Loser || WlW

Three

  "Disgusting." My dad hits the steering wheel. It might be my imagination but the car rattles harder. "Trying to frame you as a murderer when you were clearly a victim."

I don't say anything. It's not an outlandish claim. One day, the biggest loser in the school snorts herself awake, claiming the most popular girl in the school is going to die, and then it happens. Top it off with me being the last person to see her and amnesia? They have every right to be suspicious of me.

Flyers of Claire's face have been stuck to every phone line, traffic sign, and fence. In large letters, they read, "Have you seen me?"

"Wait, dad," I say, leaning forward. "Is she missing or dead?"

"I know as much as you do." He shrugs, ducking his head to get a better look out my window.

I sit back against the seat but the headrest hits my bandage and sends waves of hot white pain through my skull. My hearing comes in through a high pitch ringing. I wipe at the tears pushing on my eyelids and tell myself it's from the pain instead of Claire's disappearance. I didn't even know her, but thinking about it turns my stomach.

He squeezes my shoulder. "How are you feeling, kiddo? How's the noggin?" He moves my head forward to get a better look at the gauze. The nurse said it's critical I don't reopen the wound. My dad interpreted that as an order to check the gauze every three minutes.

I let out a long sigh. I'm being accused of murder. I was drugged, possibly taken advantage of. My car is missing. Claire is dead. Zachary quit rehab... Again. "It hurts," I mumble, and rub the sleepiness from my eyes.

He checks his watch and counts under his breath. "Almost time for the pain meds."

I sink into the seat. "Speaking of..." I groan. "What are we going to do with them while Zachary's in the house?"

His eyes are lifeless as he shakes his head. "We'll keep them in the safe."

He sounds so nonchalant as if this is all normal. I've always tried to be the good one but now I'm just another problem on his plate.

I lean my head back against the seat, careful to avoid the injury, and we spend the rest of the ride home in silence. Well, silence and the high pitch hum that the car makes when we go over thirty-five miles per hour.

Zachary moves into the hallway when we get home. "Hey." His eyes dart from me to Dad, and back.

I ignore him.

Dad hands me a pill. "Eat something with that, okay?" His eyes flick to the fridge. His face goes blank like he's trying to remember if we have food when his shoulders slump and he shakes his head. "I'm going to catch some sleep before my next shift." He kisses my forehead. "I'll set an alarm for a couple of hours so I can wake you up."

Another perk of having a concussion. Being woken up every few hours to make sure... I'm still not clear on this part. That I didn't die in my sleep? I don't know but the doctor told my dad to do it and he's always been a stickler for the rules.

"Thanks, Dad." I half-smile and make my way to the fridge. Vertigo hits me randomly and all at once so I slide a hand against the wall as I move.

Zachary is next to me as soon as Dad's bedroom door closes. "So, did you kill her?"

I push him. "Don't talk to me."

His eyes light up as he laughs. It's insane how different we look. He's a replica of our mother. Brown eyes, curly brown hair, skinny and tall. "What's the matter, Jo Jo? Aren't you happy to see your big brother?"

"Not after I put thousands of dollars into a facility to help him get clean." I grab a pudding cup from the fridge and slam the door before hobbling to the dining table.

"Hey, I am clean," he protests, sliding into the chair across from me. "Besides, that place was trash."

"Some expensive trash," I mutter, swallowing a spoonful of the vanilla pudding.

"Look, don't worry about the money. I'll pay you back." He hits my hand softly. "Tell me about last night."

I shrug. "I would if I could."

His mouth opens, closes again. "Is your head that messed up?"

I'm not about to tell him I was drugged. No one needs that mess. I rub my forehead. The sharp pain has melted into a tension headache in my neck and shoulders.

Zachary taps his foot at the speed of light.

"Could you get me some water?" I ask and he shoots to his feet.

I dry swallow the pill and try to cover my gag by taking another bite of pudding.

As he extends the glass of water to me, he says, "You didn't need to do that," and sits down. "I'm not mom, you know."

"It's hard to tell the difference sometimes."

His eyes water as he opens his mouth to say something; closes it again.

"Zachary," I sigh. "I just meant..." I don't know how to save this one.

His jaw is clenched as he blinks the tears away. "It's okay. I get it." He leans back in his chair. "But I'm not some Schizo. I have more control than her."

I half roll my eyes. "She's not Schizophrenic."

"Major Depressive Disorder with Psychotic Features." He imitates his version of a stuck-up doctor. "Same shit." His elbow brushes the stack of mail and knocks it to the ground. He groans and bends over to pick up the scattered junk mail.

"It's not the –" I stop when my eyes catch the heading of a crumpled piece of paper that was re-smoothed into the stack.

Eviction Notice

He's too busy rambling to see it. "I know, I know. We can't contribute to the stigma surrounding mental –"

"Zach."

"Because the whole community can't be lumped into one stereotype and –"

"Zachary." My tone is stern.

He stops talking and follows my gaze to the paper. He flips it so that it's facing him and shakes his head. After a second of silence, he slams the notice against the table. "Shit!"

Tears push at my eyelids. "Welcome home." The chair scrapes against the tile as I push to my feet. I stop in the hallway and face him. "Zach?"

He looks at me.

"I am happy to see you. But if you start using again, we'll have matching head wounds."

His lips pull into a small smile. "Fight me."

I point at him. "Test me. You know I will." I smile.

He laughs as I make my way to my room.

I have over thirty messages on my phone, most of them from Allison. Rumors are already flying. The last message grabs my attention though.

They think you killed Claire Davis??? This looks so bad, Jo. Please tell me you didn't kill Claire Davis. My mom's totally not going to let me be seen with a murderer.

My hands are shaking as I type out a half-hearted response. Who told you that?

My phone dings.

You've been MIA for two days and THAT'S the response I get? Another one comes through. Trevor is telling everyone about it.

"Shit," I whisper. It all clicks into place. That's why Officer Hemmett from the Hospital looked so familiar. He's Trevor's older brother, Kyle. I toss my phone to the side and lie down. I didn't think this situation could get worse and yet, my bully's older brother is the officer investigating a case that I'm the main suspect in.