Mom Hung Up on My Call for Help to Toast My Cousin, So I Vanished novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Nut-Free Mousse
Cass eats one bite of her cousin's mousse, her mother hangs up on her call for help, and she finds her EpiPen in her cousin's pocket and leaves, only to get a text that shows her cousin knows where she is going.
At 8:38 p.m., my cousin Brynn walked a plate down to my end of the party table.
The backyard was strung with blue balloons for her college party.
My parents had hung a banner over the patio: CONGRATS, BRYNN!
Nobody had asked where I got in.
I had gotten somewhere good, and nobody in that yard knew it.
The plate held a chocolate mousse cup with a white sticker on the lid.
NUT-FREE.
"I ordered this one just for you, Kay," Brynn said.
Her voice was sweet and loud, so the whole table could hear how kind she was.
I have a peanut allergy, a bad one.
Everyone in my house knows it. They just forget it a lot.
Across the yard, my dad raised his glass of sparkling cider.
He hasn't had a drink in years, and Brynn pours his cider for him herself at every party.
He drank it without looking at her.
"Thanks," I said. "I'm okay."
Nate Gilmore took the plate out of her hand and held it out to me.
Nate lives next door.
When we were eight, he gave me half his candy bar on the back steps and said, "If no one's on your side, I will be."
I believed him for ten years.
"Cass, come on," he said, low. "Don't ruin her night."
Brynn's eyes were already shining.
My mom watched from the patio with her mouth pressed flat.
I don't make scenes. I took the spoon and ate one bite to make it end.
Under the chocolate was a crunchy layer. It wasn't chocolate.
My tongue started to itch, then my lips.
By the time I set the spoon down, my throat was closing.
I walked into the house, not ran, so nobody would see.
In the upstairs bathroom I dumped my bag out on the counter. Wallet. Keys. Lip balm. Hair tie.
No EpiPen.
I always carry it. I had checked it twice at lunch.
At 8:41 I called 911 from the bathroom floor.
The woman asked my name. "Cassidy Hartwell," I said, and she told me to unlock the front door and sit down.
At 8:43 I called my mom.
Behind her I heard music, laughing, and a spoon tapping a glass. My dad was counting down. "Three. Two."
"Mom, I need help."
"Not now, sweetie, we're doing the toast," she said. "Ask Nate."
Then she hung up on me.
The call had lasted less than a minute.
I held the edge of the tub and counted my breaths until I heard the siren.
I went down the front stairs with one hand on the wall.
The ambulance was out front, red lights spinning across the neighbors' windows. Nobody at the party could see it from the backyard.
Behind the house, a firework went up with a bang.
Everybody cheered.
A paramedic helped me into the back and pushed a needle into my thigh, and my throat opened a little at a time.
"Is anyone coming with you?" she asked.
I looked at the house. Gold sparks were falling over the roof.
"No," I said.
At the hospital, the form asked for my emergency contacts, Laurel and Dale Hartwell.
I crossed out both names.
At 2:13 a.m., in the hospital bed, the dots came up under my mom's name. Mom is typing.
Then they stopped, and nothing came.
They let me go at six.
I pulled my sleeve down over the plastic band on my wrist and walked into the kitchen.
My mom stood at the counter in her robe, scrolling through party photos.
"You left without saying goodbye," she said. "So rude, Cass. Brynn was hurt."
"I didn't feel well."
"You never feel well when it's somebody else's night."
Tyler came in for a slice of cake and didn't look at me. "Mom, did you see? The fireworks got four hundred likes."
Nobody asked about my wrist. All three of them were standing an arm's length from it.
That afternoon I did the Sunday laundry, the way I have since I was twelve.
Brynn's white party dress was on top, with a cider stain on the skirt.
I checked the pockets, as I always do.
My hand closed on something hard.
It was my EpiPen, with my name on the label in my own handwriting.
I stood in the basement with the washer running and held it.
Then I laid it on the dryer and took a picture of it, the dress and the pocket turned inside out.
I didn't scream. I didn't run upstairs.
I didn't know who in that house would believe me, but I knew exactly who wouldn't.
I put the pen in my pocket and went up.
Brynn was at the top of the stairs in her pajamas, a hand on the rail.
"Find anything in the wash, Kay?" she asked, and smiled.
"Just socks," I said.
She tilted her head, then went back to her room.
So I left.
It took me ten minutes to pack a duffel and my laptop.
I took my passport and the forty-two dollars of blue sheets I had bought for my dorm.
I took my Northfield letter too.
It named me one of two Presidential Scholars in Ohio and gave me a full ride in Chicago.
At five the next morning I cut my hospital band off with the kitchen scissors and left it on the counter where my mother would see it.
Then I walked to the bus station in the dark.
I was on the bus when my phone lit up.
It was Brynn.
"Chicago's cold in the morning, Kay. Bring a coat."
I had never told anyone where I was going.
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