Free Girl Unmoored by Jennifer Gooch Hummer Page A

a flap of skin the size of Maine barely hanging on in there. Two perfectly white sneakers rushed up to me.
    “Hey. Are you okay?”
    I looked up and saw Chad.
    I blinked to make sure, but it was definitely him, in the same clothes he had on before: blue jeans that were too big for him and a light blue T-shirt with Tears for Fears on it. He looked better now, though. Not so sweaty.
    “Apron?” He leaned down. “Is that you?”
    I nodded.
    “Do you wear glasses?”
    I shook my head.
    “So you’re just uncoordinated?”
    I moaned.
    “I like that in a girl,” he said. “But you’re bleeding. You better come in.” He took my backpack and helped me up. Then he spun me toward a window with Scent Appeal painted across it like growing ivy. Except you could barely read it because of what was spray-painted over it: homo and faggot and fudge packer , written in bright red paint.
    “What happened?” I asked, trying to get my fat lip out of the way.
    “A friendly visit from our fan club,” Chad said walking through the door. My heart stung for him. If I had a window on a sidewalk, I bet Jenny Pratt would have spray-painted nasty things about me on it too. I wanted to tell him that, but instead I mumbled, “Sorry,” and followed him in.
    Chad shut the door behind us and locked it. And suddenly it smelled like someone forgot to turn on the gravity. The air was so fresh and light you could practically float on it. Flowers were everywhere, all of them bursting with color. Tin buckets of tuberoses and lilies were lined up on the floor, and smaller flowers like tulips and daisies were sticking out of buckets set on top of old bleached-out lobster traps.
    Chad dropped my backpack on the couch against the wall and said, “Hey, Toby, we got any ice?” then disappeared around the corner.
    Someone said, “Why?” and wheeled out from behind the long counter. I jumped back.
    “Sorry, little lady,” the man in a wheelchair said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
    He had dark black skin and was wearing all white. His chest and arms were normal looking, but his legs were too skinny and his ankles were too close together. Sadness hit me harder than the sidewalk. “I’m Toby,” he said with a wave.
    “I’m Apron,” I said, my swollen lip getting in the way. “Are you a nurse?”
    His laugh was so deep it sounded like we were sitting at the bottom of Grandma Bramhall’s pool.
    “Only to Chaddie boy,” he said. “But that’s a good lookin’ lip you got there.” He didn’t sound like he was from Maine, but from somewhere fancier, like Boston.
    Chad came back holding a paper towel and some ice in a bag. “Hey, Toby, did she tell you she loves my jokes? Watch, I’ll prove it. What did the digital clock say to his mother?” he asked, wrapping the paper towel around the bag of ice before handing it to me.
    “Look ma, no hands,” I answered, taking the ice and tapping that coldness lightly against my lip. “Thanks.”
    Toby laughed at that, the oldest joke on Earth. “Fantastic.”
    “Isn’t it though?” Chad smirked. “She’s fab. She’s also here ,” he said putting his hands on his hips and turning to me. “Why?”
    “I was trying to—”
    “Oh, find the hospital,” Chad answered for me. “Is your grammie okay?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, pulling the key out of my pocket. “But I forgot to give this back to you.”
    He widened his eyes and took the key. “Oh, man. Not again.”
    “I’m so sorry,” I slurped through my hunk of lip. On his wrist, there was another black splotch like the one on his cheek.
    “Well. Screw ’em if they can’t take a joke,” he smirked at Toby, who chuckled again. “Hey, how did you know where to find us?”
    “Your van.” I turned toward the window, which from this side looked even worse. The paint was puke-brown and you could see how thick it was, barely letting any light in.
    “Where’s Papa Apron?” Chad asked suspiciously. “Is he waiting for you out