Something in the Way (Something in the Way 1)

“Take us to the station, Gary,” I said. “Please.”

“I can’t. Not only would it not help, but Manning specifically asked me to keep you two out of it.”

“But I’m his girlfriend,” Tiffany said.

“He’s trying to protect you.” He sniffed at us, his eyes roaming over our faces. We must’ve looked as bad as we felt, because he conceded, but not without an eye-roll. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll come back as soon as I can and check things out. Once everything at home is sorted, I’ll drive back up here on my own and make sure Manning’s all right.”

It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but I could see it was all we were going to get. It was better than Manning being alone. “Thanks,” we said.

“But I have one condition—relax. You girls are too young to worry about this sort of stuff. Actually, I have two conditions. Pack up your shit and get over to the buses now.” With a poor attempt at an angry-face, he turned and walked off.

Tiffany looked exhausted. I could tell she was thinking about leaving her stuff behind just so she could stop packing. Considering there were designer purses in there, she must’ve been desperate.

“I’ll sit on the bag, and you zip,” I said. “I’m heavier than you.” I might’ve been, if I’d had the boobs and butt she did, but it was exactly what she needed to hear. She inhaled a breath and stood so I could take her place. After wrestling with the zipper, she got the bag closed. Her face and eyes were red, her hairline sticky with sweat. I couldn’t help wondering what’d happened just now, before Gary’d interrupted us. Tiffany was clearly distraught. Was it possible she actually cared about Manning?

With that realization, a new fear settled over me. Not for Manning or even myself. If Tiffany found out I’d snuck off with her boyfriend, she’d be furious. Embarrassed. Hurt. What I’d done, I’d done without considering how it might affect my own sister. It’d been easy to convince myself it wouldn’t matter to her because she didn’t have real feelings for Manning. But did she?

“I’m sorry this week was so bad,” I said sincerely. “I’ll go to the mall with you when we get home and buy you something.”

She wiped her nose. “With what?”

“I have some allowance saved. Probably more than you.”

She turned around and climbed onto her bed to remove pictures of her and her friends she’d taped to the wall. “You know I can have almost anyone. Manning’s lucky I’m still around.”

I wasn’t sure where that was coming from, but there was only one way to answer that if I wanted to get out of here alive. “I know.” I waited for her to continue, but she just picked tape off the corners of the photographs. “Did something happen with him?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you thinking of breaking up with him?”

“Maybe.”

So many things ran through my mind at once. If they broke up, Manning would be out of her life. But would he then be out of mine, too? No. He and I had to find a way. We knew it’d come to this. It wasn’t as if I’d expected her to stay with Manning for two whole years until I turned eighteen.

“We’ll see how it goes if I pick him up,” she said.

I didn’t know which way to encourage her. It was a very real possibility that without Tiffany, Manning and I would be separated until I turned eighteen. That was two excruciating years away from him. But the thought of them together felt like having a piece of glass lodged in my chest—I couldn’t go very long without being reminded it was there.

Manning and I needed Tiffany, but at the same time, there was no denying—she was also something in the way.

25

Lake

By Tuesday morning, three long days since they’d taken Manning away, I could no longer handle doing nothing. This time next week, I’d be back in school, even more helpless than I already was.

I went through the bathroom, knocked on Tiffany’s door, and entered.

“Rude much?” she asked. Tiffany lay on her stomach, reading Cosmopolitan, blowing on her nails. A bottle of purple polish sat precariously on her white comforter. “I could’ve been naked.”

“I’ve seen you naked.”

“What do you want?”

Tiffany’s room was the personification of a rundown childhood. In elementary school, Mom had redecorated it with white wicker furniture, ruffled bedding, and pastel walls. She’d helped Tiffany and I paint tulips along the bottom. But as Tiffany had gotten older, she’d tacked concert posters around her bed. Paint chipped off the wicker desk where she’d thrown her phone at it. She’d glued pictures of celebrities to her vanity mirror. One tulip head had been covered with a glittery sticker that said “Goddess” and another with Daria’s face. Her shoe collection had overflown from the closet, floral Doc Martens sprouting from her plush, white carpet.