Mojo (17 page)

We didn’t fill each other in on the details until the next day, when we could get together and talk face to face. We sat on the patio at McDonald’s, where a lot of us from our high school hung out at lunch. I got two Quarter Pounders. I never, ever get a Big Mac. I don’t know what’s in that special sauce, but I suspect it’s mayonnaise-based. Audrey offered to let me tell my story first, but I told her to go ahead. I was pretty sure whatever her story was it couldn’t beat mine.

She’s like, “Okay, so we go to the movie—
Georgia’s Roses—
which is like this cool indie film about these two women who go into hiding from one of them’s despicable husband.”

“Who drove?”

“She did.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?”

“I don’t know. I’m just interested in how the lesbian thing works.”

“What? Are you trying to figure out who is supposed to be the girl in the relationship and who is supposed to be the boy?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s just like a guy. You have to think one of us is trying to be like you. But we’re not. There’s no
one’s the girl and the other’s the boy
. We’re both girls. No boys involved at all. None.”

“Okay, okay—I got it. You don’t have to act like it’s such a stupid question.”

“Anyway,” she says, all exasperated, “the movie is like so good, and we’re sharing popcorn out of the same bucket, and then I put my arm on the armrest, only hers is already there—and neither one of us moves our arms. We’re just sitting there watching this amazing movie with our arms touching the whole time.”

“Congratulations,” I said, though I couldn’t see what the big deal was. Plenty of times I’d shared an armrest with Audrey at the movies over the years.

So then she started going on about how they went for coffee after the movie and talked and talked and were finishing each other’s sentences because they thought so much alike. At this point, I didn’t think it was that big a deal, but I kept listening and nodding because that’s what you have to do when you have a friend who’s a girl.

“And then when we got back to my driveway, it’s like neither one of us wanted the night to end, so we just stood around by her car talking and laughing until finally, she had to get going. And what do you think happened then?”

I’m like, “Uh, I don’t know—she went home?”

“She leaned in and kissed me.”

“She kissed you, like with tongue and everything?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. It was just a sweet little soft kiss.”

“On the lips?”

“Yes, on the lips.”

“Hmm. So what does that mean? Is she like your girlfriend now or what?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It was like
bang!
—she kissed me, and then she walks around to get in the car and smiles and says she’ll call me.”

“And has she?”

“No, not yet. But we only went out last night.”

So I’m like, “Well, that’s pretty cool.” And she goes, “
Pretty cool?
It’s like the most awesome thing ever.”

“Okay. I’m happy for you.” I went back to eating my burger. I have to admit the
most awesome thing ever
line bugged me. After all, Audrey and I had had some pretty awesome times together. Didn’t those count for anything anymore?

After a couple of minutes of eating in silence, she finally goes, “So what’s your big news?”

I finished chewing, and then I go, “Oh, nothing much. I just had my life threatened, that’s all.”

“You’re kidding. By who?”

I set my burger down and told the whole story of last night, ending with my list of the top three candidates—besides Sideburns himself—for who was behind the threat.

Of course, Audrey liked Rowan the most as a suspect, but she didn’t have much evidence besides the fact that she despised him.

“What did the police have to say about it?” she asked.

“Are you serious? I didn’t get the police involved. I’m not their favorite guy, you know. I’m not sitting through another one of those interrogations.”

She cocked her head to the side. “I still think you should’ve called them. It’s probably too late now.”

I popped a French fry into my mouth. “The dude could’ve cut my nose off and the police would still blame it on me.”

“So how did Mr. Browning even know about your articles?”

“I sent copies of them to Nash. I figure he’s been spreading them around.”

“Nash, huh?” she said, like there was something suspicious about that.

I’m like, “What?”

And she goes, “Have you ever thought Nash might be behind it all?”

“No way. Nash’s a cool guy. He’s my buddy.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You think I can’t be buddies with a Hollister guy? You’re going around like you have this great Hollister girlfriend, but you think I can’t have a friend from there?”

“Trix is different. She’s not a snob.”

“Yeah, well, I think Nash’s different.”

We finished our burgers in silence. Then Audrey’s like, “So what are you going to do? Are you going to quit on the Ashton Browning thing?”

“I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure that out.”

At that point, who walked by but Corman Rogers from high school. He’s like, “Hey, Body Bag, think fast,” and threw a wet paper sack smack into my chest. It slid down into my lap, and when I picked it up to toss it aside, a dead toad fell out on the table.

“Real cool, idiot,” I said, but Corman and his buddies just laughed.

When they walked off, I shook my head. “Jesus, I don’t know which is worse, having my nose cut off or living like this.”

Despite Audrey’s opinion of Nash, I figured he’d be a good person to call for advice. He’d always been cool to me. Sure, he did put the squeeze on us to do what could’ve been some pretty humiliating karaoke, but even that turned out all right. I could see us hanging out, doing cool Hollister things. Besides, he owed me. Hadn’t I done him a favor and left Gangland out of my articles about Ashton? Now that I needed some deeper scoop on Mr. Browning and Rowan, it was his turn to keep quiet.

First, I messaged him online about meeting in person, said I wanted to write an article on the Hollister football team and that he would be the perfect person to interview. I didn’t mention Ashton. No need to leave a written trail showing that I might still be investigating her case. And actually that whole deal was on the back burner anyway. Right now I was more focused on figuring out how to keep my nose on my face.

His reply to my message confirmed just how wrong Audrey was about him. He had nothing but enthusiasm about the idea. One problem—he wanted me to meet him on the Hollister campus so I could actually watch the team practice, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to show my face around there.

Besides, Audrey was no longer a dependable chauffeur. In fact, she claimed she and Trix were hanging out together that afternoon. That was no big deal for Nash, though. He said he’d send Brett out to pick me up. Black-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful Brett. This was going to call for some cologne. And maybe even the porkpie hat.

She agreed to pick me up outside of school after I got done with my journalism stuff, which I admit was my idea. How could I resist showing the nonbelievers that Dylan Jones was more than just some Body Bag fool?

As I waited on her, it was perfect—about twenty kids milled around in front of school, stupid Corman Rogers among them. I couldn’t think of a better audience. Unfortunately, Randy showed up and wanted to come along. I’m like, “I don’t think so, dude. They’re just expecting me.”

“Come on,” he said. “You can’t cut your buddy out of some possible rich-girl action.”

That was exactly the attitude that made me not want to bring him. “Forget it. This isn’t about trying to pick up chicks.”

“What are you talking about? Everything is about trying to pick up chicks.”

“Forget it,” I told him. “You’ll just screw things up.”

He didn’t like that. “Really,
I’ll
screw things up? What—do you think you’re some kind of high-class act now?”

“No. It’s just that I’m friends with these people, and they hardly know you.”

“That’s a load of crap. You’ve hung out with them, what, one more time than I have?”

At that point Brett glided up to the curb in a sweet Mercedes SUV, the same deep blue color as her eyes.

“Look,” I told Randy. “I’ll talk to them. Maybe you can come along next time.”

The window of the Mercedes rolled down, and Brett goes, “Hey, stranger, you need a ride?”

I turned away from Randy and tipped the porkpie. “Don’t mind if I do.”

As I headed to the car, he goes, “You suck, Dylan.”

I didn’t respond to that, but as Brett and I drove away, Randy slunk toward the building, his head bowed and his hands in pockets. The other kids, though, stood there checking out me and the fabulous Mercedes. Even Corman Rogers, in his usual all-black getup, stared after us, his tongue practically hanging from his mouth.

Of course, the interior of the Mercedes was luxurious, but it still didn’t look as classy as Brett. She was the type that would look rich even in jeans and a T-shirt, not that she was wearing that. No, she had on this stylish swirly-patterned mid-thigh-length dress and little ankle-high boots. Needless to say, I immediately forgot all about Randy.

As for my attire, I’d picked out my Beatles Let It Be T-shirt. Brett glanced at it and goes, “So, you like the Beatles?”

And I’m like, “They’re just the greatest band ever, probably.”

She smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I think too. Either them or Death Cab for Cutie.”

Comparing Death Cab for Cutie with the Beatles was sacrilegious in my book, but I let it go.

Otherwise, she was pretty easy to talk to and actually seemed interested in my high school and the kids who went there. So I guess my guard was down when she came around to asking me if I’d found out anything new about Ashton. Up to now I’d intended on only discussing the latest developments with Nash, but suddenly here I was telling Brett all about Sideburns and his switchblade and more than a little bit building up my role in chasing him off.

“Wow,” she said, flashing me an admiring look. “You’re brave.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said modestly.

“Sure you are, going through something so horrible, and you’re still not giving up on Ashton.”

“I wouldn’t be much of an investigative journalist if I let myself get scared off too easily,” I told her. What else are you going to say to a girl like Brett? I couldn’t let on that I was seriously considering chickening out of the whole deal.

It took about a half hour to get to Hollister. I’d never been on the campus, and let me tell you—it was something. You had to go through a checkpoint to even get on the premises, but that was nothing for Brett. She just gave the guard a wave, and he waved back, and we were in.

The rest of the place looked like how I’d imagine an Ivy League college campus would look. My high school pretty much packed everyone into one big box, but Hollister had a whole assortment of buildings, and they must’ve used the same landscaper as Mr. Browning. Everything was completely spruce.

I’m like, “How much does it cost to go here?”

Brett laughed. “Enough,” she said.

Then, as we passed the auditorium, the very thing happened that I was afraid of—a Rowan Adams sighting. He was hanging around in the parking lot with Tres Browning and the blond and gorgeous Aisling Collins. I’m like,
Don’t let him see us, don’t let him see us, don’t let him see us
. My thinking being that if he, in fact, did have anything to do with Sideburns, he would now figure I didn’t sufficiently heed the switchblade warning.

But of course, he did see us, and on top of that, he had to wave us over. Brett pulled up next to the group and not only rolled down the window to chat but made sure they all remembered who I was.

Rowan’s like, “Ahhh, Dylan, the master of rap karaoke,” and fired an index-finger-pistol-style greeting at me. “You should start a band so you can come back for another appearance at Gangland.”

“Oh, he’ll be back,” Brett said.

“I’m sure he will be,” he said. “So, Dylan, am I still the number-one public enemy on your suspect list?”

This, I figured, could be his way of seeing if I was still on the case, so I played it cagey. “I wouldn’t say that. Even though you never did tell me where you were the day Ashton went missing. But that’s okay. I’m not worried about that anymore.”

“Hey,” he said. “I can tell you where I was—I was out doing a million things just like I always am.”

“Oh, sure,” Brett said. “You’re such a big shot. At least you used to be.”

He put on a wounded expression. “
Used to be?
Really, Brett, you are a big bully.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she told him. “Dylan’s the one you need to be worried about. He has your number.”

He laughed. “I’m shaking in my boots.”

“You should be,” she said.

And he’s like, “No, you two are the ones who should be shaking.”

I didn’t like this exchange one bit—Rowan looked like he might be taking it a little too seriously.

They traded a few more semi-nasty quips, and then Brett and I were back on the road to the stadium to watch Nash finish practice. Which was a relief. I could’ve gone all day without a Rowan Adams run-in.

A handful of students and a smaller handful of parents had collected in the stands, and Brett and I sat about midway up on
the fifty-yard line. The team was in the middle of passing drills, and Nash was amazing. The quarterback could throw the ball way too long or way too short, but every time, Nash snatched it out of the air. The guy was a prime athlete. It was almost enough to make me want to cut back on the burgers and get into halfway decent shape.

“So what’s the deal with you and Nash?” I asked Brett. “Are you guys just friends or what?”

She flipped her silky black hair back over her shoulder. “I guess you could say we’re friends—with benefits.”

Friends with benefits. I’d heard of such a thing, but it always sounded so far-fetched, like ghosts or vegan burgers that didn’t taste like cardboard.

Finally practice wrapped up, and we waited in the Mercedes while Nash showered. When he came out and hopped in the backseat, he looked as fresh as if he’d been lounging around all afternoon in his air-conditioned bedroom playing Madden NFL on PlayStation instead of digging out actual pass patterns over and over in the sun.