Heartsick by Caitlin Sinead Read Free Book Online Page B

Mandy. Yes, Miracle Mandy. My best friend has garnered a nickname.
    This type of thing would never be covered where I’m from. But in Allan, things like oversized tomatoes, chili cook-offs and wine festivals with less than a hundred people clucking about how the zinfandel was really quite extraordinary this year are worthy of newspaper coverage. So I guess Miracle Mandy is too.
    Mandy has always been a quick healer. She got over the three-day flu that crept across campus two years ago simply by downing some Nyquil and sleeping in. Last year, after we slipped into each other during a paintball game, I had bruises for two weeks, while her skin was perfect per usual. But still, those cuts last night must have been much more blustery than I realized.
    There is one more text: I hope Mandy’s feeling okay. I just met her, but I can tell she’s got a fighting spirit.
    Luke.
    He doesn’t seem to understand he isn’t supposed to contact me for a few days. I wasn’t going to worry myself about him not calling me until Thursday. Him texting now takes all the fun out of it. And even more so because he isn’t just aimlessly checking in. There’s more to the text: Want to get dinner tonight?
    Tonight. This is too soon.
    I compare going home and making Pop-Tarts for dinner to getting something real to eat with Luke. Luke sipping a beer. Luke touching me. For some crazy reason I text back: Sure. Seven? Where do you want to go?
    Joe’s?
    Perfect.
    I head home. I need to clean the paint off me and see what the hell is going on with Mandy.
    As I walk up to my house, a woman gets out of a car across the street and slams the door. She pauses, staring at me. I give her the eye—you know, a squint with a stronger squint in the left eye—and continue on. As I turn up our steps, her high heels clamor across the road, clicking furiously until she jumps onto our raised lawn and gets in front of me.
    “Are you Quinn Bellingham?” she asks, catching her breath from that run and grasping her handbag.
    “Yes...” I say, nerves twitching under my skin.
    “I’m Samantha Beetle, from the
Allan Crier.
Do you have a moment?”
    “Not really,” I say as I stride to the left to get around her. But before I can move forward, she steps in my way. I look longingly at my door, over her shoulder, and notice a figure behind the tinted glass.
    “Were you with Mandy Malone last night when she was injured? Did you escort her to the hospital? Can you describe her injuries for me?” She clutches a tape recorder in her hand.
    “Well, I...” I don’t want to talk to this reporter. Media attention for Mandy would be bad. So I step to the right this time and dash forward, but the reporter is quick. I slam into her.
    “I’m sorry,” I mumble.
    She waves it away. “What happened exactly? How is Mandy feeling?”
    There’s more movement behind the door. Finally, I forget decorum and sprint to the left, jumping up the steps and barreling into the house and making quite an entrance.
    As the door squeals closed behind me, I recognize the figure I’d seen through the window. Zachary stands in the middle of the room, wringing his hands in a nervous rhythm, then putting them in the pockets of his khaki pants, before taking them out again for another round of hand wringing. “There’s a reporter outside,” he says, looking at me with sheepish, purple eyes.
    Purple.
    “Your eyes—” I say, shoulders shaking.
    “Yeah, we can talk about that later.” He wipes his hand in the air as though he’s waving away a problem. “What did she ask you? What did you say?”
    “Nothing.” I hope my tone conveys the bristling I feel. “What’s going on?”
    He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “We ran into Conrad today. He saw that Mandy’s arm is fine now and he started going crazy saying it was some sign of God, or God had blessed her, or...I don’t know. Something about God being good. He tweeted it, with pictures, and this reporter latched on