Bone Deep (4 page)

Chapter Five

The phone rings.

My feet twitch.
Damn,
I almost do it—run the other way. Does that make me the world’s worst son? Fitting, seeing I have the world’s worst father. But I can’t let the call go. Wrenn said specifically before she went to pick up Chinese at Ling’s to wait for The Call.

I cringe and lift the phone.

“Hello?”

Robot-lady tells me I have a collect call from—pause, pause,
pause. “Steve,” my dad says. I swear his voice has gotten deeper since he’s been in there, and I don’t even want to think about why that is—and to press one if I accept the charges.

I press one so
Wrenn can pay for this stupid call, the line clicks, and then I say, “Hi, Dad.”

“
Krister! Hey, buddy.” Buddy. Like I’m ten and he just picked me up from the park. “No classes today?” he continues. “Is it a holiday?”

There it is again: the reminder that, no, Dad will never win any sort of Father of the Year award. It’s not like he ever was
a gallant father figure anyway.

“It’s five o’clock,” I say flatly. “In the evening.”

“How ’bout that!” His voice ricochets like BBs against a tin can. “S’pose I should pay closer attention to what I’m eating and when, huh?” He chuckles. I roll my eyes.

“Any news?” The faster he can give me an update on the appeal, the faster I can get on with my night.

“Jamon visited yesterday, gave me the rundown.”

I rub my forehead. Meetings with
Jamon Markson, Dad’s lawyer, don’t usually go smoothly. Fresh out of law school, Jamon’s like a fifteen-year-old virgin naked in a boys’ locker room when he’s in the courtroom.

“And?”

“The court decided we need to have another trial. The hearsay testimony can’t be admitted into evidence.”

“Another trial?”

Back in July, during Dad’s first trial, prosecutors brought in Micah Jones, a coworker of Dad’s, to testify against him. Micah had worked shifts with Dad before and claimed to have heard from another unidentified coworker he’d seen Dad texting on his phone while on duty.

While operating the train.

Jamon objected to this testimony, but the judge allowed it anyway, causing the jury to render a guilty verdict. Eight counts of vehicular homicide. One count gross negligence. Four years in prison. Still in disagreement with the judge, though, stating he’d made an error in interpreting the law by allowing hearsay to be heard as evidence, Jamon filed an appeal.

Standing near the kitchen, Dad’s voice in my ear,
something very hard slams into the pit of my stomach. I won’t survive another trial. News cameras. My last name attached to the word
murderer
.

“It’ll be shorter,” Dad says.

“When?”

“Not sure yet. But the good news is maybe I’ll make it out of this one.” He actually has the nerve to sound optimisti
c. A fire explodes in my chest.

“No, Dad. You’re not,” I say, letting my voice fill the room. “You made no effort to brake or swerve. Regardless of what you say—that you didn’t see the other train—they have track studies! You should’ve been able to see the train from three hundred feet back! And you didn’t because y
ou were on your fucking phone!”

“Ah
c’mon, Kris,” he says in a voice so low and steady it makes my eyes burn. “You don’t really think I would’ve been that careless.”

I s
tare out the slider to the five-foot square we call our backyard. Wrenn’s bong decorates the tiny, plastic table, still smoking from the bowl she inhaled right before she took off and left me to fend for myself. Its clear tube glistens in the sun and for about two seconds I think about going out there and lighting up, but then I think that’s what my father would’ve done.

“I don’t have to think it, Dad.” I press my face against the glass. It’s warm. Nauseating. “The investigators already proved
it.”

“Please,” he says, all exasperated. Like it’s the millionth time he’s said it—which, knowing him, probably is. “It was a few messages.”

“You were responsible for
hundreds
of passengers!” Am I the only one who sees how fucked up this is? That what he did was completely irresponsible? That he should feel guilty, or at least regretful for taking the lives of
eight
people?

I can’t take any
more.

“I have to go,” I tell him. “Homework.”

I hang up the phone and realize sitting in this apartment with the urge to punch something is going to result in me punching something. Wrenn’s still gone with the car, so I grab my board and head out. The evening air is cool, streets fairly empty, and in no time I’m standing in front of Alessi’s studio down on the boulevard, peering in the window where he’s got his newest piece displayed—a trio of tall, glass sculptures clustered on a black-felted table. Blown with steel blue, wrapped with cobalt opal. Not that I’ve ever blown with steel blue or a cobalt opal wrap, but I’ve seen Alessi work with them enough.

The piece is incredible. Like three towers standing ta
ll, shaped in his famous bubble base—only it sounds more like
boob-uh
base when he says it because of his Italian accent. In the window display, he’s got additional new pieces—a vase, a variety of teardrop pendants—all made the Italian way. Layering and stretching patterned tiles and rods of glass. The complexity and sophistication of the design, it’s unmistakable. And Alessi’s the only one in the valley advanced enough to do it successfully.

Off to the left, resting on top of the small-piece display case, he’s still got the first paper
weight I made. Egg shaped with cirrus clouds of reddish brown that remind me of the girl at the train station yesterday.

The paperweight is hideous—the kind of thing only a mother could be proud of. Only…I don’t have a mother.
Alessi was pleased with it, though. Told me I was a natural that day.

A goddamn natural.

Suddenly, the beaded curtain in the back gapes wide and Alessi emerges from the main glassblowing area, sporting his safety goggles on his forehead in the way only a professional artist can. For about one-point-two seconds, I wonder what it would be like to stroll into the studio again, throw on my goggles, and lose myself in my pieces. Working with glass did that…brought a sense of calm and excitement all in one.

Did.

Right. I’m not that person anymore.

I take off before
Alessi can spot me and skate to the station, wishing I could close my eyes and erase the last year of my life. Halfway up the stairs to the platform, I stop. And sit. I don’t even know why I’m here. I rub my hands over my temples just as someone says, “I’m sorry I called you a creep.” The voice falls over me, a curtain of familiarity. I glance up.

Squinting into the afternoon sun, all I can see is the silhouette. Skinny
, yet muscular, legs. Long hair fluttering with the rush of the passing train. A girl, obviously. All her clothes are tight fitting—no gargantuan poncho hanging over her jeans and tank top. I can’t even see her enormous brown eyes, but somehow I know it’s her.

“Sorry I chased you,” I say. “That was a creepy thing to do.”

Slowly, she sits beside me on the metal step, tucks her legs in tight, and smiles. Up close she’s small. Like a fairy. Like one poke to her bony shoulder will send her toppling down the steps. Something’s different about her today, too, aside from the fact that she’s not crying her eyes out. Maybe that’s it, though, her eyes. Searching mine.

When she realizes she’s staring at me, she looks down at her feet, cheeks flushing. “You’re always here,” she says, finally.

I lift my eyebrow. “Says the girl who was here twice this week. That I know of.” The end of the train flies by on the tracks and then it grows quieter and quieter until the rumbling and rattling disappear completely. She peeks over at me, biting her lip. She’s waiting for me to say something else. I know the look. Jess does it, too. I try not to roll my eyes as I point up the stairs and say, “You riding the train today?” I crack a teasing smile. “Or you just gonna waste your money on an unused ticket again?”

Her whole body stiffen
s: chin on arm, fingers digging into her jeans. She’s hunched over so far, her spine pushes through the back of her shirt, drawing a line down the middle of her back. She blinks slowly. I’m no expert, but, clearly, whatever happened—boyfriend broke up with her, parents divorced, best friend betrayed her—whatever it is, she doesn’t want to talk about. Her lips start to part, and I hold up my hand.

“You know what? Don’t answer that.” Not that I don’t want to hear her sob story. I mean, I guess I’d listen if I had to, same as I listen to Jess complain about her parents refusing to let her stay in
Chanton after her first two years of general ed. at CCC, insisting on shipping her to some faraway place like Paris or Italy. But this is different.

By the way this girl’s grimacing, it looks like it will physically hurt her to explain. She nods and tips her head up to the blue sky. I can’t figure out if she wants me to talk to her. I also can’t figure out if I want to talk to her, but after a minute, I say, “I’m
Krister.”

A funny look twists her face. Like she’s having a conversation with someone only she can hear. A moment passes and then her tiny hand juts out toward me. “Cam.” I shake her hand, careful not to crush it or the black-stone ring clinging to her thumb.
Her fingers are ice cold, and I let my palm linger on hers for a second past what would be considered socially acceptable, but I don’t care; the sudden flush of her cheeks has me wondering when I can do that again.

“So,” she says, slowly pulling her hand away, “what’s your reason? For always being here?”

I shrug. “I like to watch people. It’s sort of a stupid, little game I play trying to guess what they’re thinking.” I point to a large, suit-clad man dangling a briefcase at his side near the bottom of the stairs. “Like him. He’d rather be sitting in a sports bar watching the Broncos game instead of going to his next meeting.” My fingertip runs up a few steps to a twenty-something woman with a whining toddler in tow. “And she’s regretting the one-night stand she had on graduation night.” Cam giggles, and then I aim my finger at her shoulder. “And this one…” I shake my head. “Yeah, I haven’t quite figured this one out yet.” My hand falls to my lap, and immediately she picks it back up and points it at her, a slight tilt to her head. Even though she is so small, I am very aware of her. Of the way her hair drapes over her shoulder and brushes against her leg. Of the sweet scent that hits me every time she shifts her arms. Of the small strip of milky-white skin peeking out as her shirt rides up on her back a bit.

“
This one
,” she says quietly, gripping my hand tighter, “hasn’t figured herself out, either. She was having a horrible day, and then she saw this cute guy—who she once called a creep and feels really awful about.” Another flush of pink tints her cheeks. Damn, she’s kind of adorable when she’s embarrassed. “She thought she should apologize, so she did, but then as she sat beside him, she started to notice how piercing his eyes were and straight his teeth were, and”—she giggles—“now she’s rambling like an idiot.”

“I don’t mind,” I say with a grin. I don’t expect her to keep going, but she does, her voice lower and a bit shaky as if talking to strangers isn’t something she does often.

“Good, because what she’s really trying to say is that…” Her thumb traces my knuckles. “…for some reason all she can think about is if it’s too soon to make a move on that cute guy because she could really use something to take her mind off her day and make her feel good for even a second.”

Her hand stills.
She looks at me. I look at her. Is she serious?

And what exactly does she mean by making a move on me? Give me her number? Ask me to dinner? What would make her feel good?

I can’t help the rapid wave of thoughts to answer
that
question—I know plenty that’d make her feel good—though I doubt stripping her naked and ravaging her body is what she meant by that. Still, I can’t help my eyes from falling to her lips.

A few seconds pass, and then I take her hand and point it at my chest. “This one is quite confused by what you just said. And may need some clarification so he doesn’t do something to further upset the pretty girl beside him.”

She bites her lip, her stare still burning into mine. Her finger brushes over my shirt, right in the middle of my ribcage, and it suddenly feels like my organs have decided to play bumper cars with each other. What the hell is going on?

In the tiniest of movements, she leans closer, and I don’t know why but I lean in, too. Enough that I can feel the heat from her skin. The space between us hums as she takes my hand and guides it to her face, pressing my palm to her cheek. Her skin is on fire, and the heat seeps all the way down my arm and into the rest of my body.

It’s enough to take her face into my hands. And enough to hover my mouth over hers, and because I really have nothing else to lose it’s enough to erase all distance between us and press my lips to hers. They don’t move for a beat of a second, and the thought occurs that maybe I misread her intentions—that “make a move” meant hold her hand and tell her she’s pretty instead of this—but then her lips come alive, pushing gently into mine. For a long second we just sit here, our lips connected and people shuffling by in the distance. I start to pull away, vaguely wondering if this kiss is making her chest tingle, too, when suddenly she grips handfuls of my T-shirt at my waist and clutches me to her. Our eyes meet, and in her gaze is a burning plea of what I interpret as
please don’t stop
.