Yesterday's Stardust (34 page)

Yes.

What she’d wanted, twenty-some hours ago when the kiss thing seemed monumental, was assurance—that she hadn’t done the wrong thing, that a girl initiating the first kiss wasn’t the end of the world. That she just needed to be patient. He’d call.

But maybe he wouldn’t. She deleted the last sentence of her story, redid it three times, and sent it to Mitch.

“Great copy.”

Mitch leaned on her partition. Sleeves rolled up and tie askew, he looked like a Friday afternoon.

It took her a moment to realize he referred to the garage sale tycoons and not the story she’d just sent. “Thank you.”

“The kids’ mom sent an e-mail. They’ve been swamped with calls since yesterday.” He lifted his coffee mug in salute. “You’re making a difference.”

She held back her smile and refrained from explaining that what she’d had in mind was more along the lines of world peace and a cure for cancer. “I hope what they’re doing will inspire other kids.”
To get real jobs that don’t include guns and illegal substances.

Mitch nodded. “How are you doing on the Swamp story?”

“Still researching. I’ve established some good contacts. I did a ride-along with a police officer on Friday.”
And got rolled into a gang on Sunday.

“Can’t wait to read it. Keep up the good work.”

She sucked in her cheeks, poker-facing the end of their exchange. “Thanks. I’ll try.”
To stay out of jail.

Warring emotions made her punchy. Recollections of last night sent adrenaline coursing along nerve paths. Thoughts of Nicky spawned a whole different brand of jitters.

Another e-mail appeared in her inbox.

Did he kiss back?

She had far more pressing matters to decipher than the force of lips pressing hers.

He had kissed her back. Hadn’t he?

Wouldn’t he have called her by now if he had? Was it better if he didn’t? She hadn’t figured out a way to tell him about her double life, to show him she was doing it partly for Rena. If she was going to live across the street, Nicky had to know and had to swear to protect her cover. For Rena.

She had to figure it out and tell him face-to-face. Besides, they had to finish the diary.

She stared at the black words on her computer.
Did he kiss back?
With all the shades of gray she was dancing in these days, she needed one area of her life where she was totally transparent. At least to one person.

I think so.

She pushed S
END.
And then she pushed another button. The little green icon on her phone. Next to Nicky’s name.

His recorded voice made her heart fumble the next beat. She took a deep breath. “Hi. It’s Dani. Um…I have something to talk to you about, and it’s time sensitive, and I can’t tell you on the phone. And, yeah…about that k—what I did… I’m sorry. Can we get beyond the awkward and finish the diary? Call me.” Only then did she glance at the slow-moving time on her screen. She’d just done the equivalent of someone calling her at four in the morning. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t look at the time. It’s not even eleven, and you’re probably sound asleep. I hope your phone is off and I didn’t wake you. I’m sorry. Guess I said that, didn’t I? Okay then. Bye.”

Face flaming like a tiki torch, she ended the call. And began the wait.

Monday. Six p.m. He still hadn’t called.

Dani added two things to her list and told herself not to overthink it.

Dishes, silverware, lamp, sheets, towels, futon mattress.
Survival gear for a double life. She crossed off each necessity as she shoved it into a box or on top of the pile in Agatha’s back seat. She’d already made one trip to her new digs with hair supplies, makeup, books, and a week’s worth of jeans and T-shirts. She planned on stopping back at her Third Avenue place to change clothes before and after work every day. It didn’t seem smart to keep skirts and heels in her new place. Could blow her cover. She’d found a special at Walgreens on spray-in hair color. Wild red. Three cans for twelve dollars.

Could she get a story in three cans?

After fighting with the futon through the living room and halfway across her kitchen floor, she surrendered. “You win.” She’d settle for a pile of blankets. Flopping across the futon, she stared up at the ceiling fan and wondered again why she hadn’t asked Evan to help.
Because he’d stop you, dummy.

Evan didn’t know she was moving. Neither did Anna. Technically, she wasn’t actually moving, she was visiting—hanging out after work and on weekends. The landlord had agreed to month-to-month and hadn’t even asked for references. A working vacation, that’s what it was. She could afford the rent on both places for a few months, but her goal was to have the story in by September, to time it with school starting—she’d make a heart-wrenching contrast between the lives of these kids and the dog walkers in their satin jackets.

She dragged the futon back to its frame, pulled three blankets from the linen closet, and took a plate, a bowl, and a cup from the kitchen cupboard. She wasn’t planning on entertaining.

“Chi can live with you.”

Venus didn’t seem like the type to make idle threats.

Neither did Yamile.
“We’ll meet at your place from now on.”

She started another list.
Paper plates, plastic cups, toilet paper, pizza, soda…
How many Sisters were there again? Having them in her apartment would be the best way to get to know them and still have some control. Maybe. She thought once again of the girls sitting on Trish’s bed and imagined slumber parties with pierced and tattooed “chicks” crashed on the floor from one end of the apartment to the other.
Pardon me, Venus, but would you mind snuffing out that joint? Yamile, honey, I thought I said no alcohol. Leah, watch the language. Rena, turn the music down. I’m really not fond of rap. Boys? Who invited boys?

This was a bad idea.

But it was a necessary idea. The only way she’d get the story angle she wanted.
Ladies and gentlemen, as I write this, I am embedded with the notorious Seven Sisters in an undisclosed Kenosha neighborhood. This is a part of this beautiful harbor city few ever see. The scene before me is not one you’ll find on tourist brochures, but this, ladies and gentlemen, is the sad reality for far too many of our youth whose potential will never be realized thanks to
—Her phone buzzed. Nicky?

Vito.

“Hi Vito, how’s my angel?”

“The question is, how are you? Did I just see Agatha at the house where that kid shot himself?”

“Ah…yes. I was working on a story.”

“Funny, looked to me like you were moving in.”

“Really?”

“I dropped Lavinia off to get an order at Bracciano and drove around the block, and I see you carrying in a box, and I see a guy taking down the rent sign. I didn’t stop ’cause I didn’t want Lavinia to know. She’d go nuts. You need money? A place to stay? We got two empty bedrooms. You know—”

“Thank you. That’s so sweet. I’m not really moving, I’m just…hanging out for a little while to work on a story.”

“Bad idea.”

I just said that.

“Does Metzger know?”

“No. Vito, I need you to keep this a secret. Especially from Todd. Please? It’s just for a couple of weeks. I’ll be fine. I’m a kickboxer, you know.”

She could swear she heard him spit. “Fat lot of good that’ll do against a .45. Just the other night a guy busted into somebody’s apartment in Wilson Heights with a gun and—”

“I’ll be careful. Besides, I’ve got Nicky right across the street.”

Another spitting sound. “That kid can’t even keep his own fam—” He sighed and said something in Italian she probably didn’t want translated. “I’ll keep it to myself, but you better believe I’m going to be watching you. And you better answer your phone every time I call, you hear? If I so much as hear somebody on that block sneeze too loud, I’m calling you, and then I’m calling the cops. Got it?”

“Got it.” She stretched and rubbed a sore spot on her foot. “Vito? Thank you. It’s nice to know you got my back.”

A snort sounded in her ear and he hung up.

Dani put two dish towels and a pot holder in the drawer between the aqua sink and the white stove then walked through her new vacation home. A pile of folded quilts lay on the floor of the bedroom. On the ridiculously remote chance that China came to live with her, there were more blankets in the closet.

She hadn’t thought about curtains. There were blinds on the windows facing the street, but the rest of the windows were bare. She hung bath towels over bent white curtain rods then peered between the slats in the blinds and around the crack running down the center of the living room window at the neon
CLOSED
sign in the window across the street. Bracciano was dark and silent. Like the man who worked there. What was Nicky doing on his night off? What was he thinking? About her? About her question? She’d said she was praying, and she was. Over and over.
Lord, help him. Help him open his heart enough to let You in.

Would there be a moment in the middle of whatever he was doing when he’d stop and think about that kiss? Would he smile or swipe his lips with the back of his hand to erase the memory?

She let the gap in the blinds close.

The apartment walls had all been repainted, but she’d set a green and white webbed lawn chair in front of the place where the stain had been. She hadn’t sat in it yet. Would it be creepier to look at the spot where Miguel had died or to sit on it?

Scuffed and worn wood floors whined under her feet. A toilet flushed downstairs. Seconds later her landlord laughed. She’d heard the intro music to
M*A*S*H
on one of her trips up the stairs. Working up the courage to sit in her lawn chair, she turned on the floor lamp she’d taken from her “real” living room and pulled out her voice recorder, legal pad, and iPod. She searched for the right song to fit her mood. As Eddie Vedder sang “Longing to Belong,” someone knocked on her door.

Her heart skipped a beat then stumbled back to normal rhythm.

“I’ll be fine. I’m a kickboxer, you know. Besides, I’ve got Nicky”—who doesn’t know I’m here and will kill me himself when he finds out—“across the street.”

She parted the dotted swiss curtain a fraction of an inch. Rena. She opened the door.

“Hope this is okay,
Cerise.”
She walked in with Yamile, Venus, Leah, and three girls Dani thought she’d seen at the bonfire.

“Hey. Sure.” In her own apartment, unfamiliar though it was, she found it hard to shift into tough-girl mode.

Yamile pointed at her shoulder. “Thought you had a tat.”

Busted.
“It was fake. Just figuring if I wanted it or not.”

“Do it.” It sounded more like a command than an opinion. She pulled aside the strap of her tank top, showing off her 7 with a snake-like
S
coiling around the bottom—at least twice the size of Rena’s. “Need this, too.”

Dani gulped and nodded. “Sorry I don’t have a place to sit. I’m just…” Her thought trailed to silence as the girls hauled all of her blankets into the living room.

Venus plopped on a folded blanket and leaned against the wall. “Doesn’t it gross you out that somebody shot himself here?”

She opened her mouth to deny it—a lie—when a girl with stringy blond hair streaked with green made a retching sound. “Where was it? Where did he do it?”

Reminding herself she wasn’t supposed to know, Dani asked if anyone wanted pizza. Just like a sleepover.
And then we can do each other’s nails. Sorry, fresh out of black.

Like the queen overseeing her minions, Yamile sat in the folding chair with her arms perched on the arm rests. At least a dozen rings adorned each hand. Probably more purposeful than fashionable. Street-girl brass knuckles. “I couldn’t live here,” she said.

Leah stretched out on the floor and clutched her throat then let out a wicked laugh.
“You
couldn’t live here, but you told Chi to move back in. As if she wasn’t already psycho.”

“Chick’s gotta crash somewhere.”

Dani wiped her palms on her jeans and edged toward the kitchen. No one had answered her pizza question.