High and Dry (10 page)

“Yes, that's how our real estate agent listed the house. Bridget-Adjacent Property.”

“Can you see in her window?”

“I'm gonna pretend you didn't ask me that,
Danny
.” Maria Posey was so right; names could be used as insults all day long, and there was no shortage of targets at this school.

“I just—”

“Stop dribbling down your shirt and answer the question. Did you see anyone take a flash drive from that or any other computer at the end of second period?”

“No.” Danny shifted from one foot to the other. “But—”

My patience careened downhill like an out-of-control skate-board about to crash. “But what?”

“I don't want to get anyone in trouble …”

“You're gonna be the one in trouble if you don't answer me.”

“It's just … I was at the library second period last Friday, but Bridget wasn't.”

I stared at him. “
Bridget
wasn't there?”

“No.”

“And you're sure we're talking about the same Bridget?”

He placed his sketchbook under his armpit and made the universal sign for “hourglass curves” with his hands. I was embarrassed on his behalf and pushed his hands away, just when Jake walked up, of course.

“Everything cool here?” Jake demanded, moving protectively in front of Danny.

I leaned around him to address Danny. “Your perv-in-training was about to sketch me a picture.”

Danny opened his sketchpad and pressed it flat against the wall. He rapidly drew a picture of a girl's face with his charcoal.

“If she'd been there, I would've noticed,” he said.

“I believe you,” I said. The likeness was uncanny. I half expected the drawing to come to life and make an obscene gesture at us with its tongue.

I tore the picture out of Danny's sketchpad, handed the pad back to him, and said, “I might need you for a favor later. Check in by the fountain again tomorrow.”

“Will Bridget be there?” he asked eagerly.

“Sure,” I said, but it was a lie.

“You've been lying to me.”

“Well, hello to you, too, grouchy,” Bridget said, twirling the combination on her lock. “School bus not what it used to be?”

“I didn't see you offering to give me a ride,” I snarled. “Thanks, neighbor.”

She was incredulous. “If you'd been nicer to me last night, maybe I would have.”

“Nicer, like hands-on? Never gonna happen again. Now, give me a copy of your schedule.”

She opened her locker, but I slammed it shut and leaned against it, blocking her access.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I want to know where I can find you at all times.”

“Wow, Dix, I'm super-flattered, but—” She flicked her head to the side.

“You want me to move? You want your books for third period? Hand over your schedule.”

She pulled out her iPhone, which was off, and mimed tapping out an e-mail. “Dear Ellie, wass up girlfriend? Charlie tastes like cheap whiskey and despair, how could you ever let him go? And ‘send.'”

“Thank you, school board, for jamming our cell phones,” I said. “As long as we're on campus you have no power over me.”

“Because it would be so much trouble to send those texts when I go out to lunch.”

“I erased the texts.”

She'd forgotten; you could tell. Her voice changed to false confidence. “I … kept backups. I learned after losing my flash drive.”

“I don't believe you. So I'm off the ‘case' unless you come clean with me.”

She sighed and opened her Trapper Keeper, where her schedule was taped to the inside flap. I scanned it quickly, shaking my head with disgust.

“You don't even
have
study hall second period.”

“Most of the time, no,” she admitted. She rifled through a couple of folders until she found a little slip of paper, which she flashed in front of my eyes for about a millisecond. “A pass from the guidance counselor. Special circs.”

“How come your freshman stalker doesn't remember seeing you?”

“I wore my glasses that day. I'd pulled an all-nighter.”

“You have an answer for everything. Guess I'm not asking my questions quickly enough.”

I stepped aside and she opened her locker to get her books. A folded piece of notebook paper fluttered out from the vent. “What's that?” I said suspiciously.

Bridget bent over to get it. Traffic in the hallway screeched to a halt.

She slowly straightened up, cupped her hand around the piece of paper, and read it. The contents made her face blanch.

“What's it say?” I asked.

She slapped the note against my chest. “Still think I'm lying to you?”

I peeled the note out of her fingers and read it aloud. “‘I know someone who has something of yours. What's the information worth to you? Write a number on the back of this paper and Dix will give it to me.'”

My expression must have changed, because suddenly Bridget was in my face.

“You know who it's from, don't you?” she demanded. “If you know, you better tell me.”

“I'll take care of it.” I pocketed the note and got the hell out of there.

I'd recognize Ellie's handwriting anywhere, even if it hadn't been on dark blue stationery, written in white pen.

THE MOBILE ESTATES

AT LUNCH I COULD BARELY CONCENTRATE ON MY MEETING
with Ryder.

He asked if we could walk back to his place for leftover pasta. I said I wasn't hungry so it didn't matter to me. We set off down the sidewalk, and he lit a cigarette the second we stepped off campus.

“Rough about Ellie,” he said.

I nodded thanks. Rougher now that she was apparently shaking down Bridget for cash. If she'd needed money, why hadn't she come to me?

“Dumping you over Christmas break?
Damn
.”

“I know. I drank a gallon of eggnog at my cousin's.”
And wine. And whiskey.

“You had her longer than anyone thought you would, though,” he said with a laugh, punching me lightly in the shoulder, and I had to laugh, too. I don't know why. That's how it was with Ryder. He could say anything, but instead of being offended, you saw the awful truth of his words and they struck you as genuinely funny. Besides, hadn't I spent the last eight months thinking the same thing?

He offered me a drag of his cigarette. I took a puff, handed it back, and shoved my hands in my pockets without response.

“Freaking songbirds, right?” he said after a while.

“What?”

“I saw you with Bridget in the hall,” Ryder continued. “Are you rebounding? I don't think it counts if you just bounce between the same two.” He cocked his head to the side, considering. “Unless of course, they're in the same bed …” He grinned.

I rolled my eyes. “No, man, Bridget's a pain in the ass. We're just handcuffed together in hell.”

“I guess who you choose depends on if you're in the mood for a deficit or a surplus,” he said.

I knew what he meant. Ellie was svelte; Bridget was … an hourglass motion in a hornball art kid's hands. They were both pretty, so personality trumped all. “She's got nothing on Ellie,” I said.

“Maria Posey called me a cylon the other day. I don't even know what that shit means. Chicks around here need subtitles.”

“You're with
Sound of Music
Maria?” I said with surprise. They hadn't
seemed
together, but why else would he have been at her party?

“‘With' is a strong word. ‘Tormented by,' maybe.”

“If you're a cylon, it means you're a robot who looks like a human,” I explained. “It's from
Battlestar Galactica
.”

“Like, ‘I-am-a-robot'?” he said robotically.

“No, they look and sound exactly like people. I guess she meant
you're acting inhuman, or cold, or something?” Weird that Posey, of all people, would have nerdish leanings.

“I always forget you're into comics.”

“It's a TV—never mind. What was the context?”

“I wouldn't help her out with something.”

I laughed. “I wouldn't worry about it. Posey's kind of hyperbolic.”

Ryder raised his eyebrows in agreement and flicked his cigarette to the pavement.

We were passing the old baseball diamond, and just by looking out there at the empty grass I could conjure up that sense of liberation and chaos and pure joy I'd experienced when Ryder threw the bat for me.

Despite the stench of cigarettes that clung to his clothes and the restless look in his eyes, it was impossible for me to separate the Ryder of today from the Ryder of Little League.

We reached Mobile Estates, the cruelest euphemism in the world, even worse than Inland Empire. Both terms slapped you in the face about how crappy things were and then told you to smile about it. If trailer parks were “estates” and sprawling, bankrupt counties with no future were “empires,” then “faking it and faking it hard” applied to society as a whole, not just Palm Valley High School. What a dismal revelation.

Did that mean I had to pretend to be a jock the rest of my life?

Ryder halted abruptly, so I did likewise. “Did you have a chance to think about what I said yesterday?” His tone had changed. We were being serious now.

“Maybe if I had more information …”

“So me asking you to back off isn't enough?” Ryder said.

He didn't wait for me to respond, just started walking again as though the matter were settled.

We entered his family's trailer and made ourselves comfortable at the table.

Ryder's older brother, Griffin, was in the other room, playing the latest Grand Theft Auto derivative. Muffled explosions, screams, and gunfire filtered out from under the door. Griffin had dropped out of school to work construction, but I don't think it took.

I was glad Griffin was in the other room. He always made me nervous.

Before we moved to Palm Valley, Ryder's mom used to teach home ec at Palm Valley High and Ryder's dad worked night security at one of the local military suppliers.

His dad got caught photocopying plans for the new vehicle barrier system, intending to sell them to a private contractor. It wasn't easy to find another job after that, particularly in the “Aerospace Capital of America,” where discretion is the first requirement. And when Ryder's mom was fired from teaching, thanks to Fresh Start, her husband had already been out of work for over a year.

Their house got foreclosed on, and Ryder's mom took a position working the front desk at the rental office for Mobile Estates. The position came with a place to live but almost nothing to live
on
. A longtime tenant harassed her at work on a daily basis. Ryder's dad
took care of the situation, leading to an assault charge; after a brief stint behind bars he was picked up again for fencing stolen auto parts at a chop shop.

Now Ryder's mom was in rehab for painkillers, and Ryder's dad was “vacationing” in North Lancaster prison; visiting hours were noon to five every other Saturday. My parents had offered to drive Ryder over there on a number of occasions, but he always declined. I don't think he'd seen the old man in years.

Ryder never blamed me for his family's problems, but Griffin was a different story. The day after my bike was tampered with and destroyed, Griffin asked where my wheels were, and when I told him what had happened, he smiled.

I hoped Ryder and I would be in, out, and done with lunch before Griffin saw fit to emerge from his cave.

Ryder took a fat money clip out of his back pocket and counted out four twenties. Eighty dollars, twice what he normally paid. Was I being bought off to forget about the flash drive?

“What's this for?” I said.

“I might need the window unlocked again on Wednesday. I trust you; I know you're good for it. I'll let you know, but either way you can keep it, just to be on standby.”

I couldn't argue with that logic. “Is that going to be a thing from now on, twice a week?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Can I ask what you need it unlocked for?”

“I don't know. Can you?” he said.

I played along. “What do you need it unlocked for?”

“Sure you want to know? Could make you an accessory.”

“Okay,
Criminal Minds
, I've been warned.”

“Mr. Donovan keeps the pop quiz schedule and practice exams in his drawer. I crawl in the window, copy everything down, replace the sheets, and sell the intel.”

I shook my head, impressed.
Of course
. Mr. Donovan wasn't some kind of
Stand and Deliver
svengali; he was the “best teacher at the school” because people knew about the tests in advance, and what would be on them. Mom would have a coronary if she found out.

“That's how I got hooked up with Maria Posey. Sometimes she pays, sometimes she … pays in other ways.” He didn't need to wink to get the point across, so he didn't.