Page 21 of Wild Weekend
I don’t tell Will it was an overdose. I never knew my father, and I only know this story because Mom used to tell it to me over and over, the bitterness in her voice palpable. She said he’d OD’d to save on paying alimony.
“I’m sorry.”
I wave a hand away, because from what my mother told me, my father didn’t deserve anyone’s pity.
“I never knew him.” The only picture I have of him is one Mom kept of the three of us when I was a few months old. They’re looking at each other and smiling like there’s a joke they’re sharing at the exact moment the picture was taken. I never saw Mom smile like that again.
“My mother passed when I was eleven.”
A cool breeze whips down the main street, and I hug my arms in front of my chest. Will notices and pulls me toward him. He too discards his ice cream, and I lean into his warm embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Stella. No child should go through that.”
His arms wrap around me and I breathe deep, the confused little girl in me clinging onto a place of safety.
“That must have been so hard on you and Cleo. Did you live with relatives?”
After Mom died, there was no family left, no one to take me. I was sent from foster home to foster home. Slowly, the confused little girl hardened into a mean teenager, running with the wild crowd and breaking the rules of the home. Getting sent from place to place because I was too much trouble, until I came to the Mackeys and met Cleo. I looked up to Cleo. She was the closest thing to a sister I ever had, and she kept me in line. I tried so hard after she left to be good.
But the pull of living on the edge was too strong.
I don’t tell Will any of this. We’ve got one more night together, and I don’t want him to think badly of me.
I open my mouth to explain that Cleo isn’t my blood sister when there’s a shout from across the street.
We turn toward the noise together to see a man collapse to the pavement. He’s wearing a leather jacket with a biker’s patch indicating he’s from the festival. Another man, bald as a bowling ball, stands over him, shaking his shoulders and yelling at him to get up.
“Something’s wrong.”
I dart across the road, not noticing if Will follows me or not. The man needs medical attention, and I may be able to help.
“What happened?” I crouch next to the biker on the ground and feel his pulse. He’s alive, but his breathing is shallow.
“He just collapsed,” wails the bald man. His pupils are small pinpricks, and he wavers on his feet.
I lift the biker’s arm, and his skin is clammy. When I let go, his arm drops limply to the ground.
“Call an ambulance,” I say to Will who’s followed me across the street. “He’s ODing.”
Will gets his phone out and makes the call.
“No ambulances, man.” The friend looks panicked. “The police can’t get involved.”
“Your friend is going to die if we don’t get him help.”
My training kicks in and I do what I can, rolling him into the recovery position and checking that his airway is clear.
I give him a hard tap on the cheek. “Hey, you need to wake up.”
The man gurgles but doesn’t respond.
“An ambulance will be here in ten minutes.” Will crouches next to the man. “What do you need me to do?”
“If his heart rate drops, we’ll need to do CPR.”
Will nods. “We need to find out what he’s taken.” He stands up, but the friend has slunk off. He hasn’t gotten far on his unsteady feet, and Will strides up the road to find him.
He catches up with the guy, and I hear raised voices. But I have to concentrate on the man on the ground.
