What You Don't Know

"Ty! Is everything alright? Sweetie?" my mom calls from the other side of my bedroom door, "Can I come in, Ty?"
I sigh. I don't know if I should let her know what happened today. Maybe, I'll just tell her I had a bad day. "I have perogies," she tries to reason with my silence. I didn't come down for dinner. "You can come in, Mom," I reluctantly reply. I really want those perogies though. "Are you okay? You didn't come down for dinner tonight. Anything with the hockey team? Academics?...Girls?" she presses, and I know she's talking about Lani.
"No, I'm just frustrated with everything. It's nothing. Just everything happened all at once. I hate it."
"I'm sorry, hun. Do you want the perogies?"
"When would I ever say no to that question?"
She gives one of her signature, true laughs, "Well, I'm glad you still like my cooking. Maggie doesn't seem to fond of it right now. I had to feed her overcooked pasta three nights in a row now."
"She's a picky eater anyways. You expect her to eat stuff now."
We both laugh and hear Maggie trudging down the hallway. "MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!" she whines.
"Duty calls," my mom shrugs and hands me the plate of perogies. She walks out of my room and into Maggie who cries about something at her, "Don't worry. I'll close your door."
"Thanks, mah," I saw back and start eating my perogies while listening to music and doing my homework.
I open up my emails on my computer while procrastinating writing my essay. Ten emails. Dammit. I read down the list of places and people that have emailed me: Boston University, Boston College, University of Maine, Owen Spezza, Grace Johnson, University of- GRACIE.. How did she get my email? Before I realize it, I've opened her email addressed: Project. Her email reads:
Hi, Ty. I just wanted to know what time you could possibly come over to help with the project's aesthetics. I'm free this weekend. I know you have a game Saturday at noon and practice Sunday morning. I looked at Brettly's schedule. Oh, by the way, that's how I find your email. I had no other way to contact you since I got rid of my social networking page. Please don't be creeped out. Anyways, if you could message me back that'd be great. Do you want to trade cell phone numbers? -Gracie
I can't believe she actually emailed me. She seems so shy and demure. I wouldn't have expected her to go searching for something like that. She is a bag of surprises. My message back to her reads:
I think Saturday evening and/or Sunday after my practice would be fine. You could come over my house...if you want. Or we can do my house one day and yours the other. Just text me your thoughts. The number is 617-555-2735.
I hit 'Send'. I wonder when Gracie will read my email. Hers was sent not too long ago. Maybe she'll text me to interrupt this painfully boring essay project from Mr. Banksler. I've never thought about Gracie having my number. My email maybe but not my number. I would''ve liked to have had it when she was struggling. I would've let her confide in me. I know she is better. I'm not sure if she's completely healed, but I like hanging out with her now. And against everything Brettly wants for her, I want to delve deeper into her. Everything about her. If I can get close enough to her, I can get my hands on her curves. I just want to get my lips on her. I want to know her reactions. What she likes. What she despises. Everything about her and her body.
SHIT. What the hell am I talking about? I can't do that. I can't become like that to her. I told her that I wasn't into just sex and intimacy like that. Shit, I need to take a break. Maybe this fucking essay will cure the thing that I wanted to take me away from this damn thing. I think I'm going cra-BING! My phone sounds to an incoming text. It's a cell number I don't know. When I open it, I realize that it's Gracie: Hey, how about we do Saturday evening at your house and Sunday afternoon at mine?
That sounds great for me. So I text her back: That works well for me. My mom is cooking her famous pasta and meatballs on Saturday, and she'll be happy to have another person to assure her that she's an awesome domestic chef.
A few seconds later I hear the bing again. Her text reads: YUM! I can't wait. I'll see you in school tomorrow in second period study.
I text back: Have a good night, Gracie. See yah tomorrow.
Dear god, I'm nervous. What did I just do? I need to take a break. I fall back on my bed, grab a perogy, and begin eating.
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BOOM! I hear the loudest noise I've ever heard. I shoot up from my bed. "TY!" I hear my mom's yell. I open my door and run down the hall to Maggie's room. I find my mom huddled around Maggie's body on the floor. There's a steady stream of blood coming out of Maggie's thigh while she screams. "CALL 911, NOW!" I don't hesitate. I grab Maggie's cell phone on her bed. When it's starts ringing that's when I look up and see Maggie's shattered window. "911, what's your emergency?"
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There's flashing lights in front of my house. Maggie was shot by a stray shotgun bullet. The police caught the offender in the woods behind our house within minutes of arriving. The stupid idiot didn't run. He said he was shooting a fucking deer, but he shot my sister instead. My mom has headed off in the ambulance with my sister. They're heading to Children's Hospital in Boston. The police are collecting evidence from Maggie's room, the backyard, and the forest. "Tyler?" a police officer asks. "It's Ty, officer," I inform him. "Ty, you're in luck. My brother installs windows and has an extra that is by chance your house's window size. He just arrived with it. May he put it in?" the officer asks calmly with a glint of sympathy in his eyes.
"Go right ahead. I can pay him-" the police officer cuts me off.
"No charge. At least not until this whole thing is over."
"Thanks," I shake his hand and wave to his brother and yell 'thank you' to him as he walks int he door and goes up the stairs.
The police officer walks out. I walk into the kitchen, grab a smoothie out of the fridge, and wait for everyone to be gone so I can go see my mom and Maggie. This is certainly going to be a long night especially a long night of worrying about Maggie.