Havoc:Mayhem Series #4(21)

"And you should be in bed," I lecture my twelve-year-old brother. "It's a school night."

"I'm skipping," Luke announces, and I wipe my thumb over the pasty corners of my mouth.

"Why?"

"Because I want to."

"Why?"

"Because I hate it."

I wash my face with a cleanser wipe with one hand while holding my phone with the other. "Is this because of that punk Grayson?"

Luke's silence is answer enough, and I sigh as I toss the wipe in the trash.

"You need to stand up for yourself, Luke."

"How? I'm the skinniest kid in my grade."

"I don't know . . . Can't you make friends with some bigger kids?"

Luke scoffs. "He's the king of the big kids. They all do what he says."

"Well . . . then can't you get Mom to talk to the principal or something?"

With a very adult sigh, my brother says, "Hailey, are you seriously that  old that you don't remember what seventh grade is like? I can't just  tell my mom."

"You also can't skip school."

"I should just drop out and be a farmer."

"A very dumb farmer," I counter, and when that isn't enough to make Luke  change his mind, I say, "Look, Luke, you can't just run away from your  problems. If you don't stand up for yourself, this kid's never going to  stop."

"You let Danica bully you," Luke points out, and I frown as I enter my room.

"That's different."

"How?"

Well, for one, I deserve it. I developed a crush on her boyfriend, which  means I deserve the very worst she can give me. And for two-"We're  family," I say, and my brother scoffs.

"That's crap, and you know it."

"Yeah well . . ." With lack of a better argument, I simply order, "You're still going to school tomorrow."                       
       
           



       

"Can't you just play for a little while with me?" Luke pleads, and I  stare at my computer. I can't play Deadzone with him because if Mike  logs on, I know he'll play with us. Which will involve talking. Which  will resurrect those damn butterflies in my stomach.

I rub the ache in my chest and say, "What about that dragon game we played before?"

"I want to play Deadzone."

"Why? I feel like being a princess tonight."

"Because I miss playing with you and Mike, but he's not on yet."

My throat dries, and I croak, "You're logged on right now?"

"Yeah."

"But Mike isn't on?"

"Not yet."

I sit down at my desk, worrying my lip. Mike texted me to ask me to play  Sunday night, but I ignored him. He sent me a couple more messages as I  sat at my desk frowning at my black computer screen, and then just one:  Sweet dreams, Hailey.

It was the same Monday night. But last night, he didn't bother asking. I  was lying in bed, wondering what he was doing, when my phone dinged. He  wished me sweet dreams. Nothing else-just sweet dreams.

I didn't respond.

He's an addiction that I need to stop fueling, for my sake and his. He  told me I'm one of his best friends, and I'm trying to be a good one by  not letting these feelings grow. He has a girlfriend, and even if he  didn't, my feelings for him would only end in hurt feelings. For me:  because I'm not Mike's type-I'm no Danica-and I'd eventually have to  hear that from his own mouth. And for him: because he lost a friend he  thought he could trust to not fall for him like every other girl who's  ever seen him bang on the drums.

We can be friends again. Someday soon, I hope. I just have to smother these damn sparks inside of me first.

"Alright," I tell Luke as I boot up my computer. "Half an hour, but then you're going to bed and going to school tomorrow."

"Deal," Luke says before I can change my mind, and we hang up the phone  to start chatting in the game. For twenty-three minutes, I almost forget  about Mike-right up until his username appears on the right side of my  screen.

"Luke, I've got to go."

"But Mike just signed on!"

"Sorry," I rush to say. "My stomach is hurting."

"But you promised you'd play for half an hour . . ."

"I love you," I tell him in a hurry. "We'll play again soon. Go to school tomorrow."

I sign off before he can say another word, and then I press my fingers against my stinging eyes.

I miss Mike. I miss his banter and his smile and his humor and his  voice. I miss making him laugh over the phone. I miss him wishing me  sweet dreams just before I fall asleep.

I crawl under my bedcovers, wondering how long it's going to take for me  to stop feeling this way. If I developed this crush on him in just two  and a half weeks, it should only take that long to get rid of it, right?  I'm already four days in, so I should only have two weeks left. Just  two weeks. That's not that long . . .

Only, Mike is leaving on tour in eleven days, and he'll be gone for six  weeks. So even if it only takes me two weeks to get over him, I won't  see him again for two months. And I promised myself-no more phone calls,  no more private chats. So it will be at least two months until group  get-togethers, two months until I can try to be Mike's friend again . . .

My phone dings with a text, and my screen lights up my dark room as I read it.

Sweet dreams, Hailey.



I close my eyes, imagining Mike thinking of me in this moment, and it reopens the hole in my chest.

Does he know I'm avoiding him? He must. Did he see my name on his screen  before I logged off? If he did, I hope my brother told him I have a  stomachache. I hope Mike believed him . . .

It feels like my heart is starving, and I don't know how to fix that,  but it warns me that I'm wrong: two weeks isn't going to be enough.

Not enough to stop falling for Mike Madden.





Chapter 15




Three more days pass, and I stay away from Deadzone. I try not to miss  Mike's "sweet dreams" texts when they stop coming. I do my best to  ignore the hollow emptiness in my chest that makes it hard to sleep at  night, to breathe at night. And I pretend I don't care when Dee tells me  that Mike has caught the debilitating cold that Kit birthed into the  world.                       
       
           



       

She says Mike is sick-well, more dramatically, she tells me he's dying.  She says no one has heard from him and he's probably rotting to death on  his kitchen floor. And no one else can go help him out because everyone  else is still sick or recovering too. She says I should go, but I know  it isn't my place. I'm only a week into Mike-addiction recovery, and I  don't want to fall off the wagon now, not after how difficult these past  seven days have been.

Instead, I plead with Danica.

"You should go check on Mike," I tell her one week after the disaster at  the pond, going against my better judgment to try to convince her to do  what any good girlfriend would do. "The girls said he's not feeling  well," I continue while she sits folded up on her bed with pink foam  separators wedged between her toes. She concentrates on her glittery  silver brush as it swipes over her toenail.

"He's a big boy," she counters without looking up at me.

"You're his girlfriend."

"So?"

"So, don't you even care about him?"

Danica scowls up at me. "Of course I care about him. Not that it's any  of your business." She goes back to pampering her toes, snooty as ever.  "I talked to him yesterday."

"And he sounded okay?"

Her pause tells me more than her mouth ever will. "He said he was fine."

"In a text?"

I sigh when she can't even deny it. "Look, Hailey, this music video is  shooting in seven days. What do you want me to do, go over there and get  sick?"

I just stare at her, because what can I say to that? There are so many  things wrong with what she just said, I don't even know where to start.

When she notices the judgment in my expression, she makes a noise and  begins blowing on her toenails. "How about this . . . How about you go  over there, and you take him some tissues and some soup and whatever the  hell else you think he so desperately needs, okay? Put it in a basket.  Like a care basket." She gazes up at me while still blowing intermittent  breaths onto her toes. "I'll give you the money. Get a can of soup,  okay? Throw in some crackers. And a card. Sign it from me." She begins  shaking a black bottle of top coat. "You can even sign it from both of  us if you want. You don't even need to chip in. Just drop it off on his  porch."

"Are you serious?"

At the disdain in my voice, Danica rolls her eyes. "Or you can ring his  doorbell and hand it to him and get sick. Whatever makes you feel  better, Saint Hailey."



An hour later, I'm standing on Mike's porch, on the outskirts of the  city, with a woven basket hanging from my hand. Inside it: three cans of  soup, one box of tissues, one bottle of nasal spray, one bottle of cold  medicine, one card with Danica's name scrawled in my handwriting.