The Detour Read Online Free

out, “Mama! Oh-liv-ee-ah is awake.”
    I wanted so badly to reach up and smack my name off her lips, tell her never to say it again. But all I could do was lie there, bracing myself until the wave of agony receded enough that I could start breathing again.
    Footsteps neared and Mrs. Daryl Dixon walked into the room, holding a plate of noodles and marinara sauce and a slice of garlic bread. She smiled. “Well, good. Just in time for dinner.”
    Through gritted teeth, I said, “I need medical attention, not spaghetti.”
    She tilted her head slightly. “But you must be hungry.”
    Let this be a dream . I shut my eyes. Let it be some stupid dream.
    Then the stench of garlic again, as Flute Girl’s breath puffed on my face.
    â€œGet away.”
    I opened my eyes. Flute Girl sidled away from me, like one of those weird slack-limbed creatures in a horror movie, her pigtails swinging from side to side as her skinny arms and legs drove her backward. Really, it wasn’t much of a stretch to envision that pint-sized asshat as a spawn of evil, come to kill us all.
    Mrs. Dixon set the plate down and stood above me, looking down. Her hair fell around her face as she shook her head. “You probably shouldn’t try to get up on your own.” She looked at her daughter. “Help me get her back in bed.”
    Mrs. Dixon reached for my good arm as Flute Girl headed for my bad one.
    â€œNo!” I straightened out my right arm and thrust my palm at her. “Don’t! Not the bad side—please!”
    Flute Girl didn’t listen. Instead, she gripped my bad arm with both her grimy hands and twisted.
    The pain was a sharp knife slicing through my shoulder. I screamed and tried to hit Flute Girl with my other arm, but her mother already had a firm hold on it. So I kicked out with my legs, which did nothing but make the pain worse. They dragged me off the floor by my arms as I screamed.
    Flute Girl backed up onto the bed, still wrenching my shoulder.
    â€œStop it! You’re hurting me!” I began to dissolve into ugly crying. “Stop! Oh please, stop!”
    Flute Girl finally let go, and Mrs. Dixon shoved me so that I found myself facedown on the bed, my bad shoulder twisted under me. I bawled at the pain, unable to move. Tears mixed with snot smeared onto the bed.
    I gathered all the strength I had left and pushed off with my good arm, until I was lying flat on my back. Then I maneuvered until my bad shoulder was in the air, as close to elevating it as I could get.
    The sobs took away my breath, and between gasps I said, “You’ve got to get me to a hospital.” At first I wondered if they had even heard me. Are they gone?
    I rolled my head to the side. Both of them still stood there, watching me.
    Flute Girl wrinkled her nose. “Her face is a mess.”
    Mrs. Dixon walked over to the desk and brought back a box of tissues. She pushed it at me. “Here. Clean yourself up.” Then she took Flute Girl’s hand and led her to the door. Flute Girl walked through, but her mother turned back to me. “Maybe you’ll be hungry for breakfast.” Then she picked up the plate of spaghetti and shut the door after her.
    Click!
    I lay there, sobbing, until the only sounds coming out of me were ragged sighs. My God, I was in a freaking Stephen King novel. Only in Misery , Annie Wilkes gave the dude painkillers.
    I reached for the tissue and blew my nose with one hand as best as I could. I didn’t plan on hanging around long enough to let Mrs. Dixon start hacking off any of my extremities, that was for sure.
    No more crying.
    I wiped my face.
    Crying isn’t going to get you out of here.
    I didn’t know what Mrs. Dixon and Flute Girl were up to. Were they insane? Or was this some game they were playing so I would think they were insane?
    Because it was abundantly clear that they had not called anyone: not my parents or the authorities or the first