Forgotten

My stomach flutters.

“Good, glad we’re clear on that,” I say, turning to head up to my room, still holding his hand.

Behind me, Luke says, “I did tell my parents that I’m spending the night at Adam’s tonight.”

Halfway up the stairs, I halt, and turn to face him.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he says, looking a little devious.

“Where are you planning to sleep?”

“In the van.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t know if you’d be out for the night. You and Jamie could have made up or something; you could have gone to her house. I thought I might need to stalk you a little harder,” he says with a laugh.

A slow smile creeps across my face. The gesture is sweet: Luke risked getting in trouble with his parents and spending all night in his van just to try to win me back.

“Well, I’m sure my mom won’t be home for a while. At least you can stay in the warm house until she comes back.”

“Sounds good,” Luke says as I turn and finish the climb, pulling my delinquent boyfriend behind me to the top of the stairs, down the hallway, and into my bedroom, and shutting the door behind us.

31

“Where did you park?” I whisper with a sudden sense of urgency as I listen to the garage door open and close downstairs.

“Down the street; I was stalking you, remember?”

“Get in the closet,” I whisper back, making a snap decision that I hope I won’t regret later.

“Are you serious? I can just go,” he offers, but he’s moving toward the closet as he speaks.

“No, I want you to stay. But hurry up; my mom will be upstairs in a minute,” I say, simultaneously kicking a massive pile of notes under the bed and scanning the bedroom for any visible traces of boy.

I hear the sink running in the kitchen; she must be getting a glass of water. Glancing at the clock, I wonder whether my mom will think it’s weird if I’m asleep just after nine. Maybe. But I have no other way to get rid of her quickly, so I bolt across the room and throw myself under the covers. I try to breathe easier and look peaceful, even though my heart is racing.

Mom’s footsteps are growing louder, and with only seconds left, I whisper a barely audible “shhh” to Luke.

I can’t believe there’s a boy in my closet right now! What am I thinking?

No time to ponder my stupidity. The door opens slowly and I freeze. I’m facing the wall, but I keep my eyes closed anyway, just in case she rushes over to check whether I’m faking.

Highly unlikely.

“Night, London, I love you.” My mom’s whispered words float through the night air so softly that they’re barely there. Is this her nightly ritual? I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the deceit that’s happening under her nose.

Then again, she’s been deceiving me for years.

After the door quietly taps the frame and I hear my mom slowly release the handle; after her footsteps disappear into her own room; after the water rushes to wash toothpaste and face soap down the drain; after the TV in her room sounds; after that, I wait five more excruciatingly long minutes.

And then I tiptoe to the closet.

“Hi,” I whisper to Luke. It’s pitch-black. I can’t see anything.