Some Quiet Place

eyes look droopy and hopelessly sad. “Well, hello to you too, bitch,” she says wryly. “I can tell you missed me.”
    I know she’ll be hurt if I don’t reassure her. “Of course I’m glad to see you,” I intone, failing to correct the pitch of my voice before the words come out. “It’s been a long time,” I add, forcing a note of sincerity into the words now. I move forward and hug her. She’s like a bag of bones in my arms.
    I step back to get a look at Maggie’s clothing; her choices seem to be getting more drastic. Today she’s wearing fishnet tights and a short skirt, complete with a chain clinking against her thigh. Her feet are covered by thick leather boots that are way too big. Velvet gloves adorn her arms to hide those jutting, pale hands. Her top … there isn’t much of a top to speak of. But she’s so flat-chested that the low neckline is a bit pointless.
    “Aren’t you going to ask?” Maggie pulls away. I don’t respond, offering her a slight shrug. This girl who I call my friend slings her arm around my shoulders, steering me to the front doors. Even sick as she is, her grip is tight. “How I escaped from the asylum?” she presses. Her term for the hospital.
    We’re drawing stares from others. I meet the gaze of Tyler Bentley, the star quarterback on the team. He barely notices me, but he’s looking at Maggie unabashedly. What is she doing here? I see him mouth. He doesn’t understand. None of them do. They think Maggie is an addict, and she lets them believe it. She even encourages it. She doesn’t want anyone to know the truth, because she doesn’t want to be pitied.
    “Maybe you should go back to the hospital,” I say to her now. A friend should be concerned, and Maggie is deep into the cancer, reason enough for worry. Just getting out of bed is probably too much for her.
    “So when do I get to see it?” she asks, ignoring me. She’s always been like this, jumping from one topic to another. Her lip ring glints.
    “See what?”
    “Hey, guys, wait up!”
    Maggie turns quickly, her expression lighting up. The boy who called out runs toward us, then brushes past, heading for his friends a few feet ahead. I watch Maggie’s face fall. I’m not enough for her. She needs more. I know this. And yet where there should be remorse, regret, longing, grief, there is, of course, only me. The black hole, the white canvas, the empty room.
    Maggie is already recovering, and she links her arm through mine as we navigate the halls of Edson High. I sidestep what looks like a puddle of soda. “I want to see your newest painting,” she asserts. “What are you working on?”
    The bell rings overhead. “We’d better go to class,” I tell her. She nods, not bothering to force another smile or say goodbye. She’s already dwindling.
    When the second bell sounds out—last chance to get to class—I stand by my locker and watch Maggie walk away, her tread trembling and uncertain. She’ll be going back to the hospital in less than an hour, no doubt. I may be able to understand human nature, and Maggie is stubborn enough to always get her way, but at this moment I can’t fathom what her parents were thinking this morning when they let her come back to school.
    “Elizabeth Caldwell!” a teacher says sharply as she rushes by. I glance at her and wave, but we both know I’m going to be late again. I gather the materials for class, keeping one eye on Maggie making her way down the hall. In a moment, she’ll turn a corner and be gone from sight, probably the last time I’ll see her in a while.
    I’m still there when she falls.
    I hesitate for just an instant. I really should get to first period. That’s not a normal reaction , instinct nudges. Realizing this, I drop everything and run. The doors and posters on either side of me are blurs. When I reach Maggie’s side I go down to my knees, shake her shoulder.
    Her skin has a more pronounced sickly tint, and her eyes don’t even flutter as I say her name. Her pulse is slow and faint. I lift my head. There’s no one else around but a skinny boy, and he stares at us dumbly. “Call an ambulance,” I order him. He fumbles around in his pockets and I turn my attention back to Maggie. It looks like she’s not breathing. I check her pulse again just to make sure she’s still alive.
    It takes five minutes for the ambulance to arrive, and when the paramedics burst around the corner and spot us, they put a mask over Maggie’s face.