Free 37 Things I Love (In No Particular Order) by Kekla Magoon Page B

got home okay?”
    “Sure. Yeah.”
    “I have new respect for you, after seeing you wrangle all those guys.”
    “Please. That was nothing. Especially compared to what you had to deal with. Did Abby really stuff her bra with Jell-O?”
    I gasp. “How did you know that?”
    “Evan was on the phone with Dennis earlier. I overheard. Something about a striptease.”
    Oh, God. “People know? They’re talking about it?”
    “I guess.”
    I should hang up right now. Call Abby and warn her to get some damage control started. My brain flashes forward five minutes: I’ll be on the phone with Abby listening to her screech about who knows and how did they find out and why can’t she remember. She’ll go on and on, and I’ll be sitting here, drained and horrified, reliving every awkward minute of the last twenty-four hours.
    Whatever force it is that causes me to curl up in a ball on the red-cushioned pew is far beyond my control. A fresh gust of rain rattles the stained-glass window. I raise my eyes to it, washed in a feeling of complete overload.
    “Plus, she was just so smashed,” Cara says. “Did you get in major trouble?”
    I breathe a sigh, relieved to be reminded of Abby’s grounding. To call would be a breach of the rules.
    “I don’t really want to talk about last night,” I say.
    “What do you want to talk about?”
    “You pick.” I tuck my knees tighter, press the phone closer to my ear. I have too much on my mind, and I don’t want to think about any of it.
    “I drew some pictures for you,” Cara says.
    “For me?” My pulse speeds up.
    “Yeah. I’ll show them to you.”
    “What are they of?”
    “Different things.”
    My gaze wanders upward again. “Can you draw a stained-glass window?”
    “I can draw anything. Is that what you want?”
    “Yeah.” I close my eyes. “A pretty one, not a sad one.”
    “Hmm. They’re all kind of sad, aren’t they?”
    The tears that prick my eyes feel warm. “I have to go now.”
    I figure she’ll say bye and hang up after that, but she comes back with, “Ellis? Are you okay?”
    It should be easy to just say yes. Instead I don’t say anything.
    “You don’t have to tell me,” Cara says into the quiet I’ve created.
    “It’s a lot of stuff,” I manage.
    “Can I help?” she says.
    The pause stretches on for a while.
    “I’m going to think about you drawing me a picture,” I say.
    *   *   *
    MY SENSES are heightened. The hair on my neck is up. But strangely, I’m not dialing my cell again.
    If I wasn’t mad, I’d find a way to call Abby and warn her. If I wasn’t mad, I’d spend the rest of the day getting the full scoop out of everyone else who was there last night. But I’m not reaching for my cell.
    This is a deep transgression against best friendship.

17
    Driving
    For once, for a little while, everything’s up to me.
    I LEAN FORWARD in the chair and rest my cheek on the fresh sheets near Dad’s shoulder. They’ve washed him up, too; I can smell the institutional soap. Everything is clean and familiar, quiet. The machines’ steady hum settles over us, Dad speaking to me. I struggle to listen through it, to hear his real voice in my mind, but it doesn’t come so often anymore.
    I close my eyes. The nurses have dimmed the fluorescent lights for me, and I feel myself drifting. Drifting to a place where I can see him, hear him, know him again.
    “Don’t tell your mother,” Dad says, helping me into the driver’s side of the golf cart.
    I laugh. I’m nearly thirteen, and already I don’t tell Mom any more than I have to. “I won’t. This is so cool.”
    Dad points. “Okay, that’s the gas. That’s the brake. Make friends with the brake.”
    I plant both feet on it.
    “Good.” Dad walks around and hops in the passenger side, where I was sitting a moment ago. My hands grip the thin steering wheel. Yes! I’ve wanted all my life to drive something, but I’ve never done it before. Mom won’t even take me to the