Wild Reckless

The afternoon passes in a blur. Owen never shows up, and nobody looks for him. It’s strange how nobody asks why he’s missing, and I feel like I’m literally watching him slip through the cracks of the education system.

There’s a project assignment in science, and I make plans to start it right away, gathering the requirement sheets and supplies from the classroom before meeting Willow in the parking lot—Owen’s truck still nowhere to be found. Elise and Ryan are in Willow’s back seat, and I notice how much Ryan reminds me of Owen. Not so much in the face, but his body—his long legs folded to fit in the tightness of Willow’s car, his strong arm draped behind Elise, his eyes dark, clothing dark, his hat pulled low.

I’m thinking about Owen. I’m looking at Ryan, and I’m thinking about Owen, and I’m so aware that I’m doing it that I’m ashamed. But I keep thinking about him. He’s a distraction—he’s also the reason I need a distraction. And he doesn’t have to know I think about him.

“How come Owen misses so much school?” I ask, hoping Ryan will give me a little piece to the puzzle. Willow’s gaze falls on me fast, and I realize how jarring my question is. “I just saw him last night, in front of his house,” I say, my words coming out rushed and nervous. “And I know he’s fine, or not sick or whatever. It was weird he wasn’t here. That’s all.”

I’m overly-justifying my question, and Willow knows it too. She keeps her eyes on me a little longer, until the light flicks to green and she pulls away from our school. Her questions are lining up in her mind, and I know they’re coming. I just hope I can avoid them a little longer—until I know how to answer them.

“Owen’s grades are fine. That’s all that matters. He’s never ineligible for basketball; he doesn’t miss practice, and his grades are good,” Ryan says, following up his explanation with a harsh sigh. He’s defensive over Owen, and I sort of wish I had someone like Ryan to be defensive over me. “Seriously, Kensi. Don’t believe half of the shit you hear. It pisses me off—how people talk about him? He’s a good guy.”

Willow lets out a rush of air with a laugh at Ryan’s words, and he kicks his leg forward into the back of her seat.

“You hush. You’re not qualified to be impartial,” Ryan says, and something about the way he says it makes me turn my gaze to Willow.

“Like hell I’m not,” she says, her face suddenly less…perky.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Willow went out with Owen, freshman year. She’s still mad about him breaking up with her,” Ryan says, and everything inside of me feels heavy. I’m jealous. I’m jealous!

“One…” Willow starts, her eyes on Ryan in the rearview mirror, “I did not go out with him. We hooked up, at a party, for like…an hour. And two, I am over him. I just don’t agree with the way he used me, then ignored me. And I don’t like the way he continues to do that to girls, over and over again. It’s…it’s demeaning.”

It is demeaning. I can’t argue with her there. But…it seems to me that at this point girls know what they’re in for with him. I’ve been here for a few weeks, and I have him figured out.

“Whatever,” Ryan says, turning his interest to the window, to Owen’s house outside. “He’s a good guy, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t date him if you don’t like the way he treats girls. But don’t judge him. He’d never hurt anyone.”

A small laugh escapes my throat, and I cover it up quickly with a cough. Ryan notices, and our eyes meet. I shake his gaze off and turn my attention to the door, to my house, to my crappy life inside.

“Thanks for the ride. I’ll see ya in the morning?” I say, holding the door open and noticing Ryan still studying me.

“Yeah, I’ll be here a little earlier. We have extra rehearsals in the morning, okay?” Willow says, and I nod, closing the door behind me and blocking out Ryan’s stare.

I’m not sure what I expected when I stepped inside, but it wasn’t this. Our house—the one I left this morning—is completely void of my father. The only remnant of him the memories I have trapped in the music boxes stashed in the corner…and my piano. The house smells of Pine-Sol, and my mom is listening to music loudly in the kitchen, her hands covered in rubber gloves.

“I thought you were working?” I ask, scaring her a little with my voice.

“Oh! Sorry, didn’t hear you come in. Uh…yeah, work. Seems I’m a little upset, and I might have had a little bit of an issue inserting a catheter? So, I’m taking a week of personal time. The chief sort of insisted,” she says, running her arm along her nose. Her eyes are red, and I can tell she’s been crying.