Though she tried to show a strong front, the reality was that each step away from the school made her cry that much more. She had no plan, yet her Chuck Taylor's took her unerringly from block to block, through the Commercial District, and finally to Main Street, which was lazy and quiet in waiting for the lunchtime rush that would begin the town-wide commerce for the day. She was breathing hard, really covering some ground, and it took her another ten minutes to realize that accident could be anywhere, maybe even in Tweedenton, the next town over. She would never stumble across the accident with the mystery Malibu.
So her feet led her away yet again, and Meagan was too numb to grasp the rudder, she trusted her feet to lead her to safety.
And they did.
When next she became aware, she was standing at her front door, head down and quietly weeping. She looked in the driveway and was unsurprised to see it empty. Mom's car was gone. Nevertheless, she pressed the doorbell and knocked heavily with a fist for her mother to open the door because she had left her keys in her locker back at school. After a few minutes of tearful pleading with the door to allow her access to her home, she set her jaw and walked around back.
To hell with it, I'll just kick in a window.
The entryway to the backside of the house was located on a colorfully decorated floral patio, and small frosted panes of glass went up alongside the door, just to the left of the door frame. Meagan found a rock roughly twice the size of her fist and swung it at the glass about waist height. She was surprised to learn that glass was far more difficult to break in real life than it was in the movies. Damn it, she swung again.
The same result, and then, sufficiently motivated by anger, she plunged both the rock and her fist through one of the panes, dropped the rock, and reached around to unlock the door. Once inside she called out for her mom, but didn't really wait for an answer; she knew there would be none. Besides, the house felt unusually still to her.
She glanced at the house phone on the way by, but there were no messages. Nobody used landlines anymore anyway. She continued up the stairs, to her bedroom, where she had left her cell phone charging and had forgotten to bring it with her to school this morning.
Her mind, for obvious reasons, had been elsewhere.
She unplugged her phone and saw she had eleven messages, which was weird. She rarely got eleven messages in one week, let alone overnight. After checking the numbers of all recent incoming calls however, she decided against calling her voicemail. None of the calls were from her mother, which meant they were all from kids at school, and she really didn't want to hear any of that kind of bullshit today. Maybe in time she might listen, but not today.
The wounds were still too raw and she was not yet strong enough to listen to childish teasing.
She thought about her next move as she knelt on the floor at the foot of her bed, but she couldn't think of anything. Her mind was an utter blank. She tried to stand, but her Chuck Taylor's abandoned her, as did her feet and the rest of her body. There was a physical POP inside her head and she felt like a robot who had just been given the order to power down. Her body had lost all its momentum, and all that was left for Meagan was to wrap herself in a little ball on her floor and cry.
After forty-five minutes of solid, meaningful blubbering, a little thought coated in black humor found its way into her brain. She stopped crying briefly and wiped her face with her shirt collar. Almost cheerfully she thought, And to think, this morning my biggest problem was being ostracised from my school-wide social circles just for something stupid I had written in my damned diary.
She jumped when the doorbell rang.