Ms. Zephyr's Notebook (14 page)

On one end of the bench was a pile of newspapers, neatly folded. Logan lay down and spread the papers over his legs as best he could. Too dark to read any more of the notebook, he listened to the plastic blow around outside the window and tried to push thoughts of his rugby team out of his mind. What about driving? He could think about that. His mom had signed him up to start lessons in the spring, but he didn't need them. He knew how to drive, not that it really mattered. The chances of getting a car from his dad likely evaporated when he didn't make the team. No rugby scholarship. No beaming father.
Life sucks and then you die, Dad, he thought. Haven't you figured that out by now?

He didn't want to think about his dad, shacked up with his new secretary-slash-girlfriend in Denver. His dad had probably heard all about Logan getting booted off the team by now.

Logan shivered a little and tucked his left arm under his head. He'd think about the lists of cars he had made for Abbie. Right. That was safer. He'd dig through her notebook and read them over again in the morning to see if he'd changed his mind at all. Maybe he needed to reconsider a few newer models. Maybe the Zephyr
merited a place on the list after all — just because. And thinking of running boards and gull wings, Logan fell asleep with Abbie's notebook as his only pillow against the hard wood of the old bench.

It was like someone was touching his face, over and over again. Maybe butterfly wings or a feather tickling him. Butterfly feathers? Whatever it was, it was damn irritating. Logan reached up to brush it away and cold shot though him like ice water in his veins. He sat up, immediately awake, the pages of a newspaper pooling around his feet on the cement floor.

The butterfly wings had been snow. In the night the plastic had blown off the tiny window above the door and now the snow swirled in — the same big fat flakes filling the air outside. The sky through the glass was now white instead of black, so it must be daylight, though there was no sign of sun. It was cold enough in here for the snow to skiff across the floor — not melting. But under his makeshift blanket of newspapers it had been warm — or at least warm enough to offer Logan the peace of a few hours slumber, anyway.

He propped his elbows on his knees and tried to rub a bit of the sleep from his eyes. His mouth tasted like a dragon had slept in it. He grinned a little at the thought of what his dad would have to say if he knew Logan had slept on a wooden bench inside an abandoned
storefront. He wasn't quite sure of the actual words, but he knew what the tone of voice would be. Loud. And his mother would want to raise money for a shelter for the disadvantaged. Or contribute to a food bank. She had a soft heart and the truth was he loved her for it. She was his mother, after all. But she had no damned sense. So busy solving other people's problems.

Logan's own problems came flooding back to him. He needed to talk to Kip in case Cleo had contacted him. And he needed to get something warm inside him, because the river of ice in his veins was making him sleepy again. And that kind of sleepy in this kind of cold was not a good thing.

Shadows moved in among the snowflakes swirling out on the street and Logan thought a cup of tea from The Bean and Gone might be just the thing while he used their internet connection. His body creaked as he stood up, so he stretched and then paused a moment to collect the newspapers into a pile, leaving them neatly on the bench. Someone else might need them — someone who probably didn't have the price of a cup of tea to warm themselves after a cold night. He pulled his hat down low and yanked up his hood as he slid sideways through the broken board. He had to quit thinking like that; he was starting to sound like his mother.

The Bean and Gone was bustling as commuters stopped for coffee on their way to work. In Clearwater, the snow might fly and the slush might pile but life still muddled on.

It had taken him a while to figure out, but now it seemed so obvious where she was headed. And he was sure that as soon as her family found out she was missing, they would figure it out, too. But who knows? Maybe her family were as out of touch as Cleo said they were. In her mind there was only one person who knew her and loved her for herself. And maybe now she needed her Nona more than ever before. But Nona was pretty sick. And time was short.

Logan sat down at an internet station and tucked his tea carefully into the cup-holder off to one side. He was the only customer using a computer — two others sat idle. He clicked onto the internet and focussed on the screen.

No new mail. Freakin' Tom. Logan counted messages in his sent file. Three unanswered messages. Some great friend and supporter Tom turned out to be. And nice of the coach to keep in touch, too. Logan sighed and leaned his head onto his hand for a moment. Sometimes it just felt like too much to deal with. Everything had changed. Nothing was safe or easy anymore. But Cleo wasn't safe right now either. He sat up and pushed the feelings away for another time. He'd deal with all the crap in his life later. Right now he had a job to do.

Time to Google. He flipped open the back of Abbie's
notebook. Inside the back cover, she had basic information logged in neat rows. Names, phone numbers, e-mail, family names, next of kin.

He ran his finger down the column to Cleo's name.

Name: Cleopatra Jones. Nickname: Jacqueline. (Abbie had put a little smiley face beside the word. She obviously thought it was cuter than he did.) Special people: Mother — Donna-Fay; Grandmother — (Nona) Sophia Jones.

Okay, he knew her name already from Cleo's essay. What about an address or a phone number?

But there was nothing. Still, how many Sophia Joneses could there be in a tiny place like this? He could probably look her up in the phone book in seconds.

Logan flipped screens to log into his instant message account. He hit the enter button and immediately there was a message.

There was a pause while Kip typed his reply. Logan sipped his tea and took a bite of the banana bread he'd bought for breakfast. The kid was a slow typist with too much to say. Deadly combination. A burly man with a heavy beard sat down at the internet station next to Logan's and started typing at a high rate of speed.
That's what Kip needs to learn
, thought Logan as his reply chime finally rang.

Logan closed his eyes and nearly groaned aloud. So the cops were in the picture after all. How long would it take for them to call the local detachment here and grab Cleo? But he was here and they weren't — the advantage might not be all theirs just yet. He typed a reply as quickly as he could.

Logan flipped open his e-mail again. Still nothing. He clicked the “create message” button.

To:
[email protected]
From: [email protected]

Hey, Tom. Howareya? Maybe you heard I missed the tryouts. Coach called me to say I'm off the team. Guess there's always next year…

His stomach suddenly sour, he leaned back in his seat to toss the rest of his banana bread in the garbage. What was the use? There wasn't really any more to say. He had to roll his chair forward a little as someone pushed by to get to the last open internet terminal. Logan stared glumly at the screen for a minute and then reached over and punched the delete key. Tom and the rest of the team had moved on. And next year? What a joke. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Crohn had landed in his gut and had no plans to leave anytime soon. He'd be lucky if he even made team waterboy.

The chime sounded again.

Logan leaned forward in his chair.