“OH MY GOSH! RYAN DEAN! Oh my gosh! Please be okay!”
I couldn’t move my arms and legs, and I had this dim, swirling vision of Sam Abernathy in his soccer pajamas, kneeling on my bed—my bed!—grabbing me by the shoulders, his face just inches above mine. He shook me, trying to wake me up or snap me out of whatever was happening to me.
“Ryan Dean!”
The Abernathy got off me and scampered across the floor to switch on the lights. Then he ran back and put his face up to mine.
“I’m going to call someone for help!”
“N-no. No.”
The fuzzy black fist that had closed around my field of vision began to loosen up. I tried to take a deep breath, tried to will my heart to slow down. I managed to get my hands to my face. It was wet. I had been crying. I had been crying in front of the Abernathy. Nothing—not even waking up in the middle of a photo shoot in my underwear with inflatable Mabel—could ever be more humiliating than crying in front of the Abernathy.
I wadded my sheets in my hands and wiped my face.
The Abernathy kneeled on my bed next to me. I also never wanted to be in the same bed as the Abernathy. I kept my face covered. This was worse than anything.
“Are you okay, Ryan Dean? You screamed. It really scared me. Are you okay?”
“Get off my bed. This didn’t happen. Get off me. I’m fine.”
Then I blindly pushed the kid away from me, and Sam Abernathy fell hard against my desk chair. It sounded like it hurt him. I was sure it did.
I got out of bed and stepped over the Abernathy, who was rubbing his head. Then I pulled on some pants and a sweatshirt and slipped my bare feet into my sneakers. I ran out of the room.
It was two in the morning.
I ran, and the farther away I got, the more disgusted with myself and scared I became.