Buzz Kill (19 page)

I couldn't ask. He clearly didn't want to talk to
me
that night. Maybe because he was sick of talking, or didn't want to bother me with his problems, or thought my concern was too little too late. Or maybe he was upset with me because Detective Blaine Lohser had snitched about me being on a bathroom floor with Dad's prize quarterback.

Maybe it was a combination of all that stuff.

I stood at the foot of the stairs, listening to my father close the door to his bedroom and thinking that somebody had better find that murder weapon soon.

Because, of course,
that
would exonerate my dad.

I mean, how couldn't it?

“What's going on with you and you-know-who?” Laura whispered. She looked past me toward Chase's desk, an area of the French classroom that I was studiously avoiding. Actually, I'd never been so studious about anything in my entire life. “I thought you guys were getting kind of . . . friendly.”

God love Laura Bugbee. She was the only person who'd ever thought there could be anything, even friendship, between me and Chase Albright, and she continued to cling to her delusion.

“That ship has sailed—and sunk,” I informed her quietly as I folded the latest edition of the
Gazette,
which
didn't
feature Viv's interview with Detective Lohser. The story had been pulled at the last minute, because apparently the too-chatty cop had called Mr. Woolsey, admitting that maybe he'd told Viv too much and begging for intervention. Needless to say, Mr. Woolsey—who knew what it was like to be manipulated by Vivienne Fitch, and who wanted the story gone, anyhow—had been more than happy to exercise power for once.

I shouldn't have told Viv that
I
reminded Detective Lohser he shouldn't comment on an ongoing investigation, but I couldn't resist seeing her throw a massive, hilarious hissy fit
—

“Millie?” Laura was lightly smacking my shoulder. “Ships sailing? And sinking?”

I finally dared a glance at Chase, who was busy doing what Laura and I were supposed to be doing: conjugating on a worksheet. He seemed oblivious to me, head bent and pen moving. I turned back to Laura. “Actually, it was kind of like the
Titanic
crashing into one of those boats named after states. The
Arizona,
or the
Maine.
” I bashed my fists together and made a sound like a small explosion. “Boom! Luxury liner Chase meets battleship Millie with disastrous results.”

Laura clearly wanted to know more, but my maritime-disaster reenactment had drawn Mademoiselle Beamish's attention, and she said sharply from behind her desk,
“Mee-leh-CENT! Taisez-vous!”

Of course, most kids were amused, as usual, to witness me getting in trouble. But for once, Viv wasn't among them. She was watching me with cold eyes, obviously still enraged about my messing up her “exclusive” story.

I stared back, not intimidated.
What's your big secret, Vivienne? The one that you don't want Mike to EVER reveal?

Then I looked at Mike Price, who was also studying me—and who wasn't laughing, either. On the contrary, his simian brow was furrowed, like he'd pushed the right buttons but the researchers hadn't given him the banana he'd expected.

He's stupid and full of testosterone. But is he really brainless—and hormonal—enough to commit an impulsive murder? Kill a coach who'd messed up his one shot at playing big-time college ball . 
.
 . ?

“Millie? Are we gonna dialogue?” Laura was tapping me again, apparently alerting me to the fact that it was time for Monday's free-form dialogue session.

I didn't answer her, though. I was watching, confused, as Viv
didn't
pair up with Mike.

No, she stood up, and with one more evil glance at me, made her way directly to
Chase
before Ms. Beamish could even hoist herself out of her chair.

But . 
.
 .

“Millie? Are we gonna talk?” Laura asked again.

I wanted to spare my friend yet another painful conversation with our instructor, who was already—clearly unhappily—searching for another victim. I really did.

Yet I found myself looking once more at Mike Price, potential killer, alone and baffled with nobody to talk to—a sitting duck, maybe just waiting to make some verbal slip that would implicate him in a murder—and I heard myself saying, “Sorry, Laura. I gotta talk with the
other
worst speaker in class.”

“What do
you
want?” Mike asked when I slid into the desk next to his. “Huh?”

“I just thought we should talk,” I said, too cheerfully. “You know, we've gone to school together forever. But do we really
know
each other?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he mumbled. He was addressing me—at least, making semihuman sounds—but staring at Viv and Chase, clearly unhappy that he'd been abandoned in favor of the quarterback who'd also stolen his football glory.

I found myself watching Viv and Chase, too, as they conversed with apparent ease.

Is Viv finally making her move on Chase? And does he
like
talking to her? Because he might think she's intense, but let's face it, she's got those boobs . 
.
 .

I turned back around, forcing myself to focus on Mike, and because we only had a few minutes, I stopped acting like I wanted us to be pals. “First of all,” I said quietly, “neither one of us speaks French, so let's not even pretend to try.” When he didn't respond—didn't even give any sign of having heard me—I added directly, “How about Coach Killdare getting murdered? Huh? What do you make of
that?
”

Okay, that wasn't exactly brilliant on my part, but at least Mike grunted a response. “I'd say it sucks. For him.”

I was interested in that last prepositional phrase, but I also kept wondering how Viv could stand spending time with a guy who spoke in monosyllables, even if he did her bidding.

I shifted once more to see Viv and Chase chattering away, no doubt in French.

Sure, they're both smart, good-looking, and can use “dejeuner” correctly. But
he
would never like HER . 
.
 .

Turning back around, I tried to focus on my own partner again. “I guess it sucks for you, too,” I noted. “I mean, Mr. Killdare was your coach and mentor. Probably like a father figure.”

Mike gave me a look like I was the dense one. A look I'd probably earned by pushing it too far with the “father figure” comment. “Are you nuts?” he asked. “You know he brought in Albright as a ringer, so I'm not quarterback anymore, right? I hated that jerk!”

Okay, Mike didn't say “jerk.” He used a very nasty epithet that made me reel back in my seat. “Wow,” I said. “You really did despise him, huh?” Then I leaned forward and narrowed my eyes. “Maybe enough to wish he was
actually dead?
”

As soon as I said that, I couldn't believe the words had come out of my mouth, and needless to say, even Mike understood what I'd done. He cocked his head and said pretty loudly, “Did you just accuse me of
murder?
” He looked around the class, as if for support. “What the hell?”

“Sssh!” I ordered him. Kids were staring at us, and Ms. Beamish was also watching, with a look of displeasure so profound that it seemed to have drained all the color from her face. I couldn't believe she wasn't storming over to insist that we use French. Speaking even more softly, I told Mike, “I didn't accuse you of anything. At most, there was a slight inference . . .” I could tell I'd lost him with that word, and concluded, “Look, you were the one who said you hated Coach Killdare, then got all defensive when I called you on it. You made yourself look guilty.” All at once, I realized Mike really had overreacted, and I added, “You're the one who used the word ‘accuse.' I never said
that.
”

He didn't answer me. He just sat there, watching me with his dim eyes.

Eyes that, I realized, might actually be unfeeling enough to belong to a killer.

I didn't think he was a manipulative psycho, like Viv, but—jokes about monkeys aside—he did have an animalistic quality, and I could imagine him, in a moment of rage, acting on the impulses of his id.

I broke our gaze to look at his hands. And he had big hands, powerful enough to wield a heavy object and perhaps crack bone.

Then I really noticed Mike's arms for the first time, too. He had massive biceps, easily strong enough to drag a body to a storage space that a multisport athlete like him would've been familiar with.

Viv's words again echoed in my head. The stuff she'd said as she and Mike had walked past the theater.
“Look, idiot. You know what happened.
I
know what happened. But nobody else will
ever
—and I mean EVER—find out.”

Suddenly, I got sickly warm.

Did I just accuse—er, make an inference about—the honest-to-gosh
killer?

Less than two feet away, Mike continued to glare at me, his oversize fingers flexing on his desk.

Holy crow, Millie! What have you done?

And it was too late to fix anything because right then the bell rang, dismissing class. Mike got up slowly, and I stood up, too. It crossed my mind to attempt to patch things up, maybe to say, “Hey, fun talking with you!” But something about the look on Mike's face told me not to bother. Plus, he was already walking away from me, so I spun on my heel, thinking that, no matter what was up with me and Chase, I wanted to tell him what had just happened. I was pretty sure he'd be interested to know that I was placing his teammate near the top of my list of suspects.

However, Chase was already gone.

And so was Viv.

“I was sitting in my booth in front of the Lassiter Bijou, trying to think of a six-letter word for “despondent,” because I couldn't seem to bring myself to visit the Honeywell High library for a new book and was reduced to killing time with the
New York Times
crossword.

I miss the public library. Miss Ms. Parkins.

“Woeful,” I said out loud, printing the word in the little blank squares—and purposely keeping my head down. I needed to stop looking up every five seconds to see if a distinctive black BMW had pulled into one of the many free parking spots in front of the theater. We were showing a dreary movie called
The 400 Blows
by a French director whose name sounded like a high-priced mushroom—Truffaut—and I was pretty sure Chase would come.

So why did I nearly jump out of my skin when a hand came into my line of sight, pushing money into the small pit designed for ticket exchanges, and a deep, familiar voice asked, “Can I have
two
tickets, tonight, please, Millie?”

“I'm really not supposed to do this,” I told Chase, even as I sat down on one of the ancient, upholstered theater seats next to his. “And you buying me a ticket and popcorn doesn't make it any better. I'm still supposed to be working. I'm not really a paying customer.”

Chase made a show of craning his neck and looking around the theater. “Millie, there's only one other person here. And since when do you care about what you're ‘supposed' to do?”

He had a point, but my father would kill me if I lost my job. We still weren't exactly on the best of terms.

“I just don't want to get in trouble at this particular moment,” I said. I twisted to look behind me. “And what if she needs a snack or something?”

“Here, scaredy-cat.” Chase handed me the popcorn and stood up, calling back about ten rows to a woman who was also a regular. “Mrs. Murphy? Are you going to want anything? Like a drink? Because I invited Millie to watch the movie with me, but she's worried that she's going to get in trouble for abandoning the snack bar.”

I spun around again, even more surprised than I'd been when Chase had shown up at my booth asking me to see the movie with him.

Why is he doing this?

And did he just call a customer by name?
Do they
know
each other?

Apparently so, because the older woman in the back row was beaming at Chase. “You two don't worry,” she said. “I brought a snack from home.” She held up a baggie full of food I couldn't identify—but which I should've confiscated, according to theater policy. “Just enjoy your date,” she told Chase. “It's nice to see you here with a
young
friend.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Murphy.” Chase sat down again and tried to reclaim the popcorn, which I did not relinquish. “Can you relax now?”

“How do you know her?” I whispered, ignoring his question—and overlooking Mrs. Murphy's assertion that we were on a date, because Chase hadn't bothered to correct her, either. I was pretty sure we both knew that wasn't the case, though, after our discussion in Mr. Killdare's driveway. “Are you two, like, friends?”

Chase grinned at me in the increasing darkness as Mr. Mordrick lowered the house lights from the projection booth. I probably should've been worried about my elderly coworker tattling on me, but I doubted he could see well enough to know I was even there.

“Mrs. Murphy sits with me sometimes,” Chase confided. “I tease her that she's my girlfriend, and she brings me cookies.” He dug into the popcorn. “She's been widowed for eight years, but always worries that
I'm
lonely.”

That was quite possibly the geekiest, saddest, most embarrassing ritual that I'd ever heard a teenage guy admit to, but the fact that Chase told his story without shame somehow made him seem even hotter, if that was possible. Only a truly confident guy would confess to being fed and fussed over by a grandma figure. And maybe it was genuinely cool, in a way, that he'd befriended a lonely old lady. Or vice versa.