Wanted (16 page)

Then she'll be all mine.

A heavy throb starts up on my right eyebrow above the bridge of my nose. I lie back on my pillow, pushing hard into the pain with two fingertips. After apologizing to an angry Dr. Hanson for “pretending” to be hypnotized, I left his office more freaked out about having Bonnie in my body than when I went in. If that's even possible. Not only did Dr. Hanson tell me that he didn't appreciate me wasting his time like that, he's going to tell my dad, I just know it.

Yeah. You almost balled that up back there.

Me? If it weren't for you blabbing about your first robbery, I wouldn't be in this trouble.

I already tole you I don't remember none of it, so stop your woolgathering and move on.

Whatever. Any lecture Dad gives me can't compare to knowing what would have happened if I told Dr. Hanson the truth—a minimum three-day stay under twenty-four-hour surveillance at a residential treatment center. I check my phone and find texts from both Anjali and Josie with a ton of pics from the prom and the Senior Picnic. Anjali wrote “Miss u, Roe!!” and Josie texted, “Isn't the same without u here, Moo-Moo!”

I text them back, telling them I miss them too. Wish they could help me figure out what to do, but as far as I know, neither of them has been inhabited by a dead outlaw either. If I don't figure this out soon though, they'll be best friends with one. For what seems like the ten-thousandth time, I rehash all that's happened, hoping to stumble upon some answers.

The number one thing that bothers me most is Milo's statement when he was in the trance. He had said an opportunity existed for Jack and I at the moment of death, but he didn't say
whose
death or
what
opportunity. I'd like to assume he didn't mean our deaths, but I'm not naive enough to believe that's not an option. When we go on the ghost bus tour tomorrow with the Half-Dead Society, I'm going to ask around about that. And finally, I want to figure out what Clyde's weakness is so that Jack can switch right back if Clyde ever takes him over again.

Give up, you bug-eyed Betty. Clyde ain't afraid of no one and no thing.

I squeeze my pillow as hard as I can. Is there a way to turn her off? Unless…

Who said he's afraid of something? I taunt. Maybe there's something he just can't resist.

Sure there is—me!

Bonnie lets out a hideous laugh, giving me a second to tuck that information away. Bonnie's weakness is definitely Clyde, no doubt about that, but is Clyde's weakness Bonnie? Or did she mean sex was his weakness? I roll my eyes. Isn't sex every guy's weakness?

It sure is. I still can't believe that my Chestnut is inside your fellow.

He's not my fellow. He's just a random guy who is as unlucky as I am.

I groan then, recalling her squeals of excitement after she found out Clyde was inside Jack back at the coffee shop.

Clyde is here?
she had said, letting out her hyena laugh.
Thank you, Lord! Now hurry up and find a way to reunite us so we can leave you two pills to fend for yourselves.

Then five minutes later…
Touch him! Maybe I can link with Clyde and get out of here!

And two minutes after that…
What are you waiting for?

And on and on and on until I finally told her that her constant interruptions were hurting, not helping, our mutual goal. That as soon as we could positively reunite them without harming ourselves, we'd do it. She let out a loud
harumph!
but stayed quiet. She obviously has figured out that using the choking strategy won't work anymore, because if I die, she dies. She's like a soul-sucking tapeworm who needs her human host to live. The thought sickens me.

When I mentioned to Jack that Bonnie thought that if I touched him, she could link to Clyde, he got all nervous and backed his chair away from mine—as if I was going to try it right then. He obviously thinks so highly of me. I said that, even though it was scary, maybe we should test it somehow. Maybe she actually could connect with Clyde and then they'd leave our bodies—isn't that what we wanted? To my surprise, Jack got totally pissed, bitching at me for five minutes straight about how much worse it was for him than for me. That I didn't realize how horrible it was to be inside your own head and not be able to control your own body and that he didn't want me touching him again until we knew for sure what would happen. Before I could say,
Hey, calm down, we're on the same team
, he crumpled up his cup and headed for the john.

When he finally came back, I told him he needed to start trusting me. And that if we worked together “everything would turn out all right in the end,” just like the saying goes. He didn't necessarily buy it, but at least he wasn't still mad at me. We decided to go home and spend the rest of the night researching Bonnie and Clyde, hoping to uncover some clues. Tomorrow we'd meet at 1:45
P.M.
at the Walgreens across the street from the Hard Rock. It felt good that we were doing something concrete instead of only talking about things.

I decide to private-message Milo on Facebook to see if anything new came up. When he doesn't answer, I spend the next three hours scanning a million websites about Bonnie and Clyde. I know where they lived (West Dallas, Texas), how many brothers and sisters they each had (Bonnie; one brother, one sister. Clyde; three brothers, three sisters), first arrests (Bonnie; age 22—burglary. Clyde; age 16—failing to return a rental car on time), and hobbies (Bonnie; fashion. Clyde; guns and cars).

When I hear the front door slam, announcing Dad's arrival home from work, I shut off my light and hop under the covers. There's no way I want to have a confrontation right now about the missing slugs or my awkward visit with Dr. Hanson. I lie still, faking sleep in case he pops his head in my room. I hear his footsteps stop outside my door, but after a few seconds, he heads down the hall to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I tiptoe across the room to plug in my phone to recharge, not daring to turn on the lights.

The next morning, I still have two hours until I have to meet Jack. After a shower, I decide on a red flared skirt and a white lace top, along with my silver cross necklace for good luck. Trying to be super quiet so as not to wake my dad, I eat a granola bar that's been on my dresser for weeks instead of messing around in the kitchen. After I print out all of Bonnie's poems, I glance at the time and freak out when I see it's already 1:25. How could I have been so careless? I rush around, shoving everything I need into my purse when there's a knock on my bedroom door.

Not now! “Yeah?” I ask, holding my breath.

“Can we talk?” It's Dad.

Does he know the truth? Did he talk to the Brownstone Brothers? I do a quick scan of my room to make sure there's nothing incriminating lying around. “I'm kind of in a hurry. I'm meeting some friends at Hard Rock for lunch in fifteen minutes. Can we talk later?” I bite my lip, hoping he goes for it. He doesn't.

“This will only take a second.”

I open the door to him standing there in his blue terrycloth bathrobe, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He leans against the doorjamb. “I received a rather disturbing e-mail from Dr. Hanson yesterday. Says you acted deranged during hypnosis and then laughed about it.”

“He said I acted deranged? Wow. Real nice, Dr. Hanson.” I roll my eyes. “And I didn't laugh about it. At least not the way you think. More out of awkwardness than ha-ha.” I head over to my bed and straighten the covers to have something to do other than look him in the eye.

“What happened exactly?” Dad steps into my room and rests his arm on top of my dresser. I pray that he doesn't look down into the garbage can. The plastic document frame that I stomped into pieces is inside.

“The hypnosis wasn't working, so I started saying stuff that I thought he wanted to hear, that's all.” I scurry around my room, gathering everything I need. Phone, notes, slugs, poem, printed voucher for the bus tour. I need to leave now or I'll be late.

“You thought he'd want to hear that you robbed a pharmacy in Texas?” he asks, his tone laden with sarcasm.

“Oh,
that
.” Warmth races up my face like a Ferrari. If I was ever going to come clean, now would be the time. Of course I don't actually have time to spare, not now. Should I, shouldn't I?

He raises his voice. “What do you mean, ‘oh that?' I'm paying good money for you to see him, hoping he could help you to sort things out before college, and that's all you have to say? He thinks medication might help, and suggests continued psychiatric treatment in New York.”

Okay, so definitely
not
sharing now. I whip around and face him. “Dad, no! I'm sorry I wasn't taking hypnosis seriously, but that doesn't mean I need medication! And definitely
not
continued therapy treatments at NYU. Dr. Hanson is exaggerating to make me look bad.” I sling my vintage black fringe purse over my head and arm so it lies diagonally across my body. I grab handfuls of tissue from my nightstand.

Dad narrows his eyes, keeping his lips tight. “Why would he do that?”

I fake-blow my nose and casually deposit the unused tissues into my garbage can, partially covering the plastic shards inside. That'll have to do. “Doctors like to make situations sound worse than they are so you have to keep going to them. If I earned two hundred bucks an hour, I'd make up shit about people too.”

“One-fifty an hour and watch your language.”

“Sorry, but seriously, I'm fine.” I give him my most reassuring smile. “Now please, can I go? I don't want to be late.”

“What time will you be home?”

I scoot past him. “Um, not sure,” I say, hoping to sound casual. “We're having lunch but afterward, we might head to Michigan Avenue or catch a Cubs game. I'll text you later, okay?”

“Don't forget.” He sips his coffee. “Stay out of trouble today.
Please
?”

Hearing the pleading tone in his voice makes a boulder form in my throat. “I will!” I race down the hall before he remembers to ask about the missing slugs. If only he knew how much trouble I was already in, he'd be choking on that coffee.
I'm so sorry, Dad,
I say in my head.
I'd explain more, but I don't want you to worry any more than you already are.

After catching Every. Single. Light, the cabbie finally drops me off in front of the Walgreens across the street from the Hard Rock. Jack's already there, standing just outside the entrance, wearing jeans and a black golf shirt. He looks at his watch and scans the street, his jaw tight like he's angry. I glance at the time on the digital marquee. 1:58! I start running. Stupid cab driver drove like it was his first day in Chicago. Probably was, knowing the typical cabbie.

The second Jack sees me, he starts jogging away from me and toward the tour bus. He waves his arm and shouts, neck tendons raised and taut, “Come on! Let's go!”

I run faster, catching up with him. “Sorry I'm late,” I blurt out, slightly out of breath.

“It's almost 2:00,” he snaps, glancing at me. “We'd better not miss it.”

“We won't. It's right there.” I point to a small school bus painted black with the words “Chicagoland Ghost Bus” painted in white along the sides. It waits at the curb kitty-corner from us. “I'm really sorry, but my dad sidetracked me at the last second. I had no choice.”

“Whatever. Just hurry!” he says, both of us out of breath from running.

“I am. It'll be fine.” I hope my confidence helps Jack stay calm. The last thing I need is to be face-to-face with Clyde Barrow himself. As soon as the green arrow lets the cars make their turn onto Ontario, we sprint across the street. Only one more street to cross and we'll be all set.

Jack jogs next to me. “And don't forget that Mr. Johnson knows my family. Don't slip and say anything weird. If anyone asks, we came on this tour because it's your sister and her husband that are inhabited by Bonnie and Clyde, not us.”

“I know. Ginger and Greg.” I want to remind him that I'm the one who came up with the alibi, but decide not to bring it up. He's mad enough at me already. A taxi turning right on red blares his horn at a messenger in a neon green vest riding fast through the intersection, making us wait. As soon as the road clears, we race across, only twenty yards to go. But before we can get there, the bus revs its engine and starts pulling away from the curb.

“Hey, wait!” Jack takes off running, waving his arms. “Stop! Stop the bus!” he screams.

An avalanche of dread blankets my body as I continue full-speed ahead, my lungs on fire. If we miss this bus, I'll have ruined everything. Jack pounds on the side as he runs alongside it, shouting.
Please, please stop
, I beg.

A moment later, the bus screeches to a halt with a loud
hiss
of air. The doors open and surprisingly, Jack waits for me on the bottom step to let me go ahead. As soon as I get on board, I hold my chest, gasping for air. I smile at the bus driver. “Thanks for waiting!”

The chubby black bus driver tips his gray, flat-topped hat. “No problem, miss.”

The bus has eight or ten rows of seats, all upholstered in the same blue-gray fabric. A middle-aged guy in the first row, dressed in a black t-shirt with the Ghost Bus logo on the breast pocket, leaps to his feet. “Looks like we have two more passengers. Welcome aboard!” He does a double-take. “Hey there, Jack! I wondered if you were still coming. Thought maybe you changed your mind.” He holds out his hand and Jack shakes it. Mr. Johnson turns to the group and says, “This is my son's best friend, Jack, who I've been trying to get to come on this thing with me for years. Everything changes when there's a pretty girl around, I guess.”