February 19, 2008

Sixteen, continued one last time

When Emily got home at eight am, she parked her bike in front of the cottage so her mom would see it and know she was back safely. The note was missing from her front door, and when she keyed in, yawning massively, she found it folded up and slipped under her door. Her mom had written something on the back, using her weird conception of how to communicate with a teenager:

Out at 2, not back by 7!? Pretty impressive, girlie. You just better be out there partying, not hanging out at that coffeehouse reading some dumb book. Don’t lie to me, I’ll totally know! LOL

Be home / awake by noon. Grandma wants to get into “flipping” real estate, and we’ve been drafted as her assistants today. Bummer, dude.


Email Clyde when you get home. You know how he worries.

Emily collapsed on her bed and, opening the MacBook on the night stand, sent her dad the shortest email possible.

To: Dad
Subject: Home

She closed the laptop and told herself to get up and change out of her dress or at least take it off, but she knew in her heart there was no way that would happen.

“One,” she said out loud.


“Three.” She waited for sleep to overtake her, but it didn’t work quite as well on her. Instead, she curled up around a pillow and ran her fingers along the stitches Michael had repaired earlier. She was asleep before her father even opened her email.

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