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Dangerous Girls by Haas Abigail

Dangerous Girls by Haas Abigail

Author:Haas, Abigail [Haas, Abigail]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse
Published: 2013-07-16T00:00:00+00:00


WAITING

The days pass slowly in prison, a repeating parade of early-morning wake-up calls, bland meals on plastic trays, and those few precious hours out in the exercise yard, pacing under the endless blue skies. I feel every moment of it at first, trapped and claustrophobic, like the cell walls are closing in on me, about to smother and crush me for good. I find it hard to sleep, or eat, and every time I hear footsteps approaching, I can’t stop my heart from leaping, a fierce flutter of hope in my chest. They’ve come for me. I can go home. It’s all over.

But it never is.

In the end, I can’t take the heartbreak of disappointment anymore, I decide. Nobody’s coming to save me. Although Dad tells me to stay positive, and keep hope alive, I know the truth he can’t bring himself to tell me yet: There will be no late breakthrough miracle, no last-minute reprieve. I’m going to stand trial for Elise’s murder, and now there’s nothing I can do but wait.

In a way, it’s easier once I let go of that daydream. I’m not suspended in hopeful limbo, waking up every day rich with the possibility of freedom—and the hollow weight of disappointment when the lights-out buzzer goes off, and the cell doors slam shut again each night. I have the trial to hold onto now: my light on the horizon. When we’re in court, when we can shut down whatever evidence Dekker thinks he has—the blood smears, and the knife, and the necklace—then this will all be over. I’ll be found innocent. I can go home.

Until then, I just have to stay strong, and wait.

So the days pass. One hundred. One hundred and sixteen. A hundred and forty seven. Mostly, I remember—lying on the narrow bunk in my cell, letting the time drift by as I sink beneath the cool surface of the past. I start at the beginning, the day I met Elise in gym class, and slowly work forward, through school and Tate and the arrival of Chelsea and the others. I play out every conversation, every kiss, like a scene from the movie of somebody else’s life. Except I feel it. Hard, and sharp, and slicing with the deep ache of nostalgia, a longing for the time that’s gone now and I’ll never get back. All the brief moments I took for granted—the afternoons spent slouched, bored, doodling song lyrics in her notebook in the back of history class; the coffee breaks we spent hunched over mocha whip lattes at Luna, and idle free periods window-shopping on Newbury Street. Elise and I, arms linked, limbs intertwined. Dyed streaks in our hair, matching pendants at our necks. Laughter in our souls.

I look for reasons, and answers, for hints and warning signs. I take our final moments on the island apart and spread them flat, like a prospector hunting for the glint of gold in the murky dust of the riverbed. Sometimes, I think I see something: a glance, a worried note in her voice.



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