Part 33 (2/2)

”We have to keep moving,” I say, too nervous to be standing on this corner.

”The p-police,” she gasps out, nodding left.

”Your house is closer. That's where the drugs are.”

”You d-didn't bring me anything, Chlo. I d-don't have them.”

”The Not Treasure Box,” I say, and it is all she needs.

We start to cross the deserted street and then I hear it. A rumble that settles in my bones in all the wrong ways. For a moment, I think of turning back, of slipping into the shadow of the pine trees.

”Run!” I say.

But it's too late. The engine speeds up, and I know he's seen us.

Maggie and I are bolting across, but he's going to be right on us. It's a straight shot to her house from here. He'll know there's nowhere else we could be going.

I change my mind and reach for Maggie's hand. ”Let's double around. We'll go by the doughnut shop.”'

Blake's already approaching the intersection when we change directions. The car starts to turn, but he's going too fast. The tires slip, and I hear the rapid thud-thud-thud of antilock brakes kicking in. He tries to swing back to the right, but the Mustang shudders on the slick pavement. The rear fender squirrels to the left. Too far left.

He's going to hit something.

I jerk Maggie the rest of the way across the street, my fingers curling hard in her jacket. I can see Blake through the winds.h.i.+eld, his face pale and tight with fear. And, just like that, he hits. The right front fender slams into a telephone poll. The smash of metal into wood is like a scream.

And then it's over.

All is quiet and still. The only thing moving is the airbag sagging behind the winds.h.i.+eld. I hold my breath and watch it, looking for Blake.

”Is everyone all right?”

Maggie and I spring apart in shock, looking up. There's an older guy looking down at us. He's still zipping his coat up over his pajamas, so he must have heard the wreck.

”Are you all right?” he repeats. ”Did you get hurt?”

”Yes,” I say, pointing at the wreck automatically. ”No, we're fine. It's-”

The sound of Blake's door grinding open chokes my words off. I see one of his feet hit the ground outside the car. Then a second one. Maggie's grip on me tightens.

”Blake? Is that you?”

Someone else has pulled up. She's got a coat pulled around her and a scarf knotted at her neck. I don't know her, but she looks like someone's mom. Behind her, I see the gray minivan she obviously just stepped out of.

”Honey, are you all right?” she asks, gingerly crossing the road.

”I already called the police,” the guy says. We are instantly forgotten as he walks into the street, checking out the front of Blake's car with a low whistle. ”I'll call for a tow too.”

Blake steps out of the car then, and his gaze doesn't stay on his rescuers. He looks past the wrecked car and the melting snow and the people who are gathered in close. Instead he looks at me. His eyes go as hard as Maggie's grip on my arm.

The mom-type touches his sleeve. ”Sweetheart, let me call your mom.”

I see the resignation in his eyes. Because he can't just leave his wrecked car and chase me through town. He's stuck here with the concerned neighbors and the police who are already en route. And I can't help but to smirk at him before I turn away.

”Come on,” I say, as I tug Maggie along with me.

”Wait,” she says quietly. ”The police.”

I keep walking, and she trails after me, asking again. ”Where are you g-going? The police are coming.”

I don't answer until I'm sure we're far enough away that no one will hear. ”So what, we just run up to them in the middle of an accident scene? They'll think I'm crazy, Mags. Honestly, until I see these drugs myself, I'm not sure they'll be wrong.”

I hear the soft wail of a siren from the opposite end of the street. Maggie looks over her shoulder longingly before speeding up to keep pace with me.

Maggie's yard is empty when we arrive. Neither one of us says a word. Talking about the Not Treasure Box is a little like talking about where we're going to eat lunch. We just don't. She grabs a shovel from the shed, and we run to the tree where we've spent countless summer afternoons burying sentimental junk or digging it back up.

It was supposed to be a time capsule. We'd created it in the second grade, some notes and a current newspaper, stuff like that. I'd put in my favorite pencil, and Maggie had included a pink plastic ring that she'd worn all year long.

She'd cried all night over that stupid ring. The next morning, I woke up early and trudged through the dew in her yard. I came back with muddy feet and a piece of pink plastic jewelry. It wasn't technically a time capsule after that. But it was something else. Something good.

The ground is hard like clay beneath my shovel, but it isn't buried deep. I chip away at the dirt until I feel my shovel strike something hard. This is it.

I wrestle it out, fingering the rusting latches with a sense of deja vu. I pop it open and touch the black box inside. And then, just like that, the pieces of my lost summer snap back into place.

I remember being here. I remember burying this box and calling Adam. I remember everything before it too. The months slide back into place like a key tumbling in a lock. The afternoons in study group. The evenings with Blake. It's all there. The hole in my mind is gone. Dr. Kirkpatrick's hypnosis sessions. New friends. Cup after steaming cup of that d.a.m.n lemon- My head snaps up, tears clouding my vision. ”The tea. Oh my G.o.d, they put the drugs in the tea.”

Maggie just watches me, one hand at her chest.

I leave the box where it is and lean back on my heels, letting out a long breath. It steams around my face and mingles with my tears as I remember my words to Maggie, my voice so awful and superior. I can see her like it was yesterday, back against the lockers and an expression of dark betrayal on her face.

I take a breath-so cold it stings my lungs. ”Maggie...”

Snow is still falling thickly, but I can see the realization dawn on her face. ”You remember, d-don't you?”

I nod, swallowing thickly, wis.h.i.+ng I could claw the awful images back out of my head. And maybe the memories of Blake too, his mouth on mine and hands under my s.h.i.+rt. I feel my throat close up, a gag rising through me.

Maggie grips my shoulders and shakes me. She isn't gentle.

”D-don't!”

I scrabble away from her desperately, away from the little black box and all the months I wish to G.o.d had never happened.

”Maggie, I said things-I did things-you and Blake and-” I cut myself off because I can't even talk about the images running through me, the ugliness in these memories. Ugliness in me.

”You did things, Chlo. Past tense.”

I shake my head, ball my cold fingers into fists. ”No.”

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