Blind Spot (6 page)

“What a slut!” Heather said. “You see how short that skirt is?”

“Ooh!” Fritz and Ricky both yelled as the girl did something.

“What?” I asked. “Who is it?”

“She’s crawling across the table on her hands and knees. All seductress-like,” Heather said. “It’s that nut job who always wears the cape. She’s got it draped like a boa around her neck.”

“Great,” I muttered, a sick feeling creeping into my stomach.

“I see her at my apartment building a lot,” Heather continued. “She stays with this guy, brings a baby with her too. A new baby, only a few months old.”

“A baby?” “Mother” was not a label I’d ever think to give Tricia.

“Oh, my God!” Heather giggled, as more than just Fritz and Ricky whooped around us. “I think she might start stripping.”

I’d heard enough. I flew to the table. So did Dellian and two lunch monitors.

“We got her,” Dellian told them. He and I each grabbed an arm and pulled her off the table. Despite some uncooperative squirming, we carry-walked her toward the exit.

Tricia turned her head to Mr. Dellian. “Rodney,” she cooed, her voice whispery light. She nuzzled his neck.

He shrugged her off, letting her head fly violently to the other side. “To the nurse’s office,” he commanded.

We dragged Tricia to one of the two beds in the empty nurse’s office. “T.,” Mr. Dellian whispered, so softly I wasn’t sure he’d said it. “What have you done? I thought you were past this?” He examined each arm, running a finger slowly up and down the veins, then ripped her shoes off and looked between her toes.

She giggled, muttered something, and giggled again. Her head lolled, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

“Don’t just stand there! Go find the nurse!” He slammed his fingers on Tricia’s wrists. “And call 911!”

I scurried to the main office and came back with the nurse and a few bystanders. “Ambulance is on the way,” the nurse said and pushed Mr. Dellian’s fingers out of the way to take Tricia’s pulse herself. “What did she take?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “She went through rehab a few months ago for heroin addiction. But there are no fresh tracks anywhere, not even between her toes.”

“I . . . I think she was smoking pot,” I offered.

“This isn’t pot,” Mr. Dellian snarled. Sirens wailed in the distance. “I’m meeting them at the door.” Dellian picked Tricia up, cradling her like an infant. “I’ll call her foster parents,” he yelled from the hall. “I’ve got them on speed dial.”

I stared after them. This was my fault.
What if she dies?

“Are you close with her?” the nurse asked.

“No, I just met her.”
I should’ve told Dellian what was up when I found her in the bathroom. God, what has happened?

“But you were with her when she did this?” she asked. “You brought her here?”

“I helped Mr. Dellian bring her.”
If this wasn’t pot, then Tricia must’ve shot up with that needle. But Jonathan had taken it away. We should’ve searched her.
“Will she be okay?”

“I think so. Anytime drugs are involved, though, you can’t be too careful.” She smiled and handed me a pass. “Lunch is over. You should get to class.”

“No tracks” meant no needle marks. If it wasn’t pot, and she didn’t shoot up, what was she on? Could something have been wrong with the pot? I needed to find Jonathan.

I was heading outside to leave a note on his windshield when he and another guy came in carrying fast-food bags. “Jonathan!”

“Later, Ethan,” Jonathan said with a nod. “Hey, Beautiful, what’s up?”

“Did you get Tricia the pot? ’Cause—”

He covered my mouth. “Shhh, not so loud.”

“Dellian took her to the hospital,” I whispered. “Did you give the needle back?”

“Tossed that.” He led me from the entrance. “What happened?”

“She was dancing on the lunch tables.” I liked being close to him, having a secret only we shared. It made me feel important. “Did you get her the pot?”

“Ethan said he’d take care of it. I’m sure he did.”

“You didn’t ask? That was a lot of money!
My
money. How could you not—” The image of Tricia cradled in Dellian’s arms made me shut up. “I hope she’s okay.”

“Relax. Tricia’s always pulling crap like this.” He gave me a soft smile that made my heart somersault in my chest. “I’ll ask Ethan, okay?”

“Hey!” Heather yelled behind me as I walked away. “Geez! Didn’t you see me? I kept waving at you. You mad or something?”

“No! I just . . . sorry. What’s up? I gotta get to class,” I said.

“Just wondering what happened? Copacabana’s boyfriend take her home?”

“Her boyfriend?” I asked.

“Yeah, the guy who helped get her down. He lives in my apartment building.”

“Dellian?” I stared at her. “He’s the guy Tricia visits with the baby?”

Heather nodded. “The very one.”

Saturday night, Jonathan parked in an isolated campsite by the river at the bottom of Birch Hill. “Easier to sneak out if the cops come,” he explained as he pulled into some bushes, out of view.

“Cops?” After Tricia yesterday, I didn’t need more adrenaline pumping through my veins. Then again, running from the police with Jonathan by my side could be exciting.

Jonathan waved his hand. “Don’t worry. Ethan’s been sneaking the key from his dad for years, and we’ve never been caught. We’re too far out of town for them to care.”

The party was in the lodge used by Scout troops during the summer, but there were plenty of people outside too, huddled around bonfires. One large group called out to Jonathan as we came up, all football players and cheerleaders still in uniform from the game earlier in the day.

“Hey!” Jonathan said to a few of them. The group quickly engulfed him, and I was left standing outside the circle, feeling embarrassed and unsure of what to do.

“Roz?” a voice said.

My eyes flicked to the red and black Chance High Ravens jersey and then to the mop of curls. “You play football?” I said in surprise.

“I wouldn’t say ‘play.’ I’m barely tolerable,” Greg said with a laugh. “It’s my first—”

“Hey, Roseanna,” someone yelled. “Roseanna!”

“I think he’s talking to you,” Greg muttered.

My face began to burn as I turned to see Jonathan waving at me. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

“You’re with him?” An accusation, not a question. “He doesn’t even know your name!”

I walked away without replying. “It’s Roz,” I whispered as I rejoined Jonathan. “Not Roseanna.”

“I knew that!” He put his hand on the small of my back and led me toward the lodge. His touch made me feel confident, and I forgot his mistake as he guided me past girl after girl after girl, his hand leaving my back only to pull a keg donation from the wad of cash in his wallet.

Music poured from the walls. It filled the outside air with guitar riffs and bass that thumped through me like an additional heartbeat. This was my element. My body thrived on it. Made me giddy. Alive.

Once we were inside, though, the music deafened me and my mood began to change. Without my hearing to guide me, I felt out of it. Isolated. Unsure. An alien in someone else’s world. I faked smiles and gave false nods when Jonathan’s friends talked to me, all the while straining to hear, trying to read their gestures, desperate to know what they were saying or doing or laughing about. My earlier confidence drained away. Jonathan brought me a plastic cup of beer. Grateful for the distraction, I gulped the bitter liquid down. With a grin, Jonathan handed me another. I gulped it too, a little more slowly this time. The alcohol traveled through me. My muscles tingled, warm and relaxed. Soon I forgot about pretending. With a swig of beer, I belonged again.

Ethan said something. I leaned into him and giggled. “What?”

He laughed and handed me another cup of beer.

I’d just taken a big drink of it when Jonathan swooped it from me. “You don’t need that,” he whispered. His warm breath on my ear made me dizzy.

I snuggled closer to him.

His fingers played with my hair, stroked my neck, my ear. “Are you messed up?”

“Maybe,” I whispered. His touch felt too amazing for me to concentrate on anything else.

He pulled me closer, muttered something. The words were muffled, simply sounds strung together. But his body against mine made me shiver. I moved my cheek closer to his mouth, breathing in his musky scent. His lips brushed my chin, my lips.

He was more intoxicating than the beer. I lost awareness of everything around me as I kissed him back.

Gently, he released me, grasped my hand, and led me away from the crowd. I stumbled along with him through the blurry fog of faces and bodies, up a flight of stairs to the loft. He stretched out on a reclining chair and pulled me down with him.

My world spun, my stomach flip-flopped. I was falling, spinning into a void. I leaned up to steady myself.

“You okay?” Jonathan asked. He seemed far away, too far away to catch me.

I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t work. My limbs felt like concrete. Light collapsed in on me, and then . . . darkness.

Flat black eyes stared at me. I blinked my contacts clear and stared back at the tiny moose faces on the upholstered chair. Peeling my cheek off the seat, I pushed myself up to a sitting position.

Bigger, blacker eyes greeted me. Satan herself. “Morning, bitch.”

“It’s morning?” I shot a look around me. Still in the loft. Music blaring. Sounds of people partying, though quieter now. Fewer people were down there.

“Two a.m.,” Tricia said. “Shouldn’t you be home with Mommy?”

“What do you want?” How was it so late?
Oooh.
My head pounded. I let it fall back against the chair. “Where’s Jonathan?”

“Not here.” Tricia pulled a cigarette from her cloak and lit it.

The smell gagged me. “Oh God. I think I’m—”

Tricia shoved a small plastic trash can under me, catching the vomit as it spilled from my lips. “I’m really sick of cleaning up your puke.”

I snatched the trash can from her hand. “Then leave! I don’t remember asking you to be here.”

“I’m sure you don’t remember much of anything,” Tricia snapped. “You were passed out.”

“I remember your strip routine in the cafeteria. Do you?” I meant this to sting, but the effort was too much. It came out in a dry whisper.

“Yeah.” Tricia’s voice softened. “That’s why I’m babysitting your ass.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.” I needed water. I tried to stand. My legs wobbled and the room spun. I sat back down.

“No? You wanted to be gang-raped then?”

The air left my lungs. I stared at Tricia’s ear.

A wicked smile crossed her lips as she took a drag from her cigarette. “Could’ve happened, though, if I hadn’t been watching. Don’t you know not to pass out at parties?”

“It’s not as if I knew I was going to pass out!”

“You’re right. You don’t know.” She took another drag. “This isn’t your scene. You don’t belong here.”

“Oh, but you do?” I said. “You think a . . . wastoid freak like you belongs here?” Instantly I regretted the words. I tensed, ready for retaliation.

She merely raised her eyebrows at me. “Wastoid freak?” She shrugged. “Yeah, that’s me. I live in this wasteland.
You
don’t have to.”

I wasn’t ready for us to be friendly; it was too weird and awkward. I redirected the conversation. “What happened at the hospital?”

“I slept it off.” She took another drag. “Rodney overreacted.”

Footsteps fell on the stairs. Tricia put the cigarette out on her palm and stood. “Come on. I’ll get you home.”

“Hey, Beautiful.” Jonathan stepped into the loft. “Didn’t know you were such a lightweight. How you feelin’?”

“Okay.” I tried to stand. Tricia held out her cloaked arm and I clutched it.

“I’m taking her home,” Tricia said.

“I got her.” Jonathan put his arm around my waist. “You don’t have wheels.”

“I have access to wheels.” Tricia pulled out her cell.

“She doesn’t want to wait,” he said. “Do you, Beautiful?”

And he was right. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to go home and lie down, snug in my bed, and sleep. “Thanks, Tricia, but Jonathan can drive me. I came with him.”

“Suit yourself.” She ripped her arm from me, unsteadying me for a split second before Jonathan gripped me tighter. Tricia glared at him and hissed, “Be more careful next time,” then disappeared in a swirl of brown.

“Don’t worry.” Jonathan guided me toward the stairs. “Next time I won’t let you drink them so fast.”

Next time? Despite my concrete limbs and pounding head, I felt awesome. As I floated on Jonathan’s arm through the minefield of discarded cups, spilled beer, and wasted bodies, I realized that somehow I’d done it. Somehow I’d crawled from the heap of rejects into the Land of the Chosen and found Normal.

It’s not as if Jonathan said we were boyfriend and girlfriend; I don’t think people really do that anyway, not like in the movies. It was just, you know, understood. He was always around and his attention made me feel beautiful and wanted. He made me belong. Nothing Dellian said or did now in class could change how people saw me. I was Zeus’s girl. I must be normal.

This must’ve annoyed Dellian because a few weeks after Jonathan and I started dating, Dellian went for what he could still affect—my AP grade. As he handed out progress reports that Friday, he announced that a full grade of extra credit would be given to anyone who attended and wrote a paper on the Salem witch trials exhibit at the university museum. “However, it ends tomorrow. Given the long drive, you’ll likely be forfeiting your plans for Saturday evening.” There was a groan from the class. “I thought some of you would feel that way.” He slapped my report down in front of me.

I stared in horror at the large C- on my report. I’d got As on the few assignments we’d had, but he’d been giving me zero after zero for participation.

“Of course”—Dellian looked right at me—“some of you who need the credit won’t be going because you don’t have a vehicle.”

It was a challenge, plain and simple. Maybe he knew Mom worked weekends at the makeup counter and couldn’t take me. Maybe he knew Jonathan would never miss a Saturday night with his friends to take me. Maybe he assumed I was too stupid or too chicken to use public transportation. Whatever it was he thought he knew, he was confident I wouldn’t go. So he’d made sure I would need the credit.