Creeping with the Enemy (4 page)

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Authors: Kimberly Reid

BOOK: Creeping with the Enemy
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As if she didn't know.
“I'm Cole.” He reaches into his pocket and I'm ready to duck, but he only pulls out Bethanie's phone. I'd recognize it anywhere since it's all blinged out in cubic zirconia, although knowing Bethanie, they're probably real diamonds. I bet that's the reason she guards that phone with her life. “You dropped this at the store that day. You were already gone when I noticed it on the floor.”
“Didn't you leave the store when we did?” I ask. It isn't really a question, because I know for a fact he had driven away before Bethanie could get her key in the ignition.
“I've been looking everywhere for that,” Bethanie says.
They're ignoring me, just like at the bodega.
“I'm sorry to stake out your school like this, but I didn't know how else to reach you.”
Uh-huh. At least he knows his game is a little stalkerish.
“How did you know to find her at Langdon?” I ask.
He looks me dead in the eye and smiles, but says to Bethanie, “You've got a good friend here. She looks out for you.”
“Well?” I say.
More eye rolling from Bethanie.
“I hope you don't mind, but I did scroll through a couple of your texts and saw Langdon Prep mentioned a couple of times.”
“Bethanie, you really should lock your phone. You never know who might find it.” I cross my arms all defiant-like, forgetting that I'm a wuss, because I become momentarily brave when I get my girl detective on. “What did you say your last name was again?”
“He didn't. You have to excuse her—she's had no home training,” Bethanie says, taking the phone from Cole and turning it on. I try to catch a look over her shoulder and see she's scrolling through her photo album. Seems like she'd check her messages first thing. Whatever it is, she looks satisfied and puts it in her bag.
Cole is standing there like he's waiting for something.
“Were you expecting a reward?” I ask.
“Chanti, don't you have somewhere to be?” Bethanie asks.
“Nope.”
“Chanti and I were just about to go inside to get a Coke from the soda machine. Do you want something to drink?”
I'm pretty sure a guy who tracks a girl down the way Cole did is looking for more than liquid refreshment, but I'm not sure what it is. Somehow I don't think it's just a guy lusting for a girl. Something about Cole feels off. Forced maybe. The way he showed up at the bodega—looking like he'd never step foot in a bodega—on the day it gets robbed. The way he happened to find her phone even though he left the store before we did. Makes me think he took it when everything fell out of Bethanie's bag just so he could find her to return it. Just in case he's considering her offer to get a soda, I give him the evil eye. He looks at me and gives the slightest hint of a smile.
“I'd better get going,” Cole says. “Just wanted to make sure you had your phone.”
My evil eye is scarier than I think, or he knows I'm suspicious. Either way, he turns to leave. Bethanie takes a step toward him and for a second, I'm worried she's going to follow him.
“Come on, Bethanie. I really need that soda,” I say, pulling her arm. I'm thinking it's a good idea if we go inside for a few minutes. My paranoia may be in overdrive and Cole may be just a considerate guy, but I prefer he'd not know about Bethanie's secret parking space or my long walk to the bus stop.
“It was really nice of you to find me, Cole,” Bethanie says, but he's too far away to hear her.
Chapter 4
E
very sentence Bethanie speaks now starts or ends with
Cole.
At first, her conversations were made up of things she imagined about him, like which college he probably attended, whether or not he had a job (she decided he did not, but was independently wealthy like her), and that he had been unlucky in love because he hadn't found the right girl (she decided the right girl would be her). When he wasn't busy counting his money or pining for her, Bethanie had also decided Cole volunteered at the homeless shelter, donated to the Humane Society, and helped little old ladies cross Broadway during rush hour. After a couple of days of her imagination gone wild, I could tell that she was no longer imagining he was a god; he had actually
done
something that made her think he was.
“Cole doesn't believe in fast food,” she's saying in response to my request that we stop for a two-piece-with-biscuit before she drops me at home.
“It's Popeyes, not a religion,” I say, though I realize that it almost is. When I'm really hungry and it smells like they just fried a fresh batch, I'd be willing to kneel at the counter and say the Lord's Prayer just to get a wing.
“He's really into the locally based sustainable slow-food movement.”
“The what?”
I'm getting irritated because I already called Tasha and told her I'd bring something home for her and Michelle since I'm always inviting myself to their moms' cooking, and Bethanie really needs to get into the right lane now if we're going to Popeyes.
“You know what that is,” she says as though I'd asked her what chocolate is.
“I really don't. And why would I want someone to serve my food slowly? Uh, you should be changing lanes now. It's coming up soon.”
“The food isn't served slowly. Cole says food grown or raised within a few miles of where it's eaten, produced without chemicals and steroids, is better for us and for the environment.”
“Well, unless Cole is nearby with a crispy free-range chicken and a hot, buttery biscuit, I really wish you'd get over now because I'm hungry and Popeyes is at the next light.”
“When aren't you hungry? Whatever. It's your body. Put crap in there if you want to.”
Once I have my order, the box warm in my lap and the scent promising all kinds of goodness, I can relax and find out why her talk has gone from abstract fantasy to concrete platitudes about how I should eat.
“So you learned about Cole's food philosophy during the holdup?”
“Of course not. He was busy trying to protect me from dying.”
“I thought you said we were never in any danger.”
“Only because he was there to protect me,” Bethanie says as she switches lanes, cutting off a delivery truck. “You're really going to make me wish I hadn't offered you a ride home, especially since I have to take you across town.”
“We both know you only offered the ride so you could talk to me about Cole. You should be glad I'm so interested.”
“Interested? More like interrogative.”
“So when did he give you his food theory? He didn't mention it when he brought your phone.”
“Okay, so he called me.”
“You've been seeing this guy? You don't know anything about him.”
“That's why they call it dating. When you first meet a guy, aka the Stranger, you don't know anything about him. You go on dates and learn things about him, which makes him no longer a stranger.”
“You're
dating
?” I'm so disturbed by this that I have to open the box and pinch off a piece of biscuit for comfort.
“Not yet, but it's like we are. We talk on the phone for hours every night.”
“You mean for the last two nights. It's Wednesday and you met him Monday.”
“Really we met last Friday.”
“During a holdup. I don't think that counts as a formal introduction.”
“He asked me out this weekend.”
“Are you crazy? Does he have a last name yet? How old is he, anyway?”
“He's twenty. I'll be seventeen in two weeks. It isn't a big deal at all.”
“Well, until you
are
seventeen, it's statutory, which
is
a big deal.”
“Oh my God, Chanti. I haven't even
seen
the guy since Monday. Now you've got us having sex and calling it ...
that
? It would not be ...
that
... even if we did get that far.”
“That's exactly what it would be. You're a minor, he's an adult,” I say like I know what I'm talking about when actually I don't. Living with a cop, I've learned a lot about the law, but this particular statute has never come up and I wouldn't dare ask Lana or she'd think it was me looking to score with an older man.
“Where do you get this stuff, Chanti?”
I realize I need to back off a little with the cop-speak. Especially while Bethanie is driving, because it's not like she's going to win any Motorist of the Year awards or anything, even without being upset.
“So I guess you told him yes to the date.”
“Look, if you're that worried, come with us.”
“Like a chaperone? I'm not that desperate for something to do.”
“No, like a double date. And I think you are that desperate.”
“Who would I get on such short notice?”
Bethanie gives me a pitiful and knowing look. “Hello? Marco.”
“But he's off-limits,” I say, hoping she'll convince me to talk him into it.
“Most kids' parents tell them not to see each other and they can't do anything but plot ways to see each other. You and Marco just roll over and play dead.”
“Most kids don't have Lana for a mother.”
“How's she so different? What's she going to do if you get caught—throw you in jail?”
Pretty much.
“I think it's sweet that Marco honors his parents,” I say.
“Sweet won't get you out of the house this Saturday night, will it? Just tell him the truth—you're worried about me dating Cole. He already knows you're like an Olympic worrier. Tell him you'll just feel better if you can get to know the guy. If Marco is sweet as you say, he'll want to look out for me. If you get caught, y'all tell your parents it was for a good cause.”
When Bethanie drops me off in front of Tasha's house, Tasha and Michelle are just coming up the sidewalk.
“Y'all must have been on the late bus,” I say, trying to head off the conversation from where I know it will probably go.
“We had a Spanish Club meeting after school. Your friend too good to meet us, or what?” Tasha asks, watching Bethanie drive off. “She never sticks around when she brings you home.”
“Stick around? She barely slows down to let Chanti out of the car,” Michelle says. “That's how rich folks are—always scared not-rich people are looking to jack them.”
“Or worried our condition might be catching,” Tasha says. “Is everybody at your new school like that?”
If only they knew Bethanie is more ghetto-fabulous than any of us.
“Here's your food. Better eat while it's hot,” I say, hoping to get them off the subject of my rude rich friend and onto another one.
Tasha grabs the bag from me, opens it, inhales the perfume of grease and chicken, and starts up her porch steps. “Thanks, Chanti. I needed this. You coming in to eat with us?”
“No, I'd better get started on my homework, but I did want to ask you if I missed any gossip.”
That stops Tasha in her tracks because my girl loves gossip and always knows what's happening on the Ave.
“Ooh, like what?” Michelle asks, her voice starting to climb octaves like it does whenever she gets excited, which is why we sometimes call her Squeak.
“I don't have any gossip. That's why I'm asking y'all. I was at the bus stop this morning and thought I heard somebody talking about a robbery somewhere on Center Street last weekend.”
“Somebody's always getting robbed on Center,” Tasha says, looking a lot less interested in talking to me. “My two-piece is getting cold.”
I'm at the kitchen table working on calculus equations, finally chill about the robbery because if Tasha doesn't know anything about it, no one on Aurora Ave. does. Lana is concocting something on the stove even though I told her I'd already eaten. She doesn't have a stakeout tonight, which is rare lately, so I'm glad we can hang out. I don't know if it's because we're pretty close in age as parents go, but I actually get along with my mother, for the most part. Even when we're working each other's last nerve, it's nothing like how my friends describe their relationships with their mothers, which, in some cases, sounds close to hell. The only bad thing about Lana being home at night is that she always cooks, and this truly is a bad thing. She cannot cook to save her life, which is why I'm always mooching dinner from Tasha and Michelle.
Whatever Lana's cooking smells like, I'm pretty sure what it will taste like: a blend of flavors that should never come together in the same pot. She'll watch cooking shows on Food Network, but instead of following the exact recipe, she'll add and subtract stuff to give it her “special touch.” By the time she's done, the finished product has maybe two ingredients left from the original recipe, and it's almost always bad. I'm a little scared, because I swear I smell hot sauce and peanut butter, but I just keep doing my math homework and pray dinner will at least be edible.
“Did you hear about the bodega?” Lana asks. My stress-free mood has lasted all of two hours.
“No,” I say, not really lying because I haven't
heard
anything about it. Hearing about something and actually witnessing it is not the same thing. “What about it?”
“I heard they got held up again.”
“From someone at work?” I'm still waiting for some detective friend of hers to bust me for being at the bodega.
“No, from Ada Crawford.”
“Ada?” Since when do Ada and Lana ever talk to each other?
“She was in there just before it happened. She got outside the bodega and realized the cashier had left out part of her order and was about to go back inside when she saw a man holding a gun on him.”
“How did she see anything without going back inside? They've got so many beer posters and cigarette ads covering the glass, you can barely see anything inside or out.”
“I guess the doors aren't completely covered up.”
“Did she report it?”
“You know Ada tries to keep a low profile when it comes to the police, but at least she called them. Anonymously, of course. And since I'm supposed to be her neighbor the paralegal and not a cop, I can't really report anything she told me without blowing my cover.”
So it wasn't the cashier who called the cops.
“It was just the cashier there when the police arrived on scene, no customers?” I ask.
“Maybe we ought to assign the investigation to you,” Lana says, adding ketchup to her boiling cauldron.
“I'm just interested in what goes on in my neighborhood, that's all.”
“Ada said there were two or three other people in there; some kids, she thought, but wasn't sure. They were positioned where she couldn't get a good look, but that's why she called 9-1-1. She was worried about the customers. I called a friend in Robbery to get some information, but they didn't have any. The witnesses Ada saw must have left before patrol arrived.”
“How about the cashier? He must have reported something.”
“That's the weird thing. When the uniforms arrived, the store was empty—no perp, no customers, no cashier. Even he left the scene. All the officers found was an unmanned store and no signs of foul play.”

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