Between the Notes (5 page)

I
didn’t see James for the rest of the day. But Lennie was suddenly everywhere. Grinning, leering, sneering, materializing out of nowhere—like my own personal Cheshire cat. Sometimes he was surrounded by his friends, the moving boys from Saturday morning. But fortunately, Lennie was the only one who seemed to remember me.

Reesa noticed one of his more blatant stares when we passed him in the hall on the way to chemistry. “Who’s that?”

“Nobody,” I said too quickly.

She turned to get a better look. “What’s his name, Lizinsky? Lewinski? Isn’t he, like, a drug lord or something?”

“No idea. Can I borrow your psych notes? I kind of zoned out during that ethics lecture.”

“Sure.” She dug a notebook out of her bag as we were walking. “But why is that guy . . .”

“Can we not talk about him, please? He stared at me. End of story.” I walked ahead of her without taking the notebook.

She hurried to catch me. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Seriously?” I wanted to bang my head repeatedly against the lockers.

She rolled her eyes and handed me the notebook. “Don’t be so sensitive.”

“Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one ripped from your home and thrown to the wolves. You act like nothing’s changed, like I’m just . . . I don’t know, having a bad hair day or something.”

She glanced up at my hair. “Well, you kind of are. And you
told
me to act like nothing had changed. Remember?”

“I told you not to
tell
anyone. There’s a difference.”

Reesa took a deep breath and exhaled it loudly. “Obviously, whatever I say is going to be the wrong thing, so I’m just going to shut up.” Now she was the one walking away from me.

“You didn’t even call me,” I mumbled to her back.

She spun around. “You don’t have a phone!”

“Shh! Do you have to announce it to everyone?”

Reesa closed her eyes and spoke low. “You’re in a mood. I get that, and I get why. But you need to stop acting like a crazy person. Okay? We’re going to be late.”

I followed her down the stairs to our last class and tried my best to act like a noncrazy person, fully engaged in the wonders of science. But my mind kept straying to my next challenge: retrieving my bicycle from the hedges at the end of the day without attracting further attention.

And when the final bell rang fifty minutes later, I dodged my
way to an upstairs bathroom to avoid my friends, who might notice if I didn’t head out to catch a bus or a ride home. I waited for a turn at the mirror. Reesa wasn’t kidding about bad hair day. I scrounged through my backpack for something to tie it back, but all I could find was one of those big black-and-silver metal binder clips. I grabbed a fistful of hair and clipped it back. It looked . . . well, pretty stupid. But it would keep my hair out of my face on the ride home. My standards were clearly falling already.

The hallway had grown quiet. Aside from a few kids sitting around some lockers at the far stairs, the coast was clear. I started walking toward them, but Mr. Cook, the assistant principal, appeared at the end of the hall and started interrogating them. I dived for the nearest door and ducked inside.

Mr. Cook was notorious for giving detention, and that was the last thing I needed. The room I’d entered was pitch-dark. I stood, not moving, just listening for footsteps and trying not to breathe too loud. Behind me, in whatever this room was, something was dripping. It started to freak me out, so I swept my hand along the wall until I found a switch. A long fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating a storage room with floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with cardboard boxes and big multipacks of toilet paper. The drip was coming from a utility sink in the corner.

Beyond the supply shelves was a long, narrow hallway. It was too dark to see exactly where that led, but I noticed another small room off to the side. It was a tiny little sitting room, a break room for the janitor, maybe? It had a table and lamp, which I switched
on, and an orange faux-leather chair like the ones in the library (only this one had a tear in it that was patched with duct tape). The wall was lined with shelves that were empty except for a few boxes of paper clips. The discovery gave me a little tingle, like I’d stumbled upon the secret tunnels of Vanderbilt High.

I closed the door and sat in the chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. The cement walls blocked out every sound from the outside world. It was the perfect place to hide after school. All I’d need was a few good books to pass the time. I pulled out the beaten-up copy of
The Great Gatsby
I had in my backpack from a summer reading project and set it on the shelf—a little start to my secret reading room. I switched off the lamp and closed the door as I left.

It had been ten minutes, and the hallway was eerily quiet and empty now. My pink Chucks squeaked along the waxed linoleum. When I reached the double doors, I hesitated. Someone was in the stairway. I peered through the little window and saw the one person I least wanted to see:
Lennie.
He was talking to some guy wearing a black slouch hat.

“It’s top quality,” Lennie said, handing him a small paper bag.

Slouch Hat looked into the bag, then rolled it up and shoved it in his front pocket. “How much?”

“Twenty.”

The kid took a bill from his wallet and handed it over. “I’ll call you if I need more. I know some guys who might want to check out your stuff, too.”

“You know where to find me,” said Lennie.

Oh, my God.
I ducked down so they wouldn’t see me through the window. Had I just witnessed what I thought I’d witnessed?
Unbelievable.

The door pushed against me and I jumped back. “Ahhh!”

“Emerson,” said Lennie. “Can I help you?”

I stepped away. “No.”

He came through the door, letting it swing shut behind him. “Were you spying on me?”

“Of course not.” I glanced behind me, now wishing Mr. Cook would appear. “I was just leaving.”

I attempted to walk past him to the door, but he sidestepped into my path, glaring down at me. “What are you doing here?”

I remembered what someone once told me about vicious dogs. They could smell your fear. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin. “I might ask you the same thing!”

He nodded. “You might. And I
might
have a very good answer.”

“Such as?”

“Such as I help out in the au-to-mo-tive shop after school.” He articulated the word like he was trying to sound aristocratic. “Fully approved and sanctioned by the administrative powers that be. And you?”

“None of your business,” I said, desperately wishing I’d had a better comeback, something that seemed to escape me whenever I was in Lennie’s presence.

“Better be on your way, then.” He glanced up at the big, round
clock that hung over the doorway. “Mr. Cook is due to pass through here on his daily rounds in approximately two minutes.”

My eyes widened. He had it all timed perfectly.

“Unless you want a ride,” he added, grinning.

“No, uh . . . I don’t think so.” I brushed past him to get to the door. As I started to pull it open, he slid his heavy boot in the way. I stared down at it, fingers squeezing the door handle so tight my knuckles went white.

“It’s just a ride,” he said in a low voice. “I wasn’t asking you out or anything.”

I swiveled my head to look up at his face, which was now inches from mine. “That’s not what I thought. I would never think that.”

The grin that had been taunting me through most of our conversation fell from his face. He pulled his foot out of the way. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

My heart was now thumping visibly through my shirt, I was sure of it. I yanked the door open and nearly flew down the stairwell. I was almost to the bottom when I heard the door above swing open again.

Lennie called out, “Love what you’ve done with your hair, by the way!”

I put a hand to my head, felt the giant binder clip, and groaned inwardly as I pushed through the doors to the downstairs hallway.

I
pedaled home. Fast. My legs screamed. All I kept thinking was that I had to beat Lennie home. I didn’t want him there waiting to taunt me again. I’d also nearly forgotten about the twins’ bus, and the disaster it would be if I didn’t arrive in time to greet them. Mom was usually there, but she had an interview today for a job at a newspaper. I bumped onto our gravel road just as the bus squeaked to a stop and deposited Kaya and Brady at my wheel, along with a handful of other kids from the neighborhood. A few gave Brady funny looks, but Kaya funny-looked them right back and they ran off. Kaya was Brady’s fiercest defender, and most of the time he didn’t even know it was happening. He automatically assumed everyone was nice, like he was.

“Hey.” I panted. “How was school?”

“Fantabulous,” said Kaya. She nudged Brady’s arm.

“Fan-tah-lah-bus,” he tried. Kaya attempted to teach him a new word on the bus every day. She was responsible for additions to his vocabulary including “chili cheese dog,” “holy bagumba,”
and “butt head,” among others.

“Fan-tah-
byu
-lus,” she tried again.

Brady didn’t respond. He was staring at his feet, then looking toward our house in the distance, and back down to his feet. His little mouth fell open as he squatted down, patting the stones with both hands.

“Oh, no,” said Kaya. “The rocks. He wants to clean up the rocks. Like at home. The driveway. Remember?”

He picked one up. Just one bit of gravel from an entire road made of gravel, and threw it toward the grass. It didn’t quite make it, so he went to where it had fallen and tried to figure out which one it was. He finally picked up a stone and threw it again, then squatted down for another.

“Brady,” I said, “the rocks
belong
here. In the road. It’s not like home.” That was the understatement of the year. Our driveway at home was beautifully paved with an ornate brick border. Here it was just gravel that crunched when you drove on it.

“Come on.” Kaya gently took his hand. “Let’s go.”

He let her lead him to the side so they could walk along the edge of the grass. I followed, pushing the bike. Kaya glanced at it but said nothing, clearly too nervous about the precarious situation with Brady and the gravel. You never knew what might set him off.

When we got to the house, I quickly wheeled the Schwinn around back and tucked it under the stairs. Brady and Kaya were standing out front. I watched from the side of the house. Sometimes
it was best to just let him process things. He was staring intently at that gravel road, no doubt trying to figure out what he was going to do about it. The poor kid had spent all of last year clearing our driveway of every stray bit of stone, like it was the most important job in the world.
His
job. It was a huge source of pride for him, and now it was gone.

God, I hated this place.

As the three of us stood there, Lennie’s Jeep rumbled to a stop in front of his house. He climbed out and started walking toward his front door, glancing from Brady to the road. He took a step toward the twins, and I was about to run out to protect them if he got any closer, but he didn’t.

“Whatcha doin’?” he called out.

Kaya kept looking out at the road and said, “My brother is trying to figure out what to do about all those rocks.”

“Ah,” said Lennie, nodding. “They get everywhere, don’t they?” Then he reached down, picked up a piece of gravel from his front yard, and threw it into the road.

Brady swiveled his head to look at Lennie, who bent down to pick up two more pieces. He tossed them one at a time, underhand so they arched up high before dropping with a satisfying clatter.

Brady watched each rock as it soared into the street. A big smile came across his face. He studied the grass around his feet, squatted, and selected one of several bits of gravel. He stood and threw it with all his might. It landed about three feet away.

Lennie laughed. He threw another rock, then Brady threw one. Then Kaya joined in, and they all took turns. The threat of a major Brady meltdown had been avoided. I kept watching from the side of the house, not sure what to do.

Lennie looked up and saw me, then let the rock he was holding drop to the ground. He turned to Brady. “Gotta go, dude. Keep up the good work.”

Brady smiled at him, and waved—a perfectly normal exchange, which was
not
normal for my brother. It usually took him weeks of behavior therapy to master an interaction like that.

I waited for Lennie to go into his house, then hurried to collect the twins and take them inside. Brady was loath to leave his work unfinished, but I assured him he could continue later. There had to be at least a year’s worth of gravel in our little yard to clean up.

“How was school?” Mom asked an hour later. She kicked off her shoes and opened the refrigerator.

“Fine.”

“The bus?”

“Fantabulous,” I said. “How did your interview go?”

“Also fantabulous,” she said, not even realizing it was Brady’s word of the day. “I got the job.”

“That’s great! Doing what?”

“Copyediting. Writing obituaries, the police report, stuff like that. It’s just two afternoons a week for now. I’ll need you home
to get the twins off the bus those days. Okay?”

“Yeah.” I heard the distinctive rumble of Lennie’s Jeep and watched out the front window as he drove off. My chest unclenched the slightest bit, knowing he was gone. “You probably won’t have to go very far to get stuff for your police report.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“Am I the only one who’s noticed that our neighbor is a drug dealer?”

“Mr. Lazarski?” Mom chuckled. “He’s sixty-five years old and disabled. I hardly think he’s dealing drugs. He can barely feed himself, apparently. Carla told us a car fell on him, if you can believe it. He used to be a mechanic.”

I peered out the kitchen window toward their little house. There was one broken-down car parked in the grass along the far side, and one of those prefab sheds shaped like a miniature barn. I’d seen Lennie coming and going from it, but nobody else had stepped out of the house.

“I wasn’t talking about Mr. Lazarski, Mom. I was talking about his son.”

Mom pulled a box of pasta from the cabinet. “Trust me. We checked everyone out thoroughly before moving here. It’s not a bad neighborhood, sweetie. No arrests, no incidents at all in the past year.”

“That just means they haven’t been caught yet,” I mumbled.

Mom gave me The Look, as Kaya came bouncing down from the bunk bed room and described the gravel incident in
painstaking detail. In her version of events, Lennie hadn’t absently thrown a few rocks into the road. He had practically swooped in wearing a superhero cape to save the day.

Mom turned to me and said, “See? He’s not so bad.”

“He knows how to throw rocks,” I said. “Doesn’t exactly make him a model citizen.”

“I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice boy.” She disappeared upstairs to check on Brady.

I took the phone to my room and dialed Reesa’s number.

She answered on the first ring. “You got a phone?”

“Landline,” I said flatly. “Same number as before. Didn’t you recognize it?” We must’ve dialed each other’s home phone numbers a million times when we were kids, before we got our own.

“Oh, yeah.” She recited the numbers, superfast. “Sorry about not calling. I didn’t think they’d let you have the same number over there.”

I know she didn’t mean it as an insult, but it felt that way. “What, like there’s a special number for poor people?”

“No, I . . . never mind. That was stupid.”

An awkward silence fell between us. This phone call was not taking my mind off my situation as I’d hoped. “So, what are you doing now?”

“Deciding what color to paint my nails.”

“Choices?”

“Sassy Librarian’s new colors are out. I couldn’t decide so I got them all.”

We had discovered this teen boutique and bookstore in Belleview last summer that made its own nail polish, with literary-inspired names. There was “Shatter Me Silver” and “Lovely, Dark, and Deep Purple,” and “Every Day Red.” We loved them more for the names and the fun of figuring out which book they referred to. And if you bought the polish
and
the book, you got a 20 percent discount.

“How many?” I asked.

“Six,” she said. “And books, too. Mom said we’d call it a back-to-school present.”

I started calculating in my head what six polishes and matching books would cost, but stopped myself before I reached an exact figure. One polish was out of my budget now. “That’s great,” I said weakly.

“Wait till you hear the names.”

I sighed. “I should probably do homework.”

“Oh, okay. Fine.” She sighed. “I’ll show them to you this weekend. We’re still going to Little Invisibles concert, aren’t we?”

“Oh, crap,” I said. “I can’t.”

“Ivyyy,” she whined. “You told me we’d go next time they played at the King.”

“That was before I became a person with an allowance of zero,” I said.

“It’s only twenty dollars!”

“It might as well be a hundred,” I mumbled.

She paused. “I guess New York’s out, too?”

I’d forgotten all about the trip we’d been planning—to take the train into the city to shop, maybe see a show. Even if I didn’t actually buy anything and we stood in the discount ticket line at Times Square and walked everywhere instead of taking a cab, it would still be a four-hundred-dollar day. “I don’t think so, Rees.”

“I’ll loan you the money. You can pay me back when things clear up.”

“Things aren’t just going to clear up, Rees. And I’m not going to be your charity case,” I said. “I’ll get a job or something.”

“A job?” She was wrinkling her nose, I could just tell. “Then you won’t have time to do anything. You’ll always be working.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“I have two words for you,” she said. “Rich. Boyfriend.”

I sighed. “Because destitution is so attractive. I’m sure they’ll be lining up outside my crappy apartment.”

There was a rustle and clunk on the other end, like Reesa had dropped the phone. “Hold on,” she said, then I was on speaker. She always put me on speaker when she was painting her nails. “Maybe James has a friend.”

“Uh, James . . . who?”

“My future boyfriend. James Westerton. Wickering. Whatever his name is. The new guy who sat next to me in English. He of the golden, wavy hair.”

I wanted to tell her his last name was Wickerton, not Westerton or Wickering, and his hair, while definitely worthy of running one’s fingers through, was not his finest feature. But I
was too busy feeling slightly nauseated at the thought of James and Reesa becoming an item. I didn’t begrudge her a hottie boyfriend, but the guy had seen me with bugs smashed to my face. The last thing I needed was to hang out with him and Reesa all the time.

“Wonder what kind of car he drives,” she mused.

I should’ve said something then, that I’d seen him in the parking lot. That he drove a nice car, a black one. Mercedes, or maybe a BMW. But I kept it a secret. Maybe because secrets were all I had left. Or maybe it was inertia . . . an object in motion stays in motion? Once you start keeping secrets, it’s kind of hard to stop.