Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (13 page)

I jump in my seat and turn.

Chapter 10

“
Heya, Blaze
.
”
 
Stok
e’
s leaning against the classroo
m’
s back wall, hands stuffed in his pockets.  He waves.
 “
So wh
o’
s earned my lad
y’
s wrath this morning
?
”

I narrow my eyes.
 “
Wher
e’
d you come from
?
” 

I left him sleeping on my couch this morning.  After walking me home last night, he would
n’
t leave like h
e’
d promised.  Instead, h
e’
d crashed on my couch, leaving me to search for Robin
.“
Too tired to go home
,”
h
e’
d said.  Like I was
n’
t too tired?  Like I did
n’
t need sleep?   

“
My lady
,”
Stoke says
,“
Do we not share the same crim class
?
” 

“
You mea
n—?
”

“
Yeah, I came to class and took the quiz, then went to Starbucks
.
”

“
Uh . . . great
,”
I say, burning with anger I ca
n’
t justify.  I
t’
s not his fault I did
n’
t get any sleep.  I
t’
s just that the whole situation irritates me.  Even if I had
n’
t spent the only time I had left last nigh
t—
or early this morning before clas
s—
searching for Robin, I could
n’
t have slept with Stoke camping out in my living room.

Trotting to the whiteboard, he pulls a Twizzler from his pocket.  I
t’
s left over from last night and pretty beat up.  Pretending i
t’
s chalk, he scrawls madly on the whiteboard.  Clipping his speech like Doctor Levin does, he shakes the Twizzler at me in mock rebuke.
 “
If you do
n’
t want to do the work, Ms. Colby, i
t’
s your life, not mine
,”
he says, leaving no doubt h
e’
s heard everything my prof and I discussed.

I keep trying not to blame Stoke, but the burning bubbles up from my belly and erupts like lava into my throat, so hot I ca
n’
t swallow.  Stoke made me stay and wipe that Coke truck last night, and then he slept on my couch.  Now h
e’
s not only rested, but h
e’
s sucki
n
’ down a Starbucks
and
h
e’
s managed to beat me to class and take the crim quiz. 

And now h
e’
s got the gall to laugh in my face, to mock our prof?

At times, my self appointed protector acts like a thoughtless punkass.  Right now, I want to strangle him.

“
Stop
,”
I say.
 “
Make fun of me if you want, but not Professor Levin.  I like him
.
” 

“
Sorry
,”
he says, fighting to sober his expression, stifling a cackle.
 “I’
ll help you study for our next quiz if yo
u’
d like
.
”
 
The next instant, completely ignoring the fact h
e’
s just apologized, h
e’
s slamming two books together, once again mocking Professor Levin shutting his briefcase.
 “
Do
n’
t want Polyanna losing her scholarship, do we
?
”

Stok
e’
s an honor studen
t—
hard to believe, but he is.  I am, too, or at least I was.
 “
Yo
u’
re an idiot
,”
I say.  Pulling down my hoodie sleeves and clasping my hands inside, I argue with myself. 
Why am I acting so hostile toward my friend?  H
e’
s just trying to cheer me up.
 

“
Sorry
,”
I say.
 “I’
m in a mood, okay
?
”
 
I get up from my desk.
 “
I gotta get outta here, Stoke
.
”
 
To escape you and your ugly face, your silly play acting. 
I do
n’
t say it.  I hate feeling like this.  I
t’
s unlike me to rag on my friends. 

“
Damn
!”
I stop in the classroom doorway on my way out. 

“
What
?
”
 
Stoke jams into me from behind, his hands all over my hips before he lets go with an
,“
Oopsie.  Sorry
.
” 

I turn, give him a sharp look.  Is he invading my personal space on purpose lately?  Or is it just me?
 “
You look . . . like . . . Versace in Goodwill grunge
,”
I say.  I
t’
s all I can think of at the moment. 
I’
m so shaken from the feel of his hands on my body.  I
t’
s one of those moments, when you realize your friend has a serious ick factor. 

Why do I feel so hateful toward him?

I rake my gaze across Stoke.  H
e’
s clean-shaven, had a shower.  He even got sleep.  That pisses me off all over again.

“
Thanks for the compliment, Blaze. 
I’
ve always loved Versace
.
” 

He tucks thumbs beneath the collar of his chocolate brown Goodwill fake leather bomber jacket.  He wears it, even though i
t’
s spring.  I take wry note of his butterscotch colored cords three inches too short and a red and orange striped scarf.  I especially hate the scarf.  It matches his socks.  What an amazing feat, those mated socks.  I imagine him pawing through Goodwill bins, searching for the only matching pair of ugly socks in Cincinnati. 

Stok
e’
s the most persistent person
I’
ve ever known, and pretty sneaky, too.  If he can avoid being kicked out of the universit
y’
s criminology program, h
e’
ll make a great CIA agent. 

“
You like
?”
he says, slinging the scarf with a cavalier swish around his neck. 

“
I
t’
s ugly
,”
I say, withholding my usual compliments, my do-gooder efforts to make my friend feel better about his grungy appearance.
 “
I
t’
s unflattering to your skinny weasel neck
.
”

I’
m searching for my backpack.  I forgot it in my rush to escape the classroo
m—
and Stoke.  I run back to my desk.
 “
I
t’
s not here.  Where is it
?
” 

“
Is this what yo
u’
re looking for
?
”
 
He walks over and kicks my backpack from beneath Professor Levi
n’
s desk.

“
You . . . you hid it on purpose to piss me off
.
” 

I lunge toward him, ready to choke Stok
e’
s scrawny neck.
 “
Do
n’
t ever do that to me again.  O.J
.’
s bank deposi
t’
s in there
,”
I hiss.
 “
I told you I have to get that money to the bank before he finds out i
t’
s gone
.
”

Stoke wags the Twizzler.  H
e’
s again poised to mock Professor Levin.  The string of candy looks limp and dangly,
not
a pretty image.
 “
Nah
,”
he says, i
t’
s not in your backpack
.
”

“
Wha
t’
re you talking about
?
”
 
I drop to my knees beside the desk, dig in my backpack for the blue rubber First Capital pouch with Oma
r’
s deposit, his money.
 “
I
t’
s gone.  Stoke, where is it
?
” 

Panicked, my heart thumping out of my chest, I shoot him a deat
h’
s head glare.
 “
If yo
u’
ve taken that mone
y
—”

“
You forgot to wipe the pouch before you left your apartment this morning
,”
he says.
 “
I worried Robin migh
t’
ve handled it last night when he came home and left his prints on it.  Do we want the cops thinking Robin robbed poor old Uncle O.J.
?
” 

“
N-n
o
—
”
I say, truthful.
 “
We do
n’
t
.
”

Robin has stolen from me befor
e—
to buy drugs.  I wish I could say
I’
d be surprised if he did it again, but I would
n’
t.  One thing puzzles me, though.  I stare at Stoke.  Did
n’
t he notice Robin never came home last night?  Maybe he did.  But who cares? 
I’
m just glad I kept him out of Robi
n’
s bedroom.  And mine.

“
So I wiped the pouch clean for you.  No sense making Robi
n’
s fingerprints a gift for the LEOs, is there
?
”
 
He looks pointedly at Detective Hawk
s
’ note, laying face-up on my desk where
I’
ve forgotten it.  Then he gives his hideous scarf an arrogant over-the-shoulder toss and says
,“
Blaze, I sense yo
u’
re angry with me, but if yo
u’
d studied for your crim quiz, yo
u’
d know all about trace evidence, like finger prints
.
”

“
I
know
about freaki
n
’ trace
,”
I say, my voice a dry hiss.  I hate him, but at the same time I feel like a jackass for thinking h
e’
s stolen O.J
.’
s deposit, when he was trying to help out Robin, who never looks out for himself.  I should be grateful, instead of pissed.

“
Just trying to help out your bro
.
”

“
Thanks, Stoke
,”
I say, butting my head with my hand.
 “
Oh, crap
!
”

“
What
now
?
”

“I’
ve got to be at work in half an hour
,”
I say.
 “I’
m going to be late
.
” 

I work at Verbote Dental part-time to supplement my paycheck from Oma
r’
s.  The jo
b’
s easy, does
n’
t require any thinking and, best of all, no physical activity, so I get rest.  Some days I actually sleep at my desk. 

“
Could you . . . make the deposit for me, Stoke? 
I’
ve got to be at work by eleven.  I know i
t’
s a lot to ask, but could you run back to my place an
d—?
”