Fangirl

or the place for this,” Laura said softly, steadily, tugging on her handbag. “I’ll talk to Wren later. I’d love to talk to you later, too. I’d love to talk to you, Cather—but I don’t belong here right now.”
    Cath shook her head. “Now is all you get,” she spat out, wishing she could make more sense. Wishing for more words, or better ones. “Now is all you ever get.”
    Laura lifted her chin and flicked her hair away from her face. She wasn’t listening anymore. She was the Cool One. “I don’t belong here,” she said again. “I won’t intrude like this.”
    And then she walked away. Shoulders back, hips swaying.
     
    He’d have to tell the Mage what he saw.
    I’ve finally seen the Humdrum, sir. I know what we’re fighting—me.
    “What’s left of you,” the monster had said.
    What is left of me? Simon wondered. A ghost? A hole? An echo?
    An angry little boy with nervous hands?

    —from chapter 24, Simon Snow and the Seventh Oak, copyright © 2010 by Gemma T. Leslie

 
    TWENTY-NINE
    It was another hour before the nurse came back. Cath drank her bottled water. She wiped her face in her shirt. She thought about how much nicer this waiting room was than the one at St. Richard’s. She tried to mess with her phone, but it was dead.
    When the nurse came out, Cath stood up. “Are you here for Wren Avery?”
    Cath nodded.
    “You can come back now. Do you want to wait for your mom?”
    Cath shook her head.
    *   *   *
    Wren was in a room by herself. It was dark, and her eyes were closed. Cath couldn’t tell if she was sleeping.
    “Do I need to watch for anything?” Cath asked the nurse.
    “No, she’s just resting now.”
    “Our dad will be here soon,” Cath said.
    “Okay. We’ll send him back.”
    Cath sat down slowly, quietly, in the chair by Wren’s bed. Wren looked pale. She had a dark spot, maybe a bruise, on her cheek. Her hair was longer than it had been at Christmas, hanging over her eyes and curling at her neck. Cath pushed it back.
    “I’m awake, you know,” Wren whispered.
    “Are you still drunk?”
    “A little. Muzzy.”
    Cath tucked Wren’s hair back again in a soothing gesture. Soothing for Cath, anyway. “What happened?”
    “Don’t remember.”
    “Who brought you in?”
    Wren shrugged. There was an IV in her arm and something taped to her index finger. Up close, she smelled like puke. And like Wren—like Tide and Marc Jacobs Lola.
    “Are you okay?”
    “Muzzy,” she said. “Sick.”
    “Dad’s coming.”
    Wren groaned.
    Cath folded her arms on the edge of the mattress and laid her head down, exhaling. “I’m glad they brought you in,” she said, “whoever it was who brought you in. I’m … sorry.”
    That I wasn’t there, that you didn’t want me there, that I wouldn’t have known how to stop you anyway.
    Now that she was with Wren and Wren was okay, Cath realized how exhausted she was. She shoved her glasses into her coat pocket and laid her head back down. She was just drifting off—or maybe she’d just drifted off—when she heard Wren whimper. Cath lifted her head. Wren was crying. Her eyes were closed, and tears were running down into her hair. Cath could almost feel the tickle. “What’s wrong?”
    Wren shook her head. Cath wiped Wren’s tears away with her fingers, and wiped her fingers on her shirt.
    “Should I get the nurse?”
    Wren shook her head again and started shifting in the bed. “Here,” she said, making room.
    “Are you sure?” Cath asked. “I don’t want to be the reason you choke on your own vomit.”
    “None left,” Wren whispered.
    Cath kicked off her boots and climbed up over the railing, lying down in the space Wren had cleared for her. She put her arm carefully under Wren’s neck. “Here,” Cath said.
    Wren curled against her with her head on Cath’s shoulder. Cath tried to untangle the tubes around Wren’s arm, then held her hand tightly. It was sticky.
    Wren’s shoulders were still shaking.
    “It’s okay,” Cath said. “It’s okay.”
    Cath tried not to fall asleep until Wren did, but it was dark, and she was tired, and everything was blurry.
    *   *   *
    “Oh, God,” she heard their dad say. “Oh, Wren. Baby.”
    Cath opened her eyes, and her dad was leaning over them both, kissing both of their foreheads. Cath sat up carefully.
    Wren’s eyes were crusty and puffy, but open.
    Their dad stood back and put his hand on Wren’s cheek. “Jesus Christ,” he said, shaking his