Loser || WlW

Forty-One

 Kyle gets here first. He's sprinting down the main aisle. I'm still pumping Trevor's chest when he rips me off him.

"No, no, no!" He sobs into Trevor's chest and pounds on the ground with his fist. I push myself to my feet, leaving Kyle alone for his intimate moment with death.

Paramedics jog by as I make my way up the aisle. One of them side-eyes the length of my body but keeps going.

Each step makes the door feel further away.

A group of girls in sparkly dresses gasps when they see me. One of them whispers, "Oh my god."

Mr. Samuels is next, his eyes bugging out of his head behind his square glasses. He grabs his curly hair with both hands. "Jordan, what the hell happened?"

I keep walking. Almost there. The stale air is suffocating. I pull at the bow tie around my neck and catch a glimpse of my palm, stained with dried blood. It's everywhere. Under my nails, blotted up my arm, soaking through my shirt.

I gag. The air is too thick, too hot to breathe. I heave and throw up behind the last row of desks. I wipe my mouth with the small part of my arm that isn't covered in Trevor's blood.

"Come on, kid." Hodge's deep voice is behind me. He holds a hand out.

I look at his hand, big and dad-like. I don't take it but I walk with him. "I'm not very good at CPR." I don't know why I say it, but I do.

"What happened here?" he asks, taking slow steps to keep pace with me.

I shake my head. "I was getting plates."

My train of thought is broken by an animal-like wailing. "He's my fucking brother! Get the fuck off me!" It takes two officers to drag Kyle away from the crime scene. "My brother!" His eyes lock with mine as they pass, but he doesn't say anything. I want to tell him I tried. I did everything I could.

He's too broken, his face is too distorted. He won't listen if I try.

"Kid?" Hodge says again, motioning toward an ambulance. "Let's get you checked out."

I look around. When did we get to the parking lot?

I'm sitting in the back of the ambulance. The paramedic who stared at me earlier kneels in front of me and flicks a flashlight between both eyes. "You hurt?" she asks.

I blink a few times.

She presses her fingers to my wrist, her eyes focused on the distance. She stands, puts a shiny blanket around my shoulders, and turns to Hodge. I can't hear what she says but he nods and sits next to me.

"Go ahead and call someone to pick you up," he instructs. "I'll just ask a few questions."

I nod, but my phone is dead.

"Who told you to get plates?"

I look at Hodge, look back at the school. "My phone is dead," I mutter.

He flashes a warm smile and pulls his phone from his pocket.

I don't know how much time has passed when he comes back. I didn't notice he left. "I couldn't get in touch with your dad," he explains.

He's at work.

"So, I called your friend. She's on her way." He rests his hands on his belt and shakes his head. "I'll grab your statement in the morning. The paramedic said it's normal."

I nod and rest my forehead against the side of the ambulance. It seems like only seconds have gone by when Brittany's Benz pulls into the parking lot behind the caution tape. Her eyes flick to me and then to Hodge. She closes her door, doesn't bother to grab her purse, before she ducks under the caution tape and hurries toward us.

"Jordan, what happened?" she asks, then looks at Hodge. "What happened to her? Is she okay?"

Hodge directs her to walk with him. She covers her mouth with her hand, glances at me again, nods, and begins walking toward me.

She extends a hand to me and I shake my head, showing her my palms.

"Come on." She nods toward her car.

She doesn't try to get me to talk. We drive in silence.

"Can we go to your house?" I ask as she turns on my street.

Her head pops up at the sound of my voice. "Of course," she says and flips a gentle U-turn.

Everything is a blur until I'm sitting in her bathtub, fully clothed, staring at the drain. I catch my reflection in the showerhead and try to wipe the blood from my chin but it's crusted over.

There's a light knock on the door. "Jordan?" A pause. The door opens a crack and then all the way. Brittany sighs; enters the bathroom. "Come on," she says, taking my hand in hers. She pulls me to my feet. "I know it's hard." She begins unbuttoning my shirt. She doesn't bother avoiding the blood.

My lips must pull into some remnant of a smile because Brittany eyes me curiously.

"What are you smiling about?" she asks.

"I never imagined being undressed by Thee Brittany Davis would be quite like this."

She snorts and continues undoing the buttons on the shirt. "You're such an ass." She looks at me. "Don't go away again." It sounds more like a question than an order. She pulls the shirt from my shoulders and throws it in the trash can. My undershirt is soaked through too.

She untucks my undershirt.

I grab her hands. "Will you turn around?"

She nods and faces the wall. "I can go if you want."

"No." My tone is too urgent. "Please."

She doesn't say anything, just faces the wall as I peel the clothes from my skin and throw them into a pile in the trash can. I turn the knob until the water is as hot as I can handle. Brown tinted liquid runs down my body. "Are you still here?" I ask.

"I won't leave until you ask me to."

It takes ages to get the blood from my skin and even after I scrub it raw, I can still see the red tint. Brittany is waiting, facing the wall like she promised. I grab the towel she placed on the counter and wrap it around my body.

"Thank you," I mumble.

She faces me and nods toward the door. "Get dressed. You want a soda? Or something to eat?"

"I'll take a soda," I say.

I can't help but look at my collarbone in the mirror as I change. The stress is wearing me down. I look older, skinnier, and pale. I pull Brittany's sweatshirt and sweatpants on and open the door.

She's sitting on the couch with two glasses in her hand. I sit next to her and take the soda.

She takes a long drink of hers, Jack and coke, I'm assuming.

"So," I swirl the ice around in my cup, "Trevor wasn't the killer."

There's silence for a moment as Brittany lets it sink in.

The image of Trevor's cold eyes flashes through my head. He had been stabbed at least four times.

"Brittany," I rub my forehead, "we have to find Grace."

"We will," she says but she sounds different now. Unsure.