47

                                    

                                          
(Holy buffalo nuggets get well soon Dylan O'Brien bb. Don't worry guys he has to. He can't miss our wedding :) )
                          
t's just after four o'clock, and since I know my dad isn't home yet and Mom's not answering the phone, I decide to go to Knead.
                          
Chase's there.
                          
He's teaching a group from the senior center. There's a frail, pink-haired lady painting a giant, boob-shaped mug for her boyfriend, one in which you actually drink from the nipple.
                          
I can't decide what's weirder, the fact that an eighty-year-old woman is painting it, or that she's chosen a bright blue base color with red and white stripes for the accent, as if it were some celebration of America. 
                          
Either way, it makes me laugh, which is exactly what I need right now. I rub my wrist, still red from Zayn's grip, and then unravel my clay car from its plastic covering, eager to get to work.
                          
"I'm glad to see you still working at this," Chase says, standing right in front of me now. "I'm determined to get it right."
                          
"I know how that feels. Sometimes my work keeps me up at night . I feel guilty just going to bed, sort of like I'm abandoning a friend in crisis." I nod, anxious to see what becomes of my piece, to surrender myself to the power of touch, as ironic as that sounds.
                          
Chase lingers a moment, watching as I moisten the clay's surface with a sponge and then carve out an opening for a door. 
                          
"I have a feeling this is going to be your most intriguing piece yet, or at least the one with the biggest pulse." He smiles. I smile, too, continuing to work my fingers along the car's exterior.
                          
While he resumes his class, I create a bumper and fine-tune a tailpipe. 
                          
Then I close my eyes and concentrate on the power of touch and where it can lead me. I smooth my fingers over the clay, making the passenger-side door of my car sculpture open wide.
                          
I spend several minutes adding a dent to the fender and a gash to the grill, and then I put a bunch of holes into the side for no other reason than that I feel they belong there. 
                          
More than two hours later, even after Chase leaves and turns the CLOSED sign toward the street, I continue to work, conscious that time is running out and I need to get home.
                          
My dad will be looking for me. I start to put everything away , catching a glimpse of the pinecone sculpture Zayn and I made together. 
                          
I start to pick it up, but the door chimes sound, startling me. It's Harry. "Hey," he says, all out of breath.
                          
"I had a feeling I'd find you here." I look back toward the door, surprised Chase didn't lock it on his way out. 
                          
"Is something wrong?" His face is pale and sweaty.
                          
"It's Zayn," he says.
                          
"What's Zayn?"
                          
"He had an accident. He dumped his bike."
                          
"What do you mean?"
                          
"I mean, the guy went ballistic and started drag racing me down by the lake. I didn't even want to, but he started tailing me, getting right up on my ass. He even put a dent in my door."
                          
"Wait, what?"
                          
"You need to come with me. You're the only one he'll listen to.""Is he okay?" Harry shakes his head and looks toward the door. His car is parked right outside, under the streetlamp.
                          
Without further questions, I grab my jacket and lock the studio up behind me. "Where is he now?" I ask, once we start driving.
                          
Harry turns the radio up, some heavy metal song, and then takes a bunch of turns, leading us onto the main drag.