The Girl Is Murder (13 page)

She looked like she was about to laugh. “Um, no. You’ve met me, right?”

She had a point. “Did you start the rumor that Rhona was pregnant last year?”

A V formed between her eyes. “Why would you ask that?”

“She seemed to think you had.”

“You talked about me?”

“She’d seen us together and asked about you.”

“So you told her she’s nuts, right?”

Was she? It didn’t escape my notice that Pearl hadn’t denied the accusation. If she had a crush on Tom and Tom had started seeing Rhona, ruining the reputation of his new girlfriend might have seemed like a great idea. “I didn’t exactly know you back then, Pearl. I mean, if she was talking about something that happened last week, sure, I’d defend you. But this was a year ago.”

She let the cake fall back to its wrapping. “I’m the same person I was a year ago.”

That was impossible. Even if her brother hadn’t died and her weight hadn’t ballooned, no one was exactly the same person they were a year ago. “I just changed the subject,” I told her. “But I thought you should know that Rhona thinks the story started with you. She seemed pretty upset about it.”

“Well, thanks, I guess. For letting me know.” She wrapped up the cake. She was done with it. Whatever appetite she’d had had been killed the minute I mentioned Rhona. “I should return the file by the end of the day. Can you meet me right after school?”

“Absolutely,” I told her.

I SPENT THE AFTERNOON with Tom’s file hidden inside my American History textbook. There was a lot to go through. The first pages were his attendance records, meticulously filled out in blue ink. In the past year and a half, he’d racked up almost thirty days of unexplained absences, and an equal number of tardies. Letters had been sent home, the carbon copies of which were retained for his file. After stating his concern over Tommy’s extraordinary number of days away, Principal Deluca asked for an explanation and a meeting. In return he got letters that had clearly been forged. Tom’s “mother” described a number of health problems plaguing her son, ranging from colds and infections to much more dire things like polio and rubella. There was also a record of at least one phone call from Mrs. Barney, though it was clear from the notes pinned to the message slip that the recipient had doubts about whom they were talking to. Whoever it was reiterated poor Tom’s failing health and promised to give her son a good talking-to about the importance of completing his education.

You could almost hear the laughter those letters and that call had to cause, especially for the people writing them (Suze? Rhona? Whoever it was dotted their i’s with a small circle). Eventually, the principal seemed to realize that the meetings he requested were never going to happen and the letters he sent would always be intercepted. Although he continued to write to Tom’s parents, the tone in the most recent letters changed from that of one authority figure addressing another to that of a concerned administrator addressing a student whom he wasn’t quite ready to give up on. “While I am sympathetic to the changes that have occurred in Thomas’s life over the past year, I do hope he understands that continued absences might result in his failing to graduate with his class. I would hate for him to have to repeat a grade, especially since his work shows such promise when he does bother to step into the classroom.”

He wasn’t exaggerating Tom’s potential. The proof was in the next several pages in the folder: Tom’s report cards. Given his friends, I would’ve expected a slew of C’s and an occasional D or F, but Tom was almost exclusively a B student. In the area that allowed for teacher commentary, instructor after instructor lauded his innate intelligence while taking him to task for not applying himself. Three years before, when he was still Paul Levine’s best friend and preferred pressed pants to the zoot, his grades had been A’s.

The last items in the folder were a slew of discipline reports, authored by teachers who’d broken up fights in the hall. While Tom was present at each incident, along with two other boys, he never received any disciplinary action. Why? Had his friends insisted he was an innocent bystander and saw to it that he got off?

It was impossible to tell for sure, though one teacher hinted at a possible explanation in his description of a fight Tom had been present at. “It’s a shame Mr. Barney continues to associate with troublemakers and ne’er-do-wells. It’s obvious that he possesses a slippery moral character that makes him fall easily under the influence and sway of others. While I have no doubt he was not a participant in the above-described activity, especially given eyewitness statements, it’s clear he wishes himself to be thought a thug capable of these grievous offenses. It pains me to think what may become of him in another year or two if he continues down this path.”

If that was true, maybe he had committed the locker thefts to prove he was just as tough as his friends?

It was enough to make my head spin.

So what had I learned? Tom Barney was smart, liked to skip school, and wanted to be where the action was. Even though nobody had ever seen him do anything wrong—or at least had the courage to report that they had—he wanted people to think he was as tough as the boys he associated with.

How did someone who defined himself through the opinions of others just disappear?

I MET PEARL at four o’clock on the school steps. With the kind of discretion Sherlock Holmes would’ve killed for, I slid the folder inside my American History book and exchanged her text for mine.

“Thanks,” I said. “That was swell of you.”

We fell into step together and headed toward the office. “Learn anything?” she asked.

“A lot, though I don’t know that any of it has anything to do with why he disappeared. He appears in a lot of the write-ups for things two other boys were collared for, but he never got punished for any of them. Not even detention. Why do you think that is?”

“Who were the boys who got the blame?”

I checked my notes. “Benicio and Bernadino.”

“Ah, Benny and Dino. They’re the two Italian boys who are always with Suze and her crew.” She paused near a row of lockers. Already the halls were virtually empty, but this didn’t seem like the kind of conversation we should have in the vicinity of the principal’s office.

“So why did they get blamed and he didn’t?”

“Probably because he’s pale instead of tan and his last name doesn’t end in a vowel.”

“Seriously?”

“That counts for a lot around here,” said Pearl.

“Then why did he bother getting involved in what Benny and Dino were doing? For the thrill?”

Pearl licked her lips. “Back when Tom and Paul were pals he always seemed like he wanted to please my brother. He was that way with me, too. But then after his brother went to jail, it was like something snapped and he decided it wasn’t worth trying to be perfect anymore. Paul told me Tom’s father was pretty tough on him, more so after Michael was arrested. If you can’t please someone no matter how hard you try, at some point it might seem easier to go ahead and become the thing they think you’re going to be. Either way, you’re going to disappoint them.”

I knew what that was like. I’d felt that way myself a time or two. “So do you think that’s why he broke into the lockers? To prove he was exactly what everyone thought he was going to be?”

“Probably.” Pearl seemed distant. I got the feeling that she wanted to stop talking to me and go on her way.

“I’m sorry about what I said about Rhona,” I told her. “I should’ve defended you.”

“Why? Like you said, it wouldn’t have made sense for you to stick up for me. And I couldn’t care less what she thinks about me, anyway.”

I doubted that was true. Pearl struck me as the kind of person who cared deeply about how others felt about her.

She thumped her chubby fingers across the top of the textbook. “Maybe on Saturday we could get together. Talk about what happened on Friday night.”

“All right.”

“We could sleep over at my place. You’d have to put up with Paul, but I know my mother would love to meet you.”

“I’ll ask my pop, but I can’t imagine a reason in the world why he’d say no.”

We parted ways at the office door. As she disappeared inside to return the file, I wondered if it was possible that Rhona was wrong about Pearl. Or was I being naïve because I wanted to believe that my brand-new best friend wasn’t capable of lying to me like I lied to her?

CHAPTER

9

FRIDAY NIGHT WAS ALL I could think about for the next two days. My nerves were swiftly replaced by my excitement about going somewhere forbidden. What would the club be like? Would people be smoking? Drinking? Would the music be so loud that I couldn’t think? Would they even let me in?

Friday at lunch, just as Pearl and I were debating whether Deanna Durbin was a better actress than Shirley Temple, Suze came over and greeted me with a wide smile. “Feeling better?” she asked.

My own smile matched hers. Was that a mistake? “Some,” I said. I offered Pearl a sidelong glance. She was staring at Suze as if Rita Hayworth had just parachuted out of a plane and decided to join us.

Suze slid next to me on the bench. “No more news?”

“Not a peep.” I didn’t want to talk about this in front of Pearl, so I swiftly changed the subject. “Are we still on for tonight?”

“If you’re game, so are we. How about we meet at my aquarium at eight?” She gave me an address that wasn’t far from where we lived.

I could sense Pearl’s longing to be included. It radiated off her like heat. I think Suze sensed it, too, because she smiled Pearl’s way and introduced herself.

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Pearl.

“Likewise,” said Suze. “I better beat tracks. See you at eight.” Once she left, I tried to pick up my conversation with Pearl from where we’d left off, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“She wears a lot of makeup.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Do you think she stuffs her bra?”

“Beats me.” It didn’t seem fair to talk about Suze behind her back.

“What news was she asking about?” she asked.

“What?”

“She asked if you’d had any more news.”

She’d picked up on that? Boy, howdy—Pearl was a lot more perceptive than I gave her credit for. “I think it’s just an expression like, ‘Hey, Joe, what do you know?’”

Pearl’s face made it clear she wasn’t buying it, but it didn’t look like she was up for pursuing it further, either. “You must be excited about tonight,” she said.

I was, but it didn’t seem like I should admit it. “I’m more nervous than anything.”

“What are you going to wear?”

I’d spent half the night worrying over that very subject. I couldn’t bring myself to spend Pop’s money, not after my stripped-down tale of where I was going that night. Besides, what did girls wear to dance clubs in Harlem? “I haven’t really thought about it yet.”

“I can’t believe your pop’s letting you go.” She unraveled her lunch bit by bit. Today’s dessert was some sort of nut-encrusted roll that smelled of honey.

“He doesn’t exactly know.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“I told him we were going dancing.” I didn’t bother to tell her that she was part of that “we.” “He didn’t ask where and I didn’t volunteer it.”

“Oh.” She looked concerned. I understood where she was coming from. Lying to a parent was a big deal, even if it wasn’t lying so much as omitting important details. “I guess you didn’t tell your mother, either?”

“My mother’s dead.”

Her sandwich fell, limply, onto its waxed paper wrapping. “Seriously? You never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

Her forehead furrowed. “Why would I ask something like that?”

I shrugged. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

“Sure.” She paused long enough to let me know that no other subject could possibly be as important as this to her. “It just seems strange. I mean, you knew about Peter. Why wouldn’t you tell me about your mother?”

Because it wasn’t the same? Because I thought I’d shared enough when I told her about what had happened to Pop? “I just didn’t,” I said.

“How did she die?”

She wasn’t going to let this drop, was she? Couldn’t she see how uncomfortable the topic made me? What was it going to take? “She killed herself.” There. Subject closed, I hoped.

“When?”

I was reminded of Grace Dunwitty and all the other girls I used to consider my friends, circling me like sharks while they made their consolation call at our uptown apartment. After they left, Aunt Miriam had told me that they were young and didn’t know any better than to ask prurient questions (“What was prurient?” I’d asked her; “Rude,” she’d replied), but I knew that wasn’t the case. These were good girls from good homes. They knew better. But Mama’s death had devalued me in their eyes. They no longer had to be tactful to someone like me. Scandal invited inquiry.

I dropped my silverware onto my plate and gathered my things. “She did it on New Year’s Eve. In a hotel room. She took a bunch of pills. I don’t know why she did it. No, she didn’t leave a note. She wasn’t depressed that I knew of, but then after hearing that my father had lost his leg, who knows what was going through her head. I have to go.” I stood to leave. Pearl put her hand on mine and gently pushed my lunch tray back onto the table.

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“You’re acting like I lied to you,” I said.

“I don’t think you lied. I just find it weird that you didn’t tell me, that’s all.”

“Just like you didn’t tell me that you have a crush on Tom Barney?” It felt like a low blow, but I didn’t care. Her lips fluttered but she didn’t respond. “There are some things I just don’t want to talk about, all right?”

“All right,” she said. Her voice was soft and full of regret. For a while we ate in silence, though it was obvious neither of us had any appetite left. As I sat there, trying to down the salty, greasy pasta that was that day’s lunch, I felt terrible. Of course Pearl was curious. Who wouldn’t be? Was it really fair to bite her head off over it? I almost said as much, but right then she looked up at me and asked, “Is that why you lied to my brother about being Jewish?”