off, you might feel a little pain."
"For a couple days, right?"
"Just be prepared for some discomfort for a while, okay?"
"Looks like you won't be wearing your jockstrap for some time," Ashley piped up.
Dr. Samuels's smile faded altogether. "Do you play sports?"
"Uh, yeah. Basketball."
"I'll need a word with you and your parents when they come back."
"I get shot and now I can't even watch a Western on TV?"
Pressing the channel button on the TV repeatedly, Ashley feigned concern. "What if it has some sort of weird psychological effect on you? All that shooting can't be good for someone who was just in that situation." She jabbed her finger against the button exasperatedly, then finally settled on MTV.
"MTV? Are you sure this isn't hell?"
"Okay, okay," Ashley said, giving in and hitting the button a few more times until she got a local news station. "There—wholesome, educational stuff."
Aiden cursed under his breath, but didn't protest further.
Returning to her chair, Ashley suppressed an exhalation of relief. For all her ribbing, she was glad to see that he was able to put up a fight, no matter how lame it was.
They watched the news together in silence for several minutes before Aiden decided to speak up.
"So …" he began hesitantly. "Did you hear from Spencer?"
"Yeah, I did. She told me to get lost," Ashley replied dryly.
"Is she okay?"
Ashley felt her heart squeeze in her chest. "Physically."
"That's … good," Aiden offered clumsily.
A heavy silence hung over the room, stifling even the cheerfulness of the sun.
Every emotion Ashley could name warred within her, fighting for dominance. Concern for Spencer. Indignation at Spencer's refusal to talk to her. Relief that both Spencer and Aiden were all right. She scuffed her sneaker against the puke-green floor and glared down at her hands, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. When did things get so complicated? It was so much easier when she knew what she wanted and how to get it. Now she was just flitting around aimlessly like the needle of a broken compass, unsure where her north lay.
"Hey, they're talking about the shooting," Aiden said suddenly, pointing at the TV.
"… were arrested earlier today. The police have not made any comments thus far, but it appears that all the shooters have been rounded up," the anchorman said, rattling off the words in a monotonous tone. Then he cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward as if he was about to impart some great knowledge. "A few months ago, rock star Raife Davies was killed in a car accident. Now it seems as if tragedy is dogging the Davies family. The rock royalty's two daughters—Ashley and Kyla—were caught in yesterday's shooting at King High School. So far, there have been no reports about either one being checked into any hospital, but a popular entertainment website has unearthed some interesting news about Kyla, who may not be a Davies after all."
Ashley rolled her eyes. "Now what?"
Gritting his teeth, Aiden flinched even before he flexed his knee, knowing well enough that the attempted movement would only send a paralysing jolt of pain throughout his leg. Still, he tried. And his teeth nearly broke from the jolt.
"Honey, you've got to stop doing that," his mother chastised, laying her hand on his.
Acquiescing, he exhaled heavily and let his body go limp. The numbing effect of the painkillers was dissolving, and he didn't like what he was starting to feel.
"Mr. and Mrs. Dennison?" Dr. Samuels walked into the room, his clean-cut appearance and affable smile doing nothing to allay the dread building in Aiden's chest.
"I know we already said this, but thank you for saving our son's life," Mrs. Dennison said.
Dr. Samuels cleared his throat, making a small sound of acknowledgement. "The shot wasn't life-threatening … but there is something I need to talk to you about."
Swallowing, Aiden watched his parents' brows furrow. He felt his mother's cool, light hand gripping his, and his father's broad one resting on his shoulder.
"Aiden," Dr. Samuels began, "the bullet hit your patella—your kneecap—and fractured it. But we were able to extract the bullet and there appears to be no nerve damage."
"So, that's good news, right?" Aiden asked, hating how small and thin his voice sounded. "I can walk?"
"Yes. You'll be on your feet in six to eight weeks, but for now you'll have to be in a knee brace."
"And that's the bad news?" He laughed nervously, averting his eyes from the intensity of the doctor's gaze.
"Not exactly. This kind of injury isn't really something you can shrug off. Although you'll be able to get around just fine, the injury is extensive enough that you won't be able to play basketball."
The room began to tilt. Dropping his head back against the pillow, Aiden clamped his eyes shut, dreading, fearing what the doctor was about to say next. He pressed his lips together too, hoping that if he said nothing, no one else would make a sound and reify what he could already hear pounding in his ears.
But his father couldn't hear his silent plea. "For how long?"
The doctor's tone was contrite. Sympathetic. "I'm afraid he won't be able to play such a vigorous sport for—"
"Are you saying he can't play basketball for the rest of his life?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Cartoons. Soap opera. Music videos. News. Sports. Soap opera.
Spencer threw the remote control down on the couch and stared at the screen, listening to the rapid-fire Spanish burst from the speakers.
"Sweetie, do you feel like having a sandwich? I made tuna."
"No thanks, Mum."
It was only Spencer's second day home and already she wanted to gouge her eyes out with a fork. Paula was waiting on her hand and foot, bringing snacks and keeping up a stream of meaningless chit-chat and asking her how her head was every ten minutes.
"If you must know, Mum, it feels the same as it did ten minutes ago," she mumbled to herself.
"What was that, Spence?"
"Nothing."
Paula walked into the living room and sat down, smiling. Spencer could practically hear the speech bubbling up inside her mother's body.
"So, how's your—"
"It's fine."
"Okay." The smile tightened.
A faint pang of guilt shot through Spencer, and she mentally kicked herself in the butt even as she asked, "What's up?"
"Actually, there's something I wanted to ask you."
Here it comes, Spencer thought, motioning for Paula to continue.
Clasping her hands around her knee, Paula leaned forward, two fine lines bridging the gap between her eyebrows. "Spence, do you feel safe?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you feel safe at school?"
"Um—"
"You've had two concussions this year—both from incidents at school—and I can't help but feel like King's not the best place for you."
"So what are you saying? You want to transfer me to another school?"
Paula's gaze made a quick circle around the room, then landed back on Spencer. "I'm saying it's a consideration we should take seriously."
And there it was. An escape route. A clean slate. No more of Ashley's badly hidden affection for Aiden. No more Ashley and Aiden.
Spencer felt fresh tears pricking the corners of her eyes. No more crying over Ashley.
No more Ashley.