My heart is pounding so violently that my ribs ache.
I whip my head to the right and see a twin-size bed a few feet away, pushed up against another white wall, this one decorated with a framed black-and-white photograph of the Seattle Space Needle. The bed is unmade and its flowered sheets look slept in, and the clock on the windowsill next to it is blinking 12:00. There is no sign of the bed’s owner.
Where am I?
I scan the rest of the small room: two identical desks, two identical dressers, two closed doors. I wonder briefly if I could be in prison before deciding that flowered sheets and arty photographs probably aren't government-issue. My mind careens through a parade of other horrible possibilities. Maybe those two doors are locked. Maybe I was drugged and kidnapped, and this is where my captors have been holding me. I think back to last night. Did I remember to dead-bolt my door? The flannel pants and gray Brookside Cross-Country T-shirt I'm wearing are mine, but I don't remember having brought them to L.A. with me, and I definitely wasn't wearing them last night. I never changed out of my pajama-dress. What the hell is going on?
There are voices outside. People talking. Someone laughing. I get out of bed and move toward the window, which, to my relief, is not barred or locked but halfway open and clearly the source of both the sunlight and the icy air. I push the glass all the way up and stick my head out.
The window is on the second story of a U-shaped brick building, overlooking an enclosed courtyard. The voices I hear belong to a group of students, laden with backpacks and messenger bags, gathered around a wooden bench. The room, the building, the kids outside. This has to be a college campus. But where? This doesn't look anything like the pictures I've seen of UCLA or USC. And besides, the air feels much too cool for this to be Southern California. My fear turns into panic. I have to get out of here.
I walk to one of the doors, say a quick prayer that it’s not locked, and open it. It’s a closet. As I survey its contents, my forearms prickle with goose bumps. The clothes inside are mine.
On the other side of the other door is a short hallway leading to a small common room. I see the end of a green couch and the edge of a coffee table. An out-of-commissionfireplace that’s doubling as a pantry, stocked with a box of organic oatmeal, two bags of cinnamon soy crisps, and a jar of almond butter. A fancy-looking espresso machine on the floor. Purple Nikes by the door. And an ankle.
The ankle—attached to a small, delicate-looking, bare female foot—is suspended in the air, parallel to the ground, as if its owner is balancing on one leg. I take a step closer, trying to get a better glimpse of this person before she sees me.
“Abby?” The foot drops to the floor, and a pretty Asian girl comes into view. At first I think she’s younger than me, but then I realize that she’s just small. She can’t be more than five feet tall, but she looks strong. Her tiny, muscular body is in yoga pants and a tank top, and she’s standing on a yoga mat. When she sees me, she smiles. “I didn’t wake you, did I? I was trying to be quiet.”
I want to scream, WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT AM I DOING HERE???? But for some reason, I don't. I simply smile back and shake my head.
"Good," she replies, reaching for the bottle of water near her feet. "After last night, I figured you could use some sleep." Last night? She smiles again, bigger this time. "Happy birthday, roomie!"
My birthday. I'd forgotten. Which, considering the morning I've had, is not nearly as weird as the fact that this chick I've never seen before is calling me roomie. "Thanks."
Excerpt courtesy Harper Teen.
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