Chapter 8

I wake up to the blinding sun peeking through my window. 

“Good morning Sleepyhead!” Sings my mother. Wait, didn’t this happen already? The curtains are cracked wide open, letting sunlight flood my room. I sit up, too tired to speak. My mother senses something off. “What’s wrong, Clo? No sassy retort today?”

“I’m just tired. I’m gonna go to school.” I mumble. Or at least, I try to. She seems to understand whatever gibberish I said and she nods, moving to stand by the doorway, just shy of leaving. 

“Clo…”

“Hm…?” My tongue feels too heavy to speak. 

“…Don’t stay up so late…it’s not good for you…”

Fire erupts inside me. I’m livid, my entire body feels sharp and honed and in that moment, I lash out. 

“YOU’VE ALREADY SAID THAT!! WHAT ARE YOU, A DAMN NPC?!?” 

She takes this as me being my usual moody teenage self. Can’t she understand that something is wrong? Why does she keep saying that? It’s so annoying. I wish she would stop saying the same thing. If she’s so worried, why doesn’t she ask me what’s wrong?

“Okay, okay, I get it, Clo. You don’t feel like talking today. Just…have a good day at school, okay? It’s Friday; cheer up!”

“Sure, another Friday,” I bumble blindly down the steps. “’M going to Myo’s house.” 

“Clover! Your school backpack!” 

“Don’ need it.” I return. 

My mother watches helplessly as I stuff my shoes on and venture into the chilly morning in nothing but a t-shirt and shorts.

I almost feel guilty for it. But I don’t. I’m too selfish for that.

Myo’s house is farther from my house than the school. It’s a forty-five minutes walk.

The weather gets to me, it’s cooler than I remember. The cold sinks into my skin and leaves my fingertips pink and my cheeks wind-bitten. Okay, the sky is definitely getting darker. It’s a dark, graphite gray, warning of rain. I swear I feel a few icy droplets on my neck, but I think I’m just imagining it. I don’t think I can trust myself anymore.

Am I just imagining it, or does Myo’s house seem darker than usual? The curtains are drawn black, every single one is closed. Very unusual. It’s oddly quiet, too. 

The well-hidden dirt path that leads to the back door is grown over, little blue blossoms creep across it, nearly erasing it from sight. I find the door through muscle-memory alone. It’s always unlocked on Fridays, as I mentioned before. Wait, when did I mention it…? Better not dwell on it before I confuse myself. 

I don’t recall there being so many tiny blossoms planted over the once pristine grass lawn before. Maybe they were planted yesterday? They’ve crawled up and up, around the doorframe.

That day, January 4th, holds no significance to me. I think.

I’m not too sure, thinking back on it.

Back to the current topic—the door. It’s locked. Strangely, as I expected. Maybe my watch was just off? But my mother…she thought it was a school day…

I pull the spare from my necklace—it only holds two charms, a small blossom encased in glass, white with a full head of petals, hints of pink crawling up from the bottom—a clover bloom—and Myo’s keys. 

The door unlocks easily. I shut it gently behind me, the darkness makes me blind. It barely takes me a second to find the familiar switch. 

Then, the hallway. Up a flight of stairs, left, down the hallway, the door on the left. I’ve memorized the map since the second time I’d been to her house. I pause at the door. It’s decorated in all the flavors of Myo’s personality. The wood is pink, worn from years of use and disrepair. A bit of the original wood color peeks from beneath peeling paint. A wooden sign hangs from the door, “MYO” in huge, wobbly letters. I remember when we made those signs in kindergarten. Mine is locked away in a trunk somewhere. I’m almost jealous she found a use for hers. Unicorn and cat stickers litter the door, some even creeping onto the doorframe. Two drawings are sloppily taped below the sign, with the telltale shakiness of a young child. 

I recognize them both. One of them is mine. The other, hers. She still kept them, after all these years. 

“Clover! What are you doing?!” Myo runs up to me catching my hand and snatching the paper from my fingers. 

“Hey!” I cry, “give it back!”

“No! You were gonna throw it out!” Myo shouts back. She takes the paper, and gently, carefully, without leaving any creases or tears on it, slides it into her homework folder. “I’ll keep it for you, since you don’t want it. And I’ll give it back to you when we’re grown-ups, okay?”

Unable to find any argument to her faultless plan, I agree. 

“Fine…” 

We were six. Barely in elementary school. My sloppy drawing of my old childhood cat. “Who’s your best friend in the world?” Said the paper at the top, in the teacher’s neat handwriting. The cat was a lumpy creature with two pointed horns sprouting from its head. It had a smiling face, “w” mouth, and happy, closed eyes. 

Myo had drawn me.

An illustration capturing my messy, ruffled hair and my favorite t-shirt. The skill difference was distinct. Even without her shaky signature at the bottom, I would have been able to identify them immediately. 

I grab the handle of her door. Then I twist and push. I peek inside.