Free The S-Word by Chelsea Pitcher Page A

Lizzie’s,” I say. “I promised her dad I’d go through her older belongings. He’s running that charity thing for underprivileged kids.” I look up and meet his eyes. “He can’t even go into her room.”
    “Okay.” Drake nods, but his voice has the shakes. “Well, I’d go, but he doesn’t exactly—”
    “He’s not going to be there.”
    “Oh. Well, okay. I can . . .” He’s looking around, as if searching for signs of escape. I wonder what about this makes him so nervous. Is it simply the thought of being in a dead girl’s bedroom? Or is it the fear of facing the reality of Elizabeth Hart, the fear of seeing her as a human being? I think after they slept together he kept her as a fantasy, someone who drifted into his life for one night and then disappeared. I think it was a lot easier that way.
    “I wasn’t inviting you,” I say, backing away.
    He chases after me. “Do you really want to go there alone?” he asks, and it’s the worst thing he can say. I don’t want to go there alone. Not without Lizzie’s dad. Not with just myself and all that emptiness. I might sit down on the floor of her bedroom and never get up again.
    “I’ll be fine,” I lie.
    “Come on, Angie.” He’s close, but he’s not touching me now. And I’m just lost enough to believe it’s out of respect. “Let me help you. You always do everything alone.”
    “There was a time when I didn’t.” A time, like two months ago. “But I’ve learned my lesson.”
    “Don’t punish yourself for my mistake,” he says, hand sliding up my neck.
    “I’ll keep my distance,” he says.
    “I just want to help,” he says.
    I’m shuddering now, and it’s not because I’m disgusted. “Fine. Let’s go,” I manage. I don’t really want to be around him. I don’t want to talk to him in any capacity. But he’s going to keep following me, and calling me, and looking at me until I agree to talk to him. And since doing this alone is suddenly terrifying, I opt to give him one final chance to speak. Whether or not I listen is up to me.
    Drake holds out his arm for me. I ignore it and pass him by.
    It isn’t until I see Jesse posed against a nearby locker that I realize he was listening the whole time.

nine
    L IZZIE’S HOUSE LOOMS over us, specter white and ominous. Gaping windows stare down at us like eyes. Drake’s body is pressed against me, too close, as I struggle to find my spare key. Maybe he’s scared to be here too.
    Or maybe he just wants something.
    My key turns in the lock. Part of me was hoping it wouldn’t. Part of me keeps thinking this whole goddamn thing is a nightmare, the house, the charity drive, Lizzie’s untimely death.
    I push open the doors and think, Untimely? That’s a laugh. When are we ever prepared for something like this? How can we ever rectify the absence of an entire fucking person? She was here, and she was there, and now she’s gone.
    And my heart knows it. My eyes know it, as they flutter to the places where Lizzie lived.
    There’s the faded blue couch where she’d curl up under blankets and watch TV. Lizzie was always cold; I used to press myself against her to lend her my heat. Through the entryway to the kitchen, I see the counter where forever ago we made cupcakesand topped them with My Little Ponies. We were too young to know what heat does to plastic. We actually cooked the ponies in the oven. When Lizzie cried at the loss of her babies, I told her we were making art.
    The frosting matched the melted plastic perfectly.
    “I can’t stay in this room,” I mumble, leading Drake up the stairs. His footfalls sound heavy on the angel-white carpet. The portraits of Jesus are judging me, like: Why are you here when you treated her so badly?
    But I can’t go back now.
    A stack of boxes sits outside Lizzie’s door. I grab one, forcing myself to cross the threshold into her room. I’ve only been here once since she died; I came back with Mr. Hart the day of her funeral.