Beware of Boys (14 page)

“Did you say we were driving to an emergency or in a funeral procession?” she asked. “Because you drive slower than I can walk.”

His phone rang.

Her phone rang.

The sun disappeared again.

They both looked into their laps.

Charly's screen read U
NKNOWN.
“I don't take blocked calls, but considering the circumstances . . . ,” she said, thinking it better for her to be on a call than him, since he was driving and seemed to be struggling with that. “Hello,” she answered, looking at him.

“My call's coming up blocked too. No surprise, all of us program our phones to block our numbers,” M
kel explained, then touched the screen on the dash. “Hello?” he said aloud, then shot her a look. He winked. “Bluetooth,” he mouthed.

“Hurry up, yo! Something's seriously wrong . . .” Faizon's voice boomed through the speakers, then faded into a deafening silence.

Eden was in Charly's ear, but Charly couldn't hear her say anything other than “emergency” before her phone went silent too. She looked at the screen to see if they were still connected, and noticed she had just 10 percent of her battery juice left. She shook her head, looking at M
kel. “We gotta go, M
kel. You're driving too slow.”

M
kel looked at her, and she could see discomfort on his face. He pointed ahead, then put his hand back on the steering wheel. He gripped it until the color drained from his knuckles, then swerved the car into the next lane. “I need to get over and find another main road. There's an accident ahead. Look. I couldn't drive fast if I wanted to.”

His phone rang again, quieting their conversation. Charly reached forward and touched the dashboard screen where he had, but it didn't work. She pressed again and again, in several places until she heard the ringing cease and background noise filter in through the stereo speakers. “Hello,” she answered. “Faizon?”

“No, it's Lex, Charly. Where's M . . .” The silence returned.

“Lex. Lex! I'm here. Can you hear me? Because I can't hear you. We need an address,” M
kel shouted as if speaking loud would secure the connection.

“. . . two, zero . . .” Silence. “. . . Place. You got it?” Silence. “Bobsy, bruh . . .” More silence. A triple chime replaced Lex's voice, telling them the call had dropped on Lex's end. The doo-doo-dooo kept playing over and over.

“Uh, that dinging is irritating,” Charly said. She touched the screen to disconnect, but was unsuccessful. She continued to touch until it worked.

“System Locked,” a computerized voice said from the speakers.

Charly glanced at M
kel. “Sorry,” she said, then felt bad for him. She had never seen all the color drain from a chocolate-coated-looking brother's face before, but now she knew it was possible. M
kel had gone from delicious cocoa-brown to dull oatmeal in a matter of seconds. He'd also transformed into a race-car driver, she noticed when he hit the accelerator and zipped from one lane to the next, to another, then screeched to a stop.

He banged the steering wheel, and she no longer had to question if he was capable of having emotions or not. At that moment, he was clearly wrapped in his feelings. He shook his head. “Not good . . .”

“I know. This is awful,” Charly said. She looked at him, pressing her lips together. “Call your mother or sister. Maybe one of them can three-way Lex or Faizon . . .” She snapped her fingers. “Your attorney. You and Lex and Faizon share an attorney, so your mother or sister can call him, and he can give us the numbers.” She nodded, pleased with her solution. “And I wonder what's happened to Bobsy. It must've just happened, whatever it is, because Bobsy seemed okay earlier, and was intent on doing whatever it is that trainers do.”

M
kel looked at her. “My mother's out of the country, and I can't call my sister. Obviously.” Charly just looked at him, wondering what was so obvious. “And Bobsy's not a trainer,” he continued.

Charly laughed a little. Clearly M
kel had been missing for a while like Eden had said he had a habit of doing while he was recording. “I was just with Bobsy, and you don't know what you're talking about. He is too a trainer.”

M
kel shook his head at Charly. “No. Bobsy. Is. Not. A. Trainer. Charly,” he said slowly and deliberately, then whipped the nose of the convertible between two cars, and barely missed crashing into one of them. At no less than sixty miles an hour, he'd taken the corner, and the wheels squealed. He was cutting it too close for Charly's comfort. He banged angrily on the steering wheel. “And this you can't fight me on. Bobsy is not a trainer. Bobsy isn't a he either, she's a she. And
she
is my sister. My very ill sister, who obviously can't answer her phone because there's an emergency.” His normally too-cool voice cracked.