Free Gotcha by Shelley Hrdlitschka

happened. “I can’t believe these people.”
    “Was it about your bead?”
    “Sort of.”
    “You still have it?”
    “Yeah.”
    He gently runs a finger across my ankle, which I’ve stretched out in front of me. “Whew!” he exclaims and whistles softly. “Did this just happen now?”
    Oh man. Just as Warren begins to get to me with his intoxicating voice, charm and knight-in-shining-armor-to-the-rescue style, I remember why I’ve never been attracted to him. He’s not very bright. It’s too bad.
    “No, Warren,” I explain, as patiently as I can given the pain I’m in. “It takes a while for an ankle to get that swollen and bruised.”
    He nods.
    “I came on those crutches.”
    “Oh yeah. Right.”
    “Thanks for coming along when you did,” I add, feeling a twinge of guilt for what I know is soon to be a traitorous act.
    “You’re welcome.” He grins like a little boy, pleased with himself. Now I feel even worse about what I know I have to do, sooner or later.
    As he stands back up, I wonder if he has a better understanding of how he stopped the mini-riot than those who were part of it understand how it happened. Does he purposely command respect or does it just happen when he opens his mouth? Either way, I’m glad he did.
    Joel and I slowly climb back up, and with my crutches firmly under my arms, we slink out of the house and back to his car.
    “Katie,” he says, turning to me before starting the engine. “I’m so sorry.”
    “Hey, not your fault.” And it wasn’t. But I’m feeling so mortified and abused and foolish that I can’t look at him. I just want to be home, in my bed, with my head buried under my pillow. I clench my teeth, willing the flood of tears I know is coming to hold off a little longer.
    “I brought you to the party and I helped create the story. I feel responsible.”
    I rub my face with my hands and press my fingers into my eyes, a dam to the tears. My ankle’s throbbing. My head’s aching. I take a deep breath. “Joel, it’s the game. You said yourself that people get crazy playing Gotcha. I’m dropping out.”
    Joel starts the car and pulls away from the curb. “Do you think they’ll let you?”
    “How can they stop me?”
    “I don’t know. But who would get your bead and the name of your victim?”
    “Whoever I give them to. You.”
    “Somehow I don’t think we’d get away with that, especially after the episode tonight.”
    I can only shrug. Right now I don’t care. I need painkillers so badly, and I want to get my foot elevated. How could an evening that started off so special turn sour this fast? I don’t even want to think about Gotcha anymore.
    Joel helps me unlock the door to my house. “You’re going to be okay?” he asks, handing me my key.
    I nod, but I still can’t look at him. It’s getting harder to hold back the tears, but I don’t want Joel to know how I’m feeling. It will just make him feel worse.
    He hesitates, blocking the doorway, and I get the feeling he wants to say something else. But there’s nothing else to say. The awkwardness is too much.
    “Joel, I need to go in. My foot is killing me.”
    He jumps out of the way. “Sorry, Katie,” he says, sounding almost defensive. He moves out of the way and holds the door for me.
    “Bye, Joel,” I say and pull the door shut behind me. I slump against the wall and unleash the tears.
    Mom has gone to bed but she’s left some lights on and a plate of cookies on the counter. She must have figured I’d invite Joel in. When the sobbing finally lets up, I drag myself off the floor and swallow a couple of Tylenol. I’m exhausted, totally spent, my eyes are burning, my ankle’s throbbing, but I know I won’t sleep until the painkillers kick in. I decide to check my e-mail while I’m waiting.
    From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: sprained ankle
    Hey Katie,
    How is your ankle doing? It breaks my heart to hear you sounding so down.
    Listen, honey, I