Chapter 1
She’s dead.
Sara is dead and it’s my fault.
She didn’t die because of her parents, or the screaming girl inside her head that wanted to get out, she died because of me.
I didn’t answer her urgent phone calls or text messages. Sara died because I didn’t pick up the damn phone.
My mother clicks buttons on her Blackberry. She scowls at a few things as her fingers tap on the keyboard.
I cautiously tiptoe into the room.
“Ali, your father just called me again. Can you just call him back or something?"
“Okay,” I go to the table and pick up the telephone receiver. The cord snakes around my body as I dial my father’s number.
“Hello?” a woman answers.
“Um, hey, Cathy... it’s Ali. Is dad home?” I ask.
There’s a beat of silence. “Hang on a sec, Ali.”
My father’s voice cuts in. “Hi, honey.”
“Hi,” I whisper.
“We’re sorry about Sara, dear. We saw the paper.” He says. “We’re here for you.”
“It’s okay,” I try. “We weren’t that close. I’m not upset.”
“It’s a lie, and you know it. My death is killing you.” Sara says.
“I... dad... I have to go.” I cut him off. I hang up before he can reply.
Mom slips her phone into the pocket of her blazer. She clears her throat before she speaks. “That wasn’t very nice, Alison...”
I roll my eyes. “I know.”
“Dinner will be ready soon,” She says. “Go do your homework while I’m cooking.”
I scowl before stomping upstairs. As I pass the threshold of my room, a wave of shock washes over me.
She’s dead, and it was my fault. She’ll never speak again, she’ll never sing in the shower again. Sara and I will never have a chance to fix up our friendship.
I let her die. I let her die because my stupid cell phone was driving me crazy and I didn’t want to answer it.
And I don’t even know if she was sincere about the phone calls, or if she was drunk-dialling, or if she might’ve been actually trying to sucker me back into being her friend, even though everything that happened was all her fault.
My cell phone is lying on the floor, right underneath the indent it made when I threw it at the wall last night.
I carefully pick it up, and open it. 30 MISSED ALERTS the screen says. I inhale sharply and click VIEW.
Thirty missed messages and phone calls from Sara, starting at 3.18 AM on Monday.
I click CHECK ALERTS and hold my breath as I force myself to listen to the voice of my dead, ex-best friend.
3:18 AM: “I hope this is the right number...” a pause. “It’s me, Sara. Listen, Ali... if you get this, can you call me? I need to talk to you.”
3:23 AM: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do those things. I... can you call me, or text me, please?”
3:30 AM: “Al, I miss you. I’m sorry I was so bitchy.”
3:33 AM, her voice is starting to thicken and slur: “I miss you. Miss you so much... Call me and come find me. We can share this bottle—”
3:37 AM: “I don’t know where to go. I’m losing it. I almost... It won’t be long now, Alison.”
3:39 AM: “Alison Evans… I can’t wait until you see what you’ve done.”
I throw the phone at my closet doors so hard that it nearly shatters.
I don’t think I want to go to her funeral.
