Free The S-Word by Chelsea Pitcher Page B

Absolutely nothing has changed since then. Crosses decorate the walls, proclaiming a faith Lizzie was born into. Stuffed animals cover her bed. Lizzie’s room is creepier than mine—another example of parental influence on decorating—except she doesn’t even get the jailbait boy-band posters. Mr. Hart’s religious sensibilities wouldn’t stand for it.
    I wonder what it was like growing up in this house, unable to talk about crushes or feelings. Lizzie’s mom died when she was a baby. She was an only child, though we used to joke about being sisters. And, as it turns out, she couldn’t even confide in me.
    “Where to begin?” I ask, avoiding Drake’s gaze. This is the first time we’ve been alone since prom night. I mean, if standing speechless in a hotel room counts as “being alone.”
    Drake sits on the edge of Lizzie’s pink-and-white-flowered comforter. “No idea. This room is, uh . . .”
    “She liked it,” I snap, which is a total lie. Lizzie was artistic and free spirited. A wild child. This room is a page out of Cultist Child Bride. “You’re welcome to leave.”
    “No.” He’s at my side in an instant. His eyes keep flicking to the window, like he’s checking for something. “It’s just weird being here.”
    “It’s a pretty picnic for me.”
    “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs, and it makes me cringe.
    “Do not call me that.” I turn away from his pretty eyes. “Do not. ”
    “All right,” he says to my back.
    I start going through Lizzie’s books. The Golden Compass. A Wrinkle in Time. Classics blending fantasy with science. Lizzie was a skeptical Christian.
    “It just seems like there are so many better worlds out there,” she used to say. “I can’t believe this is the only one.”
    Somewhere, in another dimension, maybe Lizzie is alive and I’m the one who’s dead. Maybe it’s better that way.
    My eyes start to sting. I turn away from Drake. When the tears stain my cheeks I wipe them away like I have an itch. It takes him a minute to realize what I’m doing.
    “Hey.” Coming up behind me, he puts his arms around my waist. Tentative, like it might hurt me. He’s being gentle to make me forget his carelessness. I know this. I’ve seen this before. But it feels so nice to be held that I melt into him.
    “Hey,” he says again, wiping tears from my face. Taking good care of me, damn him. “It’s okay.”
    “I can’t do this,” I manage in stilted breaths. “I can’t do this with you here and I can’t do this. ”
    “You mean us?”
    His arrogance infuriates me.
    “No, not us, Drake.” I squirm out of his embrace. “I cannot be here sorting through her things like she’s . . . like she’s . . .”
    Dead.
    She is dead, Angie. She’s never coming back to this room. And if you don’t gather together her things to help some orphan, her father’s going to have a complete meltdown.
    You have to do this.
    “Okay,” I say more to myself than to Drake. “Okay. I can do this.” I wipe my face with the sleeve of my black sweater. That’s right, that’s what I threw on this morning. With a pair of dark-rinse jeans. I’ve been wearing more and more black lately.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, detangling myself from his clinging hands. “It was a mistake to bring you here. We can talk later.”
    “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t really need to talk.” His gaze shifts to the window again. Ever vigilant. “I just wanted to spend time together. I miss you.”
    “Well, I don’t miss you.” I force myself to be cold, to feel nothing. “Please leave.”
    He stares at me like I’ve twisted a knife in his heart. It’s so damn ironic, I almost laugh. But after a minute of painful silence, he turns and leaves. He does that Charlie Brown head-hang thing all the way out of the room but I don’t care. It made me feel gross to see him touch Lizzie’s things.
    Now I’m alone. I start to sort through Lizzie’s closet, pulling out stuff that’s