October 25th, 2008
Toby, again
My eyes shoot open. I glance around the dark room. JerryAnn’s bed is unmade, and light seeps from the bottom of the closed bathroom door. My heart beats a heavy conga line in my chest. I jerk upright. I slept at JerryAnn’s last night. My watch says it’s almost eight.
A shadow passes under the bathroom door, and water gushes from a bathtub faucet then transfers up to a showerhead. She’s getting in the shower, and if she showers like most people, that means she’s naked. I lean forward until the chair screams, then lands with a bang, and an empty mug falls off my lap onto the carpet.
I’ve got to get out of here. The blanket JerryAnn must have covered me with falls to the floor. I pick up the mug and blanket and place them on the stool, then grab Gordita who’s in front of the bathroom door licking herself. I run for the door, unlock it, and swing it open then stand in the frame, frozen, while a crowd of people in the parking lot point and stare at me. Am I dreaming?
My face flushes with shame, but why? Sleeping is not a crime.
By following the eyes, pointing fingers, and stares of the crowd, I determine they’re not looking at me, but something above me. I slip out of JerryAnn’s apartment, close the door behind me, shuffle to my car, and sit low in the driver’s seat with Gordita in my lap. I can’t back out—several people stand behind my car, and two of them are Cate and her Mom gawking at the hot air balloon on top of their apartment building. Did Cate and Natalie see me?
My heartbeat goes from a conga to a salsa as Cate and her Mom walk toward me. I pet Gordita, holding my breath, waiting for Cate to knock on the glass of the window, but she and Natalie walk past without noticing. My breathing doesn’t return to normal until they’re in their apartment with the door closed. They didn’t see me leave. They’ve never seen Mom’s Buick and would never suspect I spent the night at JerryAnn’s.
I spent the night with JerryAnn! I promised Rose I'd distance myself from JerryAnn, not sleepover at her apartment. I hit my forehead on the steering wheel. “I’m an idiot.” Gordita scratches my hand as I toss her in the backseat, but as I start up the Buick and back out, an idea forms.