Page 26 of Cloudless
Do I get to see you tomorrow?
Lila
Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Kam
Good.
Goodnight, Sunshine.
Sweet dreams.
Lila
Goodnight, Trouble. Sweet dreams.
CHAPTER 11
FITTING FILTER
LILA
The hallway serves as a makeshift runway. My footsteps echo my thunderous heartbeat as I pace. The cadence of my steps is only interrupted by my shoes switching between the clicking on the hardwood floors and the muffled thud on the two rugs acting like a runner down the hallway.
I maintain a vice-like grip on my phone as I make another lap. Kam’s text notification sits uncleared on my lock screen. His name serves as a pillar of strength for the day ahead. A silent battle rages in my mind. My desire to text Kam is losing to my desire to not reveal how much of a mess my life truly is.
His friendship application lies on my nightstand, slightly wrinkled from the hours of use it has received over these past few days.
My fingers itch to feel the now comforting smoothness of the paper. To feel the crinkle in the corner where he bent the paper playing with the edge during our class.
I audibly gulp when a glance at the clock on my phone shows nine minutes until eight. Icy tendrils of dread slide over me as the screen fades. My reflection stares back at me through the inky blackness. The darkness is a fitting filter to my dull image.
The thud of a car door closing outside reverberates like a gong through my bones.
She’s early.
The buttery softness of my dress does nothing to calm my shaky hands as I attempt to smooth wrinkles out of the fabric.
Our red front door used to represent my mom’s rebellious and artistic nature. Now, however, it flashes in warning at the danger I could find on the other side.
Despite anticipating the soft knock, it still startles me into dropping my phone onto the plush rug under my feet.
I murmur a quiet curse as I scramble to pick it up. My shaky fingers struggle to find purchase on the smooth device against the fibrous rug. The phone slides through my fingers like sand in the wind as another knock sounds at the door.
Vertigo washes over me as I stand too quickly. A sharp clink reverberates through the aching quietness as I bump my phone into a bowl we use to put our keys in on the entryway table.
The cool metal of the doorknob seeps into my sweaty palm. A rush of warm air slides over my face as the door swings open.
The glare on Mrs. Jones’ glasses disappears to reveal kind, green eyes.
Shifting the papers she holds, her straight, white hair gets caught on her jacket's lapels as she offers a handshake. “Miss Sullivan. It’s so nice to meet you at last. I’m Evelyn Jones.”
I inwardly cringe as my sweaty palm meets her cool one. “Please, call me Lila.” I step to the side. “Come in.”
I mourn the loss of the calming balm of the morning sun as I plunge the hall into blinding darkness. The click of the door closing feels like the cock of a gun as I watch Mrs. Jones’ cunning eye take in our home.
My eyes dart over the immaculate space in search of dust like a hawk searching for a rabbit. The absence of dust doesn't soothemy racing heart or stabilize my shaking legs as I walk behind Mrs. Jones through the entryway.
