#23

Sunday.

I hate pancakes. I mean, I do now. Because I had to sit at our freakin dining room table and eat blueberry pancakes with the six people I hate more than anyone else in the world.

That isn’t very nice. But it’s true! So given all the exercise I got on Friday, Saturday was a wash of pain and ice packs. I swear, I only left my room to go to the bathroom. Mom was all fussy and threatening to call the doctor if the swelling didn’t go down and whatnot, but I bet she was really relieved to have an excuse to keep coming upstairs, because James’ dumb friends ended up staying ALL DAY. I asked Mom why and she just shook her head and went to get me a new ice pack. But something’s wrong.

So I laid there on my bed feeling like an idiot while the boys Haloed it up in my brother’s bedroom, and for once I did all the homework I was supposed to. Aspirin does good things for my concentration, surprisingly.

Okay, so pancakes.

I wake up this morning–and it’s Sunday, right?– because Mom’s calling me from downstairs. My leg is feeling infinitely better after a day of rest, and I bound down the stairs with a cheery shriek of approval (I love used to love pancakes a whole lot) and then freeze when I get to the bottom because the BOYS ARE STILL THERE.

They’re all sitting together around my dining room table like a happy little family, and they’re all staring at me like I sprouted a third nipple, and only then do I realize that I’m NOT WEARING A BRA.

So, yeah. Ten minutes later I’m back downstairs, dressed, and breakfast is this totally awkward event where the guys are trying to pretend that they didn’t just see me in my unbuffered tank top while I do my best to eat ROUND pancakes without breaking into tears.

I sat next to James and Dad, and if you thought the pancakes were the worst that could happen, you’re totally wrong. My dad, as usual, is reading the paper. I peek over to avoid eye contact with Van across the table and see a double row of pictures on the front page with the big number FIVE in all caps across the top.

The syrup in my mouth tasted like blood.

“Five?” I couldn’t help it, and the table went dead silent. Even Mom stopped moving around in the kitchen.

“We don’t need to discuss this at the table,” Dad says all reproachfully. But I can’t keep it in.

“But it was only three last week!” I blurt, and I see James look up at Aaron across the table and then at me.

“You’re keeping track, Fleet? Isn’t that kind of creepy?” And I got so mad, so totally blueberry-pancake-tasting mad that I stand up so hard my chair falls down behind me.

“There are girls disappearing, James,” I say, and I swear I scared myself with my voice. “Why aren’t you worried?”

I didn’t wait to get sent to my room. I just laid down on my bed and cried until I fell asleep.