Page 30 of Heathens
I am screaming.
I am screaming.
Dread explodes through me, and I crouch down, reaching my shaking hand to where her legs lie sprawled. She moans but doesn’t open her eyes.
“Evelyn!” I shout to no one but myself.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t s-s-stop in time,” the elderly man stutters, and my heart lurches for an entirely different reason. His face is wet with tears.
“Is she okay?” I ask, sobbing now. I need him to help me. I need him to tell me if she’s okay. “Oh my god, Evelyn,” I whisper, feeling for her hand. It twitches and I grab it. Her eyelids flutter.
“I’m okay,” she rasps, slowly lifting herself up into a seated position. The old man wobbles over and inspects her, grabbing her arms. His lips are trembling too hard to speak.
We both help her stand, and I collide with her. She has a small cut on her forehead, but she’s alive.
She’s okay.
I hear her wince and I loosen my grip.
“It was my fault,” she says quickly, taking the man’s hands in hers. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been riding my bike in the middle of the road.”
I look over, and sure enough, her dented bike sits a few feet away from where she was lying, the front wheel still spinning.
Spinning, spinning, spinning.
“We need to get you to the hospital,” I urge, clutching my throat as she tries to soothe the man. “Evelyn, we need to go.”
She ignores me, flaring her nostrils and giving me an impatient look as she continues to tell the man that she is, indeed, okay.
My pulse is throbbing erratically, and my legs feel like jello. When she convinces the man that she won’t be pressing charges, he thanks her and nods, kissing her hand and apologizing profusely. Getting into his car, I give him a polite wave and then he’s gone.
“I might have a bruised rib, but I didn’t want him to know that,” she says, waving and smiling as he drives away. I notice her posture—bent a bit to the side from the pain. “He was driving about five miles an hour when he hit me—my back was to him. He shouldn’t be on the road, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him.”
I swallow. “I was—I didn’t—” Closing my eyes and shaking my head, I wipe the fresh tears off of my face. “I thought he really hurt you. I thought you were—”
“Dead?” She smiles and stands up straighter, wincing as she clutches her middle. “Nah. I’m okay. But don’t tell our parents. Just say I fell off of my bike.”
“Evelyn—”
“I'm all right.“ She glances at me, her eyes assessing my appearance. “Are you okay?“
Her eyes are bright with concern, and I can’t help but laugh. “You’re asking if I’m okay, when you’re the one who just got hit by a car?”
She shrugs, wincing again. “It’ll be a good story to tell one day.”
I help her collect the fruit which, miraculously, sits undisturbed in the basket next to the bike. She can barely bend forward without grimacing, so I help her up the driveway and into my house.
“You’re staying the night,” I insist, grabbing a bottle of Advil and a glass of water. I hand them to her. “Your mom will kill you if you can’t work tomorrow. Someone needs to pay the bills, and it’s certainly not her,” I add with a bite.
She just shakes her head and gives me a small smile. “Stop fussing. I’m fine. Really.”
“Evelyn, you were hit by a car—”
“You were hit by a car?” Greta’s voice carries through the large kitchen. I swivel around. Sure enough, Greta—in all of her four-foot-eleven glory—is standing behind the island with her hands on her hips. She must’ve been on all fours because I didn’t see her when we walked in. Her light brown eyes swing between the two of us. “You better explain, or Mrs. Damewood is going to be getting a phone call.”
I shake my head vehemently, and Evelyn just throws three Advil into her mouth and swallows them, along with the whole glass of water, to avoid the interrogation.
“Please,” I beg, grabbing the basket of fruit. “Don’t call Mom. Look, we brought you some fruit for pie!” I hope the diversion works.
